Recently he’d let himself dream. A legitimate green card would take him one step further toward leaving his old life behind. He could follow the one thing that had provided constant solace—poetry. Write little monographs, get published in obscure academic journals. Heaven.
Not for him. Wasn’t going to happen.
Half an hour later, changed into his darker clothes, his hair brushed out of the way, a handy blade in his pocket, Nick set out for Bared. In this gun-happy country, he’d never felt the need to carry a weapon and risk his legal status. He’d never needed a firearm in the old days, although he’d owned a few, and did have one stashed away. For emergencies. He hadn’t reached that level just yet.
This time he found Odell in, and the bouncer nodded him through to the office. The club had just opened for business, but so far business was thin. They’d start to get really busy nearer to midnight. Odell glanced up and waved him to a chair. Nick refused a drink. “I should use the club during the early evening. I’m thinking of catering a few meals. What do you think?”
“You have the space. You might as well use it. Women like this place, so you could put on a few topless waiters.”
Odell grinned. “I was thinking along those lines too. Appeal to both sexes, both ways.” He made a note, writing neatly in a small notebook by his side. Nick never put anything in writing. He depended on his good memory. He remembered details, people, other things he’d prefer to forget because they weren’t of any use to him these days. Fuck, he didn’t have time for this. “Is this office wired?”
Odell reached under his desk, presumably nudging a switch off. “Not now. What’s on your mind?”
Either he trusted Nick, or he trusted his staff to take care of his interests, because turning off his recording equipment was a risk. Or he hadn’t turned it off at all, but Nick couldn’t do anything about that. “I heard some stuff about you.”
“Yeah?” Odell showed him an expressionless face. He’d closed off as Nick would have done in the same circumstances.
A quick test. His subsequent choices depended on how Odell responded to this and if he believed him. “I have a friend, a young woman. No, not that one, someone else. She’s in trouble. She needs papers, you understand? And she has a shitload of money.”
Odell scoffed. “Don’t kid a kidder, man.”
Nick felt relief at the response. A greedy man would have jumped at the opportunity; either that or he was playing canny. It just made Nick’s task a little harder. But he was curious—what had given him away? “So why don’t you think that’s true?”
“I’m guessing you could get what she needed without much trouble. You wouldn’t risk coming to me.”
“Why not?”
Odell’s lip curled. “You tryin’ to tell me you’re a simple poetry professor? Look at you, man. You have presence and power. Even if you don’t use it now, you’ve seen life, and you know what to do with it. You wouldn’t come asking me like that. You’d present it, probably offer me some kind of deal. So now it’s my turn. What the fuck’s going on?”
“My woman’s in trouble.” Whatever the circumstances, he felt good calling her that. She might not be his woman anymore anywhere but in his heart, but he’d help her all he could. For her sake he had to distance himself. “Someone is pressuring her.”
Odell leaned forward. “Why don’t you have any contacts?”
Nick knew how this went. Information was power, so trading snippets could be as good as cash. He had to give the man something. “I’ve kept away. These days I am a university lecturer because I’m doing it right this time. But Gen, she’s straight down the line, and now she’s in trouble. I want to help her.”
“Even though it means stepping back into the mire?”
Oh yes, he knew all about mires. “I should have realized it was too good to last. I got away home free, or so I thought.”
Odell nodded. “I know who you are.”
“Shit.”
Odell grinned mirthlessly. “When Nick Taylor walked into my club, I knew he was more than he said, but he was a great customer and he didn’t cause any trouble. When you dealt with that bastard who tried to drug your woman, I was sure. You were discreet and brutal. You don’t get those skills by going to self-defense and martial arts classes.”
Nick should have known the streetwise man would guess the truth, or something like it.
“I’ve watched you right from the start.” Of course he had, that was what made him great at what he did. “So I did some research. I used facial-recognition software and came up with Mick O’Donnell.”
Fuck, and he thought he’d been so careful. “You’ve heard of him?”
“Are you fucking kidding? Sure I have.”
Nick tipped his head back, and it fell against the soft upholstered back of his chair, and blew out his cheeks. “Five years. Gone.”
“I won’t tell anyone. Once I realized you’d been here so long and not made a move, I knew you weren’t here for me. And I read that Mick O’Donnell died and was positively identified.”
“As far as I’m concerned, he did die.”
Odell regarded him in silence, his hard stare difficult for even Nick to take. “I see. So someone else knows?”
Nick got to his feet and put his hands to his head. “I’m not saying any more.” Fuck, this was all going to shit. He had a better touch than this. And two people had identified him. What the fuck was he thinking, to imagine he could get away with this? And so close too. He could have moved around, found other places he enjoyed living in.
He wouldn’t give anyone power over him, wouldn’t allow any possibility, and since he didn’t want to kill Odell, he’d have to leave. Vanish as he had before.
“Sit down.” Odell didn’t stand up, didn’t appear stressed, but stayed, waiting for Nick to make up his mind. “I said I won’t tell anyone. Why should I?”
“I won’t do anything for you.”
“What if I ask you for a favor?” Odell said.
“Knock for knock?”
Odell grinned. “I don’t know that phrase, but I guess I know what you’re saying. Something like that. Maybe ask you to reach out for me. I’m getting pressure from some quarters, and I want to stay clean. You get me?”
“Mick O’Donnell is dead. He can’t help.” If he reached out as Mick, that would sign his death warrant there and then. They wouldn’t stop until they had him, the cops or the gangs. And who was to say they weren’t right? Only everything was far more complicated. There was no black and white in this world. He’d known cops who’d wreaked far more damage than he’d ever done, by betraying people who trusted them, by taking bribes or by laying information against innocents. Not something he went in for. If people were in the business, they were fair game. But the game had changed.
“I get what you’re saying.” Odell shrugged. “I’ll tell you this on trust and because you helped me clear up that mess the other night. The people I help come to me of their own accord. I don’t coerce them, and I don’t import. They’re already here and in trouble. Understand?”
That went with what Nick had seen over the years he’d been coming here. The girls were high-class, skilled, and willing. Not downtrodden, lackluster, or so full of drugs they stumbled through their routines. Their dances were elaborate, often themed, leaning toward the burlesque rather than straight stripping. They didn’t work here against their will, and acts like Freda and Alberto were expensive, rare. That was why he came here. When he couldn’t sleep and he couldn’t stand his own company, he needed distractions, and this club was interesting without threatening danger for someone like him.
Wrong again. “But you’ve done enough to get into trouble.”
Odell jerked a nod. “Whatever you say. If you need anything, let me know.”
Not for him, but for her. “Take care of Gen for me. Make sure that when she goes out, she’s followed. She’s let her boss think he’s got her, that she’ll keep her head down. The bastard’s so arrogant he
probably believes her, but he could be paranoid too. But there’ve been two attempts on Gen’s life now. I can’t get close enough to take care of her.”
Odell nodded again. “Consider it done.”
“Thanks.”
A plan was forming in his mind. He’d go and have a drink in the main room and think it over, go over all the different parts to make sure he’d left nothing out. Most importantly he needed to protect Gen. Then he wanted to show honor to Odell. Then he’d take care of himself. And he had to stay clear of his brother. It nearly killed him that he was in the same city as Larry, a few miles apart, and Nick didn’t dare contact him.
Maybe his fuckup of a life was about to reach its endgame.
Outside, he ordered a bottled beer and took his usual stance by the bar, just out of the glare of the lights. The girls on the stage were doing their thing, and as he watched, they smiled, picked up their clothes, wiped down their poles, and left. Another shift due to arrive. Odell put his workers on two shifts, two hours on, two off, or working somewhere else. Kept them fresh, or that was the theory, anyway.
Nick found watching them soothing in a perverse way. The sight reminded him of a few good times in the past, lulled him into thinking he was home, in one of his own clubs. Back to being respected and courted. Not everything had been fucking appalling. Some of it had been fucking amazing. He’d had his good times. Now all he could think of was Gen, and how good she’d look onstage, winding herself around one of the poles.
The new girls came on, half a dozen of them, to match the number of poles on the stage. They went through the ritual of rewiping them, something he was glad Odell insisted on. Although he liked women sharing juices sometimes, he’d rather see them doing it at the same time, together. He was a guy; he enjoyed girl-on-girl action as much as most straight men.
In his mind’s eye he saw Gen, her silky hair trailing over her shoulders, preparing to strip for the edification and enjoyment of every man in the audience. But only he could have her. Knowing that would turn him on more than anything else he could think of.
A woman snagged his attention. She had hair like Gen’s, glossy and rich, inviting him to sink his hands into it and use it to drag her close for his kiss. But Gen would be holed up in her apartment, waiting on results. Already he missed her badly. But as Mick, he’d become a target, and he couldn’t risk her life. He’d never recover from that.
This girl might do as a substitute; at least watching her gave him some ease. She sank down, spreading her legs wide, keeping her feet close to her ass, gyrating. How did women do that, especially in high heels? This girl was rocking a pair of black strappy things with heels. Tailor made for a woman to trample a man under her dainty feet. The slight hint of danger, of pain, made his cock twitch.
Maybe he could enjoy a few uncomplicated fucks before he finally shuffled off the mortal coil. Shit, poetry again. The thought of fucking anyone but Gen filled him with profound disinterest. Only if he imagined the girl on stage was Gen did it work for him. At the thought, his cock rose to her command, not yet fully erect, but if he carried on with his daydream, he’d have to relieve his pain before the evening ended.
The woman stood in one smooth movement, wiggling her barely clad ass. She wore shiny black panties, not a thong, but they outlined the shape of her backside in luscious invitation. Then she bent over, showed the bulge of her pussy, and he grew a bit harder, tingles coursing through him. Surely he could have this moment before his life went to shit. Just five minutes, ten. Then he’d go home, get some sleep, and do what he had to save the people he loved. That included Larry too, because in his line of work he couldn’t afford to associate himself with lowlifes like Mick O’Donnell.
The woman turned, her hair falling over her face as she glanced down, looking for her pole. The shiny silver rod stretched in front of her, a slim phallus she could use to perform acrobatics and get herself off on. Her chin was delicately pointed, like Gen’s. Her bra matched her panties and curved around gorgeous breasts, full, with a roundness that made his mouth water.
She lifted her chin and stared out into the audience.
Fuck. It was her.
* * * *
Gen saw him the minute her gaze strayed to the bar area. The girls had told her they’d seen him at the bar. This was her moment, her choice, the place she had to be to show Nick she wouldn’t let him go. Whatever his name, whatever he’d done, she knew what he was now. She didn’t love Mick O’Donnell; she was in love with the man he’d become—Nick Taylor. She’d seen the photo of a man who looked like Nick, but didn’t have the humanity, the honesty she saw every time she looked into Nick’s eyes. Even if he went back, changed his name, he couldn’t erase the person he’d grown into over the last five years.
This was her way of telling him. If she went to him, he’d reject her again, and if he did that here and now, what the fuck did it matter what she did, where she went?
Now, in public, he’d have to accept her or leave her. Bennick could have more spies here and word would get back to him, she was sure. Telling the bosses? Sure, she still wanted to do that, but she’d do everything she could to cover Nick, and when it was done, she’d follow him. Her job here was done, whatever she did. Bennick was right; he could tell them she slept with Nick, that she was complicit. That would be enough to blacken her.
Maybe she was being mean, forcing him to protect her, but without that he’d just disappear, and she didn’t want that. Wouldn’t allow it. Terrified that he’d already made plans, she’d decided she had to act, and fast.
Concentrate, Gen.
About a year ago she’d taken pole-dancing lessons when the trend hit the city and dance studios began to see the possibilities. A great workout too. And she enjoyed the slightly risqué element, the idea of performing, of displaying her body. Nothing slightly about her show now.
About twenty men sat in the club. No women yet. Too early, or maybe they were busy somewhere else. Having a meal, getting up enough liquid courage to come in here. Good, because the thought of a packed room baying for her to strip daunted her. She’d be a hypocrite if she didn’t admit this whole situation turned her on. Even the risk, which was stupid high but burned inside her like a living flame.
She knew which pole was assigned to her because it had a number at the back, near the top. She’d copied the other women, taking a wipe from the box at the back and cleaning it, because this pole would become her best friend soon. She didn’t have to, but the double cleansing gave the girls more confidence. The freedom to claim their areas. One or two girls moved among the audience, offering lap dances, and she wondered if she should have done it that way. No, that wouldn’t work, because if he could get to her, he’d stop her. Besides, not all the lap dancers stripped. They wore corsets, sexy bra and panty sets. She wanted naked.
She began her dance, showing her black-clad body off as best she could, avoiding looking in his direction. A small demon of anger still niggled inside her. She would not be sidelined. It wasn’t going to happen. This would prove it, this performance.
Gen curled her body around the pole as if it could give her infinite pleasure. The first time they’d met here, he’d flaunted his cock at her. Time to flaunt for him.
Lifting one leg, she stretched it high. She couldn’t do the splits, but she could come damn close, and still wearing her panties, she dared to do it. Perhaps, when she was naked, she’d do it again. Show him everything he wanted and what he’d miss if he threw her away now.
Some of the girls were performing acrobatics she couldn’t hope to emulate, but she could do her own thing. She slid one hand around her back to the clasp of her bra, and cupped one breast with the other hand, teasing the audience. She’d even attracted the attention of a few of the men sitting at the front. The novelty of the new, she assumed. Holding her breath, she unclipped the garment and ventured a glance at the bar.
He was watching her, his face expressionless, his eyes gleaming. He was angry and turned on, and she
loved it. That quick glance spurred her to do more. She let the bra fall.
She thought he’d explode, either with desire or fury. No longer sure, she shook off her worries and cupped her breasts, rubbing them against the pole. The cool surface felt good, stimulated her skin even better when she rubbed her nipples between her thumb and forefinger. They hardly needed hardening. She bent in time to the music, an incredibly sexy Beyoncé track, stuck her ass in the air, and let her breasts dangle. She rotated her hips and heard someone say, “Work it, baby.”
Oh yes, she’d work it. She straightened slowly, lifted one knee against the pole, and pushed her pussy against the metal, giving herself a little relief when her clit had something to rub against.
Now.
She turned her back in a sudden, decisive movement, clutched her ass, rotated again, then back, her breasts swaying. A few appreciative yells and whoops drove her further. She had no idea which girl they were aimed at, but she decided to take them, and lifted her hands to her hair, raising it in a gesture of abandon, before sliding her hands back down. Either side of her, the professionals were performing acrobatics, most of them naked now. Next to them, her amateur approach seemed to be attracting its share of attention. A sense of pride suffused her, warming her and giving her the courage to carry on.
She slid one hand down her body, pausing to tweak a nipple before circling her navel with a teasing finger and then farther down, slipping inside her panties. She’d chosen bikini briefs, but silky thin so the shape of her fingers and the way she pushed one finger over her clit were easily visible. She let her mouth fall open in a gasp, then found a member of the audience who was watching her with panting avidity. Amateurs obviously turned him on. What was even better, she could see Nick over his head, still glowering, though she couldn’t tell now if it was anger or arousal, or a stimulating mixture of both.
She drew out her finger, brought it to her mouth, tasted it, then licked it, making a big deal of the juice she was lapping up, teasing them. Don’t you want to do this?
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