Bump & Grind (Brewed Moon Book 1)

by J. Margot Critch

  Maybe Mitch would be less uptight if he actually got some.

  Erica smiled. “That’d be great.” She gave him the details, and she finished with a “thanks.”

  “It’s my pleasure. And thanks for the invite,” he held out his hand. “Give me your phone?”

  She handed it over to him. Trusting. “Why?”

  He keyed in his number and handed it back to her. “Now you have my number.”

  She said nothing, but took her phone back and pushed several buttons. He felt his own phone vibrate in his jacket. He took it out and saw that he had a new text message.

  Xoxo - Erica

  “And now you have my number.” She leaned in once again, the movement plumping her cleavage. He found himself compelled. “Eyes up here, bud,” she said. Her voice stern, but when he looked in her eyes, he saw humour.

  “Sorry.” He wasn’t sorry.

  “It’s okay,” she laughed. “The show is taking place at The Lucky Clover and it starts at eight, and I’ll leave the tickets for you at the front. I’ll see you there.”

  The Lucky Clover… Dylan O’Connell’s club. Goddamn if the man didn’t own half of the city.

  "No doubt," he said, winking as he turned away.

  When Peter returned to the war room, he once again found Mitch sitting alone. He fell down into his own chair across from his brother. He needed to make amends. He and his brother didn’t always get along; in fact they rarely got along. But when it came to the job, they needed to be on the same page. If they weren’t completely in sync on a mission, someone could be seriously hurt or killed.

  Mitch said nothing, but looked up at Peter briefly, before returning to his work.

  “Mitch.” Peter started.

  “Yeah?” he asked, without interest.

  Peter took a deep breath. He was never one for apologizing. “I’m sorry.”

  “You’re apologizing? Well, alert the press,” Mitch mumbled, unimpressed, keeping his eyes on his computer screen.

  “I’m being serious here. We shouldn’t have fought. Especially in front of the team. I was unprofessional and irresponsible, and I’m here to throw myself at your mercy and repent,” he finished with a smile.

  Mitch looked up and laughed at his brother’s dramatics. “You irreverent bastard. Fine, you’re forgiven.”

  “Thanks,” Peter sat back. “I forgive you too, brother.”

  “I didn’t ask for forgiveness,” Mitch said simply, returning to his work.

  Peter chuckled as he turned back to his own computer, ready to continue with his own work. “By the way,” Peter said before taking a drink from his coffee cup. “We have plans for tonight.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yeah, the four of us are going to a burlesque show.”

  Mitch looked up from his computer, eyebrows raised. “Really Peter? After screwing around last night I think we have more than enough work to catch up on.”

  “What if I told you that the show is also our cover to get close to the place where the O’Connell brothers will be meeting their Russian contacts?”

  Peter had finally gotten his attention. “Is that so?”

  “Really,” Peter grinned. “I overheard them talking at Brewed Moon and it just so happens that Erica has a show at the same club tonight. She offered me some extra tickets. I figured it would be a good way to keep an eye on her and the other girls.” His brother might be a hard-ass, but he was still a red-blooded male. “Maybe we’ll get a chance to see what our Irish friends are up to.”

  Mitch nodded, steepling his fingers under his chin. He was quiet for a beat. “Yeah, that’s not bad. And hey, any night watching women dance in lingerie is never wasted.”

  Peter grinned, at his brother’s humor. “I knew you would see it my way.”

  Chapter 7

  A gorgeous woman wearing a silk teddy, thigh-high stockings and stilettos led Peter, Mitch, Steve and Joe to their table. They had arrived for Erica’s show and were surprised to find that the club was at near-capacity. It seemed that burlesque was quite popular in St. John’s.

  “Think the Russians are still here?” Steve questioned.

  Peter nodded. “I’d bet that the O’Connell’s and their guests are still in attendance. I can’t see anyone passing up the chance to see a show like this.”

  The team had no idea why the Irish would be meeting with the Russians. It was important that they find out, and soon. Any meeting or partnership between two rival organized crime families could have serious repercussions for the city, province and country.

  The hostess pulled Peter from his thoughts and back into the lush interior of the club. “Your table, gentlemen,” she said with a flourish of her arm. “Your server will be along shortly to take your drink order.”

  When the men turned a corner to their table, they were surprised to find that it was a huge, plush banquet seat with a primo view of the stage. The booth, however, was already occupied, by Juliana and Azura. They slid in awkwardly on one side of the booth, squeezing together, giving the women enough room to be comfortable at the table from them. While they initially thought that they would have their own table, Peter considered sitting with Juliana and Azura to be an added bonus. It never hurt to spend time with some beautiful women, but if they could learn some useful information while they were there, all the better.

  As was the case the night before, each of the men was wired with a recording device. Peter didn’t like it, and he had protested wearing another. He knew he would see Erica again, and he didn’t want to risk her finding it, or recording her in an intimate situation. It was all part of the job, a necessary evil, at least until he could clear Erica and her friends from any connection to the O’Connell’s… Or, on the flip side, prove their involvement, and use the recordings as a way to get them to cooperate in taking down the criminal O’Connell empire.

  “I hope you ladies don’t mind the intrusion,” Peter told them. A scantily-clad waitress came and took their drink orders. Beer all around. And when she left, he continued. "Erica gave me the tickets, but I didn't realize that we would be taking over your table."

  “Not to worry,” Juliana told them. “Erica leads the dance troupe, so she always saves the best table for her nearest and dearest. So it seems as if you guys made the cut tonight," she smiled, perhaps a little too coolly for Peter’s liking.

  Peter registered both the wariness in Juliana’s eyes and the chill behind her smile. She rented the space for her café from Dylan O’Connell. So what did that make her? Was there some reason she didn’t want them around? Possibly because she was on Dylan O’Connell’s payroll? Or was she just a cautious girlfriend, skeptical about the guy her friend hooked up with. Probably that one. But Peter made a note to keep his eye on her.

  Azura kept her sharp eyes on Steve, however, making Peter wonder if his friend had noticed. Probably not. Like himself, Steve spent most of his time working, but Peter had never even heard him talk about women, which led them to believe that he spent all of his free time also behind his computer, or pounding the pavement. The sacrifices one makes to be the best in their field. "I didn’t realize either that we would all be at the same table, but welcome aboard,” Azura casually put a hand on Steve’s forearm. “Have you guys ever been to a burlesque show?”

  Each of the men shook their heads.

  “You guys are in for a treat,” she told them as the lights dimmed and show began.

  The frenzied energy backstage exhilarated Erica. It was definitely the pre-show adrenaline keeping her awake at this point and not the three iced Americanos she’d had before leaving work. She should have known better than to stay up all night before a show. No regrets, though, she recalled her night with Peter. All around her, women helped each other with their hair, patch up costumes, strap shoes and straighten nipple pasties… burlesque business as usual. She smiled, loving every minute of it.

  About to take the stage, Erica knew that Peter was in the audience, as Amy, the hostess had told h
er that she’d seated the men with Juliana and Azura at the girls’ usual table. She took a deep breath to dispel the nerves she felt creeping up her spine. She pulled her trench coat over her shoulders, grabbed her prop cane, and adjusted her fedora to lie low over her left eye before she reapplied the glittery red lipstick that looked incredible under the stage lights.

  She was performing one of her favorite routines, one of the sexiest in her repertoire. A jazzy but wicked dance that often got a lot of applause. When her burlesque name Vixen La Petit was called, she threw her shoulders back and sauntered onto the stage.

  The music started and the spotlights hit her. The stage was where she felt most alive. She liked her day job well enough, but she loved performing. It was who she was. Standing with her back to the audience, she bent slightly, pointing her behind to the crowd, with both hands on the rounded top of the cane. To the beat, she swayed her hips beneath the short, black trench coat, slowly at first, and then when the music picked up suddenly, she stood straight, paused and ripped her coat away, revealing a red satin corset, to the pleasure of the crowd. Red was a purely coincidental choice… well, sort of.

  Peter’s husky voice murmuring, “I love red,” the night before may have played a role in her costume selection. Of course she wouldn’t say that she wore it for Peter. She knew that she looked amazing in it. It really had nothing, well, almost nothing, maybe a little something to do with the fact that Peter had confided to her that he preferred red lingerie. But it certainly didn’t hurt.

  As the music pounded, she danced harder, sexier than she ever had before. She couldn’t see him for the spotlight, but she knew that Peter’s eyes were on her. She could feel them branding her skin, as she swayed and twirled and gyrated her way around the stage. She wondered what he could be thinking. Was he bored? Turned on? When the music ended, she threw her head back dramatically in a wave of red curls, signaling the end of the routine and the lights went black. When the lights turned back on, some movement in one of the balcony seats high above the stage caught her attention. The figures of two people, obscured by shadow, stood and walked away. As far as she knew, the balconies were never opened for their shows.

  Erica quickly forgot about them as the crowd applauded and hollered their approval while she gathered her discarded props and vacated the stage. When she got backstage, her fellow performers all crowded around her, congratulating her. “That was amazing!” Layla, one of her friends and fellow dancer, pulled her in for a hug. “Definitely one of your best performances ever.”

  “Thank you," Erica smiled, breaking away, grabbing a bottle of water from the small catering table. "I was definitely feeling inspired tonight.”

  “I’d say."

  Erica would have stayed to tell her all about Peter, to gush about their night together, but she felt distracted. She knew that Peter was in the audience. But she wasn’t quite sure what she should do. Should she stay backstage, play it cool? Would he come to find her? Should she make her way back to the table to sit with her friends?

  “Hey Erica,” she heard her name being called. She saw Sandy, the Lucky Clover’s night manager was walking toward her. “Great job.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Do you have time to speak with the owner of the club?”

  “What?”

  “Mr. O’Connell, the owner, wants to see you in his office.”

  “Um, sure,” Erica agreed. It was a strange request. After the many, many times Erica had performed there, she’d never been invited to speak with the owner. But she figured that it couldn’t be a bad sign.

  She followed Sandy down a long corridor. “It’s just down here.”

  “For all the times we’ve performed in this club, I didn’t even know that this place existed.”

  “Mr. O’Connell doesn’t come out often, but he never misses your shows. He’s a big fan of your troupe, and you, especially.”

  “Oh really?”

  Erica felt increasingly nervous as they neared the door at the end of the hallway, which was guarded on either side by large men wearing at least a cow’s worth of leather in their coats. Why a club owner needed guards at the door of his office, Erica had no idea.

  Sandy walked up to them, unintimidated, and tilted her head back at Erica. “This is the woman Dylan wanted to see.”

  The men turned to Erica and she felt a cold chill when both of them ran their eyes over her body. She wished she’d had time to change before following Sandy down there. She pulled her small trench coat tighter over her breasts and crossed her arms over her chest. The men nodded and moved aside so she could enter the office.

  “Hello, Ms. Hardin,” the man behind the desk greeted her.

  Erica came face-to-face with Dylan O’Connell, but she realized, it wasn’t for the first time. She looked more closely at him. He was familiar. The Irishman from the café. The one that always gave her the creeps. He owns the club? “Hi there,” she stood by the door, not coming any closer to the front of his massive desk. She needed to see what he’d wanted and get the meeting over with as soon as possible.

  He smiled, but it was a smile devoid of warmth. “Your performance tonight was excellent. You’re very good at what you do. Both dancing and serving coffee.”

  “Thank you,” she answered, her voice quiet. I always do my best, no matter what the task.”

  He said nothing, but instead, just stared at her. She’d had enough and turned back to the door. “Well, I really have to be going.”

  “Wait,” he commanded as she was turning the doorknob. She glared at him in response to his order.

  “I’m sorry.” His tone had softened but she didn’t buy it. “Please stay for just another moment. I have a proposition for you.”

  Erica’s guard was still raised. “Yeah? And what’s that?”

  “The nights that your troupe performs here are our busiest nights. We make more money from the bar than any other time. In fact, we should be paying you.” He laughed, and Erica gave him a weak smile in return. “I want to hire you to be my entertainment manager here, and we’d like to bring on your dancers to work at the club on a permanent basis.”

  Erica was stunned. A paid gig. Despite how she felt about the man in front of her, she didn’t think she could turn it down, especially if she wanted to get her own studio off the ground. “That sounds… generous. Although I would have to discuss it with the rest of the girls first before I agree to anything.”

  He stood from his chair and came around his desk to stand next to her. Erica’s posture stiffened as he came close, and touched her cheek with cold fingers as she closed her eyes. “Of course you do, but I’m sure you’ll make the right decision.”

  Peter sat stiffly in the booth with his teammates and Erica's friends. He had finished his beer, and with how dry his throat had become he desperately wished he had another. Where is that waitress? Erica had clearly stolen the show tonight. That cane, the hat covering her wild red hair, that red lingerie... When she took the stage, he had forgotten about everything they had come to do: to talk to her friends, to case the club, and to keep an eye out for Dylan O'Connell.

  Peter had wanted her from the minute she strolled out in her trench coat. He wanted to be the one ripping it from her body, and he’d been so turned on watching her dance that he found it difficult to move or breathe, as somehow his leather jacket had become too hot and constricting, not to mention the effect she’d had on him beneath his jeans... He was working on the bluest balls in documented history, when the lights went down and she was done.

  Peter didn’t even notice when the house lights turned back up and Mitch caught his attention by elbowing him sharply in the ribs, signaling it was time for them to have a look around.

  “Excuse us, ladies,” Mitch announced, as he stood from the table. “We’re going to head to the bar. Can we get you anything?” More beer was ordered, and Mitch nodded, standing, staring at Peter, and waiting for him to stand as well.

  Peter looked into his lap. There
was no way he would be able to stand at the moment, without everyone at the table being privy to the massive hard-on he was sporting. He shifted his jeans, untucked his shirt, pulled it over his zipper, and he hoped that no one would notice the bulge or his stiff gait. He smiled ruefully at Mitch, who rolled his eyes. “Let’s go.”

  The pair walked away from the table, and Peter turned to his older brother as they neared the bar. “Having fun yet?”

  “I'll have fun when we take these assholes down,” Mitch's reply was curt. “If you’d looked anywhere but the stage, what would be your feeling on this place?”

  Peter glanced around and lowered his voice. “I think it would be pretty easy for O’Connell’s work to go down in a place like this. And I did look away from the stage. Did you see Dylan and Colin sitting in the balcony seats? They came out before Erica’s performance and they left when she finished. That seemed kind of shady.”

  “Good eye. I saw them too.”

  Peter sighed and grimaced with the next thought. “The girls could easily be prostitutes or at least mules for contraband in a place like this.”

  Mitch stopped and looked at Peter. “If that’s true, what do you make of Erica?”

  He didn’t want to consider that Erica was involved in those kinds of activities. “If she’s complicit in Dylan O’Connell’s operation, then she’s one of the bad guys. We’ll take her down with them.”

  “Or at least flip her to get information we can use against the Irish. We could probably get her to take a deal for her testimony,” Mitch suggested.

  Peter felt sick. “Can we just do this already?” He pushed past Mitch, and dismissed Erica from his mind to focus on the most important task at hand – finding out what business the Irish had with the Russian mob.

  Peter looked back at their table, and both Juliana and Azura were distracted by whatever Steve and Joe were saying. The men walked to the bar, and then past it, and surveyed the club from their vantage point. Dancers from the show were circulating the room, taking pictures with fans and audience members while waitresses weaved around tables, chairs and other people, holding aloft, drink-laden trays and not missing a step, teetering on their strappy stilettos. Peter was impressed.