Sin

by Violetta Rand

  I’m sorry, Josh. I can’t believe I broke up with you. Clark isn’t who I thought he was. Is there any way you can forgive me? I’m in town…

  I shake my head and plop down on my leather recliner. Two years—I spent two years catering to my ex’s needs. I gave up traveling, spent holidays with her parents, and paid $10,000 for an engagement ring she chose. The minute I announce I’m taking the job at the Devil’s Den, she informs me that she’s been seeing Clark Gallagher, a dick she met four years ago at a frat party who stalked her for months. I comb my fingers through my hair, angry she’s here. New York City is where she belongs, rubbing elbows with the elites. Not back in Texas.

  Then I picture her soft blond hair and big brown eyes, the gentle curve of her hips. I take a long swig of beer, then wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. She stole two years of my life. And I still have unresolved feelings. Although I’ve never met Clark, I’d love to break him in half. Not because I want Julia back; merely on principle. There’s an unspoken rule among Texas boys. Even if the grass is greener, you stay on your side of the goddamned fence. My cell rings and I fish it out of my front pocket.

  “Josh?”

  Silence. “Hello, Julia.”

  “Did you get my message?”

  “Sure did.”

  “That’s it?” Her usually even-keeled voice sounds strained. “Surely I mean something to you still.”

  “Is that a question or an observation?”

  “Don’t get all analytical on me.”

  “I’m not,” I say. “Wondering why you’re calling me.”

  “Can’t old friends talk?”

  I laugh. “Were we ever really friends?”

  “Maybe not,” she says, “but we could try.”

  “Don’t think so.”

  “Why?”

  “Really want me to rehash all the details? You fucked another guy while we were engaged.”

  She sniffs. “I’ve apologized a hundred times. I truly am sorry. It’s just—well, I couldn’t fathom you working in that…that place.”

  “Bar—say it. The Devil’s Den is a bar.”

  “No it’s not,” she snaps. “It’s a flesh market.”

  “You mean meat market, darlin’.” I chuckle. “Tell me the difference between the clubs you frequent in the city and where I work.”

  “Those girls are naked, rubbing all over strangers—selling themselves…Disgusting.” She’s talking herself into a corner.

  “I recall some of the costumes you wore to the city—let’s just say it was hard to differentiate between the hemline and neckline. Oh, yeah,” I’m gloating now, “and what about that night I caught you doing lines at Cielo?”

  She clears her throat. “Low blow, Joshua.”

  “It’s the truth. You know how I feel about drugs, Julia, zero tolerance—but I forgave you.”

  “I know.” She’s quiet.

  “We’ll never agree on anything, Julia. I like the entertainment industry; you don’t. I shared my professional vision with you long before grad school. We could have made a clean break back then, but you begged me to give you some time to adjust to my professional ambitions. So I did. And what did I get in return? Lies. Every day I ignored the obvious—how many times did you try to manipulate me into making a commitment to some Manhattan firm so I’d stay in New York? You love the city; I hate it. I admit that part is my fault. I should have played my man card. Instead, I let you get away with everything. Call me old-fashioned. Or maybe I just didn’t give a shit about anything at the time. And…you fucked another guy…”

  “You already said that.”

  “Let me say it again. You—”

  “Stop it, Joshua!”

  I swallow. “There’s nothing left to say.”

  “We’ve known each other for twenty years,” she cries.

  I consider our history. Connected through church and her great-aunt. Although we didn’t attend school together, Julia spent every summer with her aunt in Kingsville. We were inseparable. Hell, I taught her how to bait a hook and swim. Julia taught me how to French kiss when I was eleven. Maybe that should have served as a warning. I laugh.

  “What?” she asks.

  “Just remembering our first kiss,” I say. “Who taught you how to use your tongue?”

  “Like I remember.”

  “Too many beaus to count?”

  “We were eleven.”

  “Yeah—did you fuck another guy back then, too?”

  She hangs up.

  —

  I’m standing at the bar on Wednesday night, having a drink with one of our regular customers, when Macey arrives. She’s wearing a dress that reminds me of something I’d see in Paris or in a classic film; it’s red and clings to her curves. I can’t help staring. She has to walk by me to check in with the DJ. We haven’t talked since Monday night.

  As soon as she’s nearby, I smile. “Good evening, Ms. Taylor.”

  Without glancing my way, she flips me off and keeps moving.

  “What’d you do to Macey?” Glenda calls from behind the bar.

  I turn halfway, resting my elbow on the counter. “Couldn’t say.”

  “Really?” She throws me the you’re-full-of-shit look. “I’ve known that girl for over fifteen years, before she ever popped her pretty head in this place.”

  I can’t imagine Macey as a little girl.

  “And you want to know something?” Glenda leans over the bar, her large breasts brushing against my arm. “I’ve never seen her act that way before, never.”

  “I’m obligated to agree,” Gilbert adds, before sucking down the last of his rum and Coke. “Macey always has a smile…”

  “Yeah,” I say, holding up my hand to silence Macey’s fan club. “I get it. You’re the resident historian.” I smile at Glenda. “And you…” I slap Gilbert’s shoulder. “I haven’t quite decided what you are yet.”

  “Just sayin’.” Glenda laughs.

  The woman can see right through me. I am curious about her connection with Macey, though. She’s only twenty-four, and well, Glenda is older than dirt. I smile. “How’d you meet?”

  She clicks her tongue. “See, Gilbert,” she comments. “The boy’s curiosity goes beyond the workplace.”

  “Maybe,” I admit.

  “Neighbors,” she says. “Let’s just say her father was a regular customer—a professional gambler. Sometimes Darren would host after-hours parties. A little poker, a few dancers…Long before the city cracked down on strip joints.”

  “And?”

  “Her mother died when she was very young. And her daddy wasn’t exactly father-of-the-year material. Some nights, the poor thing would end up sleeping in Darren’s office. I used to check in on her.”

  Reads like a tragedy and pisses me off for some reason. Somehow I’m not surprised. That’s the dark side of this business; the women often come from unstable backgrounds. “Thanks for the history lesson, darlin’.” I throw a ten on the bar and leave my empty glass.

  I walk to the DJ booth, hoping to catch Macey alone. She’s just stepping out when I turn the corner. She stares, those sapphire eyes sweeping over me.

  “Macey…”

  “Save your breath, Ivy League.”

  She starts to step around me, but I latch onto her wrist. “Not so fast.”

  “Anything we had to say should have been said on Monday.”

  “You’re right,” I admit, loving the feel of her slim wrist in my hand. I keep my gaze fixed on her. “Didn’t you feel good?”

  She shakes her head, then stares at the floor. “That’s not the point.”

  I tip her chin up. “I just wanted you to feel good.” The corner of my mouth lifts into a smirk. “The least I could do after—”

  “No.” She places her finger on my lips to shush me. “You don’t get the satisfaction of saying you made me horny.”

  I arch a brow. “No?”

  “Not that it’s any of your business, but that’s been building for a long
time.” She looks completely serious. “A really long time.”

  Another piece of vital information I’ll keep tucked away. She’s sexually frustrated. I can help her with that—hell, I’ll provide a long-term cure if she’ll let me. “Meet me in my office in fifteen minutes, Ms. Taylor.”

  “For what?” She steps back. “I need to get ready for my first set.”

  Coincidentally, Dave sticks his head outside the booth. “You’re up soon, Macey.”

  “See?” She waves her hands.

  “Take her off the list,” I say. “She’ll check in after she’s read the employee handbook.”

  Dave shrugs, then disappears.

  She eyes me with skepticism. “Is everything a game to you?”

  Is that what she thinks? “I don’t play games, Ms. Taylor. That’s something I think you’ll learn fairly quick. I expect you to follow the rules like all the other entertainers have agreed to do.”

  “Really?” She cocks her head. “Last I heard, we’re down twenty.”

  “A temporary setback,” I explain. “Do you plan on leaving, too?”

  She feigns a yawn, tapping her perfectly straight teeth with her fingers. “I’ll be here long after you move on, trust me.” She looks at her watch. “Looks like I only have ten minutes now.”

  She nudges by, her hips swaying more seductively than I remember. I shove my hands in my pockets, watching. I think it’s safe to say we’ve established a certain rhythm to our fledgling relationship. I make the rules, and Macey Taylor does everything she can to break them.

  Chapter 6

  He’s impossibly attractive, arrogant, and too quick with his tongue. I’m standing outside the office, wondering why I’m giving in to his ridiculous demands. Safety protocol? And I just found out from a couple of girls in the dressing room there’s a new dress code. Joshua Camden is an Ivy Leaguer who’s trying to change a blue-collar bar into a gentlemen’s club. I hug myself, the air-conditioning is so cold on my uncovered arms. I also can’t deny how my body responds to him automatically—that’s something to avoid, now and in the future.

  “Come in, Ms. Taylor.”

  How does he know I’m here? I open the door. “Can’t we do this another time? One of my regulars is waiting for me.”

  He looks up. “He’ll keep.”

  “Great.” I slam the door. “That doesn’t mean I will.”

  “Sit.” He points at a chair.

  I plop down, crossing my arms over my chest. I look around the office, trying to figure out how he knew I was standing outside his door. There’s a tiny monitor on a table behind his chair. I can see most of the poolroom. “Unbelievable.”

  He follows my gaze. “I told you before, I’m careful. And if you’ll just give me fifteen minutes of your time, maybe you’ll agree with some of the things I’m changing here.”

  “I read half the handbook already.” I roll my eyes. “Slips, trips, and falls. A new illicit drug policy. And now a dress code?”

  “I don’t think you understand the severity of the problems a lot of your coworkers have or the fines Darren has paid over the years.”

  I frown. Where does he think I spend the majority of my time? I’m here four or five nights a week. I’ve witnessed the harassment and intimidation tactics the cops utilize every night when they invade our space and try to arrest us for stupid things like public lewdness. Has he even looked up the broad legal definition of that Class A misdemeanor? “I’m fully aware.”

  “And?” he presses.

  “Banning cutoffs isn’t going to stop the police.”

  “No,” he agrees, thrumming his fingers, “but it will help keep certain personality types from frequenting our establishment.”

  I don’t think so. “And no gangsta rap? That’s racist.”

  “Is it?”

  “Maybe not,” I admit. Not being a fan of the lyrics of most of that music, I do understand his point. “All right—I get that one.”

  “Good.” He opens up a copy of the employee handbook. “Five girls slipped or fell down the stairs last year. Darren paid over ten thousand dollars in medical costs alone. Accidents can be avoided. As for the dress code, Ms. Taylor, unless you’re doing a theme set onstage, I expect all the entertainers to dress appropriately. Men come here to escape the drudgery of everyday life, not to hang out with girls they can meet at work or on the beach.”

  “This isn’t San Antonio,” I say. “We cater to the locals.”

  “And we’ll continue to welcome our regulars,” he assures me. “But I’m here to increase the Den’s net earnings.”

  How can I argue with that? “Fine,” I give in. “Show me where to sign.”

  He flips through a few more pages, then closes the pamphlet. “I wish I could say it’s that simple.” He stands, his casual V-neck slipover hugging his muscles. He struts to the door and locks it. “Your leadership skills haven’t gone unnoticed.”

  I sit back, crossing my legs. Now he’s trying to stroke my ego. “I wouldn’t refer to it as leadership. I just do my own thing.”

  He laughs, walking to the leather couch across from my chair, then sits down. “You don’t?”

  I try to control my core temperature as my gaze wanders over him. He moved closer on purpose—putting his hot body on full display. I pivot on the edge of my seat so I can look him directly in the eyes. “Get to the point, Ivy League.”

  “I’m hiring a den mom this week. As you know, shepherding fifty girls a night won’t be easy. I’d like to pay you to help her manage the dressing room.”

  I cackle like the wicked witch, impressed by his nerve to even consider me for such an enterprise. “Aren’t you diplomatic,” I taunt. “Quit hedging. You want me to be your snitch.”

  He shrugs.

  “Absolutely not.”

  He maintains a neutral expression, his left arm draped across the back of the couch. Nothing seems to rile this man. “You didn’t give me a chance to tell you what incentives I’m prepared to offer.”

  “Save your breath.” I hold up a hand. “I mind my own business.”

  “I appreciate that.” He leans forward. “But this isn’t Huntsville, Ms. Taylor—no one’s going to shiv you for passing along a bit of information.”

  “I prefer things the way they are.” If he only knew how dangerous the dressing room politics were, he’d change his mind about the prison thing. Dancers might not stab each other with knives, but a six-inch stiletto can do a lot of damage.

  “I’d like to pick up where we left off.” In a flash, he launches off the couch. I moan as he presses against me, his mouth slanting over mine. I swallow my protest, silenced by his roving tongue. The flurry of expletives that race through my mind are soon forgotten as his hands slide up my back. He’s done it again, hijacked my thoughts and body.

  When he releases my lips, I’m panting.

  “Incentive number one…working closely together.” My head falls against his chest. “Number two…” Somehow he works his fingers underneath my short skirt, finding the edge of my very small G-string. “Should I?”

  His pupils are dilated with mischief. There’s a fire in my belly, and if his fingers venture any farther, he’ll spark a wildfire between my legs. No thanks. I’ve already experienced what Joshua means by working closely together. The allowances he seeks with me are beyond what I’m willing to give up right now. However, when I meet his heated gaze, I fist my hands in his hair and pull him toward me, until our mouths collide again. I close my eyes, breathing in the unforgettable fragrance he wears.

  He sighs, snaring both of my wrists with one hand, stretching my arms above my head. “Look at me,” he commands. I do. “You’re tempting the devil, Ms. Taylor. Is that wise?”

  “I don’t care if you’re an angel…”

  He releases my hands, guiding them around his neck. Then he gathers my legs around his waist and lifts me off the chair. He steps back, then slowly lowers us onto the sofa. His hot breath scorches my neck. His gaze roams up my
body—stopping on my breasts, which are nearly popping out of my scoop-cut belly shirt.

  “Jesus Christ,” he cries, squeezing my breasts together. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you to cover up before?” The question doesn’t require an answer; his head dives between my breasts.

  I close my eyes and arch my back, enjoying the feel of his tongue on my skin. Pressure builds deep in my stomach as I start to grind against his crotch. I drag my eyes open when I feel the extent of his erection. I release my breath in a nervous rush, suddenly regretting my lack of self-control. Sooner or later I’m going to end up naked and on my back with Joshua rooted deep inside me if I’m not careful. It’s too soon—I’m still recovering from my breakup with Wesley. Even though it’s been over two months since I’ve slept with him, something doesn’t feel right.

  “What’s wrong?” He cups my face, pulling me down to eye level.

  When his talented fingers start to circle down my arms I nearly give in. “Do you know how many girls Darren Starr has banged on this couch?” It’s a viable excuse. The last place I want to have sex is where my boss has been.

  His warm, wet tongue connects with mine and I’m lost in another languid kiss. Possessed by something that quite honestly I don’t comprehend. I’m into the spontaneous attraction thing—who isn’t? But this redefines it for me, takes it to a completely different level. Chemistry like this only happens in the movies or in some smutty romance novel—the kind my best friend buries her nose in. Climb off of him now or you’ll never be able to stop. I hate my inner voice, but sometimes I listen. I release his mouth.

  “Macey…”

  When he whispers my name like that I want to let him suck, lick, and stroke his way inside me. Good God. He nips my bottom lip, then bites my earlobe. A deep shiver suffuses my whole body.

  “Cold?” he asks, resting his big hands on my hips.

  “I’m not ready for this,” I confess, inching away. But my body disagrees.

  Someone knocks.

  I’m gently lifted and placed on my feet. “Fix your skirt.” He smooths his own clothes. “Damn it, woman.” He looks down, and naturally my gaze follows.