So, I dial Cole’s number and pray.
“Is this Tempest the Burner, or is this Tempest the Ball Buster, or . . .” he asks, pausing for dramatic effect, “is it possible that I’m talking to the one and only Tempest the Beautiful?”
“Always the charmer, Cole,” I deadpan, rolling my eyes. “It’s Tempest ... Cassidy.” I put heavy emphasis on my last name and smile, trying to convince myself it’s a good thing.
I’m divorced.
I’m moving on.
“Well, well, well. Sounds like congratulations are in order,” he says, his voice depicting his pleasure in my current marital status. “Proud of you, Tempest. Really.”
“Thanks. I’m not sure everyone feels the same, but—”
He huffs his displeasure at that statement. “You did the right thing. Regardless of what anyone thinks, none of this is your fault. He’s the asshole. Don’t doubt that. And you’ve been nice for far too long, so no matter what anyone else says or thinks, I’m proud of you.” He pauses and I wish I could reach through the phone and hug him. “So, to what do I owe this pleasure? Please tell me you’re not calling from jail, because I don’t really think—”
“I’m not calling from jail,” I interrupt, rolling my eyes again as I lean back against the wall, chewing on my thumb nail. “I need a favor.”
“Okay, shoot,” he says, then adds, “Not literally, that’s a felony.”
I huff a laugh, knowing I’ll never live down the past three months of my life. “Haha, very funny,” I say, fighting back a smile and working up the courage to ask him what I called to ask. “I was, uh, wondering if I could get a ride ... somewhere?”
“You could call Anna, she’ll probably be heading out to the Piggly Wiggly later for her Saturday night grocery run … don’t know how that woman can find entertainment in that, but whatever.”
“Well,” I drawl, breathing out deeply. “I was actually thinking more like the Pink Pony.” The last few words are expelled in a rush and I squeeze my eyes shut in hopes he won’t instantly shut me down.
“Ah, man. Tempest, I don’t feel good about this,” he whines. “Anna will kick my ass when she finds out, and don’t say she won’t find out because we both know that’s a lie. Nobody gossips like the barflies and the Baptists.”
“Cole,” I say, opting for a different angle. “I’d do it for you.”
“You’re gonna wind your ass up in jail. Again.” I can almost hear him pacing the floor, and I feel bad for putting him in this situation—really, I do. If I had another friend to call, I would, but I don’t. “Why you wanna go there anyway?”
Guilt trip in three, two, one ...
“Listen,” I say, mustering what little self-assurance I have left and try to put it all in a nutshell, needing him to understand where I’m coming from. “I spent the last eight years answering to Asher Williams’s every whim. I worked while he went to college. I bent over backwards for everything that man ever wanted. And he repaid me for all of it by fucking Mindy… Mindy Mitchell, Cole! Do you remember how mean she was to me in middle school? And now, she’s living with my ex-husband. I don’t know how to feel these days. I have all these misplaced feelings and tonight, if I don’t let off some steam, I’m gonna blow and I really might end up back in jail. Do you want that?” I pause to take a breath and then go in for one last blow. “Besides, I haven’t had any real fun in a long time. After all the shit I’ve been through, I deserve this. Don’t ruin it for me. It’s not like I’m going to apply for a job or dance on the stage.”
After a few seconds, he finally acquiesces. “I’ll be there in five.”
Ten minutes later, Cole is dropping me off at the front door of the bar. The gravel parking lot is full and dark and Cole is scoping out the perimeter, making sure it’s safe before I get out.
Also, he’s probably trying to see who’s witnessing the drop-off. And who’s going to be on the phone to Anna before he can even get back home.
“Cole,” I say, stepping out of the cruiser. “Do yourself a favor and just tell her when you get home. You’ll worry yourself sick over her finding out if you don’t.” Leaning back into the car and reaching across the seat, I give his big, burly arm a squeeze. For such a large guy, he sure is a pussy sometimes. “Tell her it’s my fault and she can come over tomorrow and pray over me or whatever, okay?”
His eyes grow wide as he gives me a look of pure shock, unbelieving I’d give Anna Cassidy permission to unleash her wrath on me. It’s almost worse than God’s.
Finally, he nods. “I’m on patrol all night. Promise me you’ll call when you’re ready to leave. I’ll come pick you up.”
“I will. Thanks, again,” I tell him, leaning over further to kiss his cheek. “And, I’m sorry if I get you in trouble.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” he says with a chuckle.
Nope, it wouldn't be the first time and I’m pretty sure it won’t be the last. Cole and I are known for getting in and out of trouble together. When he became a cop, things changed a little, but he’s still the same Cole I grew up with. Except, now he’s an adult who works for the law and is married to the most pious person in the Appalachians.
“Maybe I should go in with you, just to make sure it’s …” His words trail off as he makes hand gestures toward the bar.
“It’s fine. I’m a big girl,” I tell him, smiling as I shut the door and wave over my shoulder.
Chapter 4
Cage
The past couple of weeks have been good, slow but good.
My shoulder is feeling moderately better, my mind is clearer than it’s been in months, and I haven’t had much time to dwell on the demise of my career. All good things.
Hank is letting me live in an apartment he owns above a vacant storefront downtown. It’s quiet and spacious. When he mentioned it to me the day I arrived, I assumed it’d be some rundown space that I’d make do with until I decide what I’m doing with my life, but it’s nothing like that. It’s oddly something I would’ve designed for myself—high ceilings, exposed brick, and old wooden floors. It’s old, but new and it has character in spades.
I found a cool old bedframe at an antique store just a few doors down and bought a new mattress for it at the furniture store. Hank had already furnished the kitchen with stainless steel counters and open shelving. There’s not much in the space right now, except for the few things I brought with me—clothes and few books—along with an old radio I also bought at the antique store.
Every day has been spent at the Pink Pony, learning the business and getting to know everyone. For the most part, it’s an easy job. Hank runs a tight ship—no touching, no drugs, no drama.
There’s been a few guys who’ve gotten a little rowdy, but other than that, I’ve been just standing around keeping an eye on the place, helping bus a few tables from time to time, and filling in where I’m needed. Hank had mentioned needing some muscle around, but now that I’m here, I’m pretty sure he created a job for me.
Tonight’s crowd seems pretty average.
A girl named Fuchsia, apparently her God-given name, is on stage and the customers seem to be eating it up. With her bright pink tail feathers, she looks like a cross between a flamingo and a peacock. I’ve seen her routine a few times and am prepared for when the feathers come off, exposing her ass cheeks.
I guess for some guys, working in a strip club might be a problem, but not me. Sure, I know an attractive woman when I see one, but I’m not interested in anything these women have to offer.
“Hey, baby,” one of the waitresses croons as she walks by and grips my bicep.
I smile and give her a wink, but she’s harmless.
“Do me a favor and clear table eleven?” she asks, setting her tray on the bar top beside me and calling out some orders to the bartender.
“Sure,” I tell her, pushing off the bar and walking over to the table. There’re just a few glasses and used napkins that I quickly gather up. When I turn around and head to the
back, I see that in my absence, someone has slipped into the barstool where I usually stand.
After I set the dirty dishes in the bin behind the bar, I catch my first real glimpse of her.
Shoulder-length, fiery red hair and a petite frame. She’s not exactly what I’ve come to expect from the patrons of the Pink Pony. Her low-cut sweater and skin-tight jeans draw a little attention from men around her, but most of them get one look and turn their eyes back to the entertainment on stage.
“Can I get you something?” I overhear the bartender, Floyd, ask.
“Tequila,” the woman says, sliding her credit card across the bar. “Start me a tab.”
Checking around for a date or a friend who might be with her, I come up empty-handed and my curiosity is peaked. What is a girl like her doing in a place like this … alone?
“How’s it going, Tempest?” a man to her right asks as he takes his beer and puts down some cash.
Tempest.
Curiouser and curiouser.
“Good, Joe. How are you?” she asks and her voice is husky for such a small person and my dick takes notice.
What the fuck?
“Not too shabby. Heard about you puttin’ that truck in Miller’s pond,” he adds with a chuckle before taking a drink of his beer.
“Yeah,” she says with a sigh and a grateful smile as the bartender places the requested tequila down in front of her. “Good times.” There’s a heavy dose of sarcasm coating her words and I notice the way her shoulders tense a little.
Without a lick of salt or a second thought, she picks up the shot glass and throws it back.
No lime.
No chaser.
“I’ll have another,” she tells Floyd, who quickly obliges.
That’s when I realize this could get ugly.
So, I decide to stick close, just in case my services are needed, but far enough away that I’m not tempted, because for some unknown reason, I’m definitely fucking tempted.
Maybe it’s the red hair.
Maybe it’s the raspy voice.
Maybe it’s the way she’s throwing back the tequila like a fucking badass.
Maybe it’s her name … Tempest. It’s different. She seems different and I haven’t even officially met her.
I decide, standing there at the end of the bar, watching her from afar while I keep my eyes focused on the rest of the club, I’m not sure if I want to. The last time I was this instantly attracted to a woman, I fell hard, and she broke my heart.
The big, bad cage fighter, crushed by a blonde heartbreaker.
I wasn’t driven, according to her.
She needed to marry someone like a lawyer or a doctor. I’d confided in her about my real dreams—dreams beyond getting a degree from a prestigious university like Harvard—winning belts, being on the UFC circuit.
She couldn’t be with someone like me, someone who beat the shit out of people for living. Her words, not mine. Her parents’ perception and opinions meant more to her than my love. I should’ve known better. I should’ve seen it coming.
But I was in college, with my entire life ahead of me, and I felt like I had the world at my fingertips.
When she broke up with me, she broke me. It came out of the blue, on a night I was planning on giving her a promise ring. I knew we were too young to get married, but it didn’t mean I didn’t want to. I did, but I knew she wouldn’t. I knew she’d freak. But instead of slipping that small gold band with an eternity symbol on her finger, I got slapped in the face. Not literally. Although, I wish I had. That would’ve been easier to take.
Shaking my head to clear the memories, I turn my gaze to the red head down the bar and notice there are now three empty shot glasses sitting in front of her and what looks like a margarita on the rocks in her hand. At least she’s smart enough to stick to one liquor.
Maybe she won’t be a problem.
Maybe she can handle more than one would expect.
More than her petite frame might insinuate.
Forcing myself to face forward, I watch a few more numbers. The crowd grows a little, a few people I’ve seen before and have started to notice as regulars. I’ve never thought much about strip clubs and the people who frequent them, but it’s interesting, that’s for sure.
Old men.
Young men.
Wealthy men.
Blue collar.
White collar.
And women.
All kinds.
There seems to be a little something for everyone.
Especially Candy, the girl who is currently on stage, dancing to Pour Some Sugar on Me, because … Candy. She really draws the crowd and the whistles. Noticing a few guys getting a little close to the stage, I push off the bar and take a few steps toward them, just in case.
“Yeah, baby,” one of them yells, counting out dollar bills as he holds his beer in the crook of his elbow. “Pour it on me!” When he gets a little off-balance trying to place the bills on the stage, his beer pours over the side of the glass and onto the guy who’s sitting at the table beside him.
When he stands up and puffs out his chest, I walk forward, placing myself between the two men.
“Hey,” I call out, getting his attention quick. “It was an accident.” I cock an eyebrow and motion for Sarah to bring the guy a towel. “How about a beer on the house?”
His nostrils flare and he glares at the other guy who’s still luring Candy with his sweaty bills. Finally, the song changes and she blows a kiss, waving over her shoulder about the time Sarah walks up with the towel. Dabbing at the man’s shoulder with a sweet smile, I finally see his anger start to ebb.
“How about her?” he asks with a wink to Sarah.
“She’s off the menu,” I inform, giving Sarah a roll of my eyes.
“I’ll take the beer then,” he says, settling back in his chair.
Sarah smiles and walks off to the bar, while I take the mostly empty beer glass from the guy by the stage. “How about you have a seat, buddy?”
“How about you don’t tell me what to do,” he says, before turning around and getting a glimpse of who he’s talking to.
Yeah, that’s what I thought.
“Have a seat,” I reiterate and he obliges.
Catastrophe averted, I turn to walk back over to my post at the bar when I see her. Tempest.
With a break in on-stage action, the house music is turned up and Crazy by Aerosmith is blaring over the speakers. And Tempest is now climbing onto the bar.
Onto the mother fucking bar.
For a second, I’m frozen in my spot … in place … in time … as she sways her body to the music, arms above her head. The blissful look on her face makes me not want to disturb her. She looks … happy. But I can’t let her dance on the bar.
That’s another one of Hank’s rules.
If you’re not a dancer, you don’t get a stage.
Walking over to her, I tap her leg, but she continues swaying and now she’s belting out the lyrics, her expression making me believe she’s feeling every word down to her toes.
“Hey,” I call up, loud enough to cut through the music.
Her eyes pop open and she frowns down at me and I see the glassiness, the tequila shining through. When she goes back to dancing, closing her eyes and blocking me out, I huff, bracing my hands on my hips.
The guys two seats down are now fully invested in the show she’s giving and I growl in their direction. I want to ask them what they’re looking at, but I know.
I see it.
I see her.
She might not be a Candy or a Fuchsia. There aren’t any double Ds. But she’s got something they don’t have. I can’t even put my finger on it, but it’s there.
Red hair flying around her peaches-and-cream skin.
Nice, tight little ass, poured into the jeans she’s wearing.
Plump lips wrapping around the lyrics of the song.
And moves like a porn star.
“Off the bar,” I bark ou
t, gripping her calf to get her attention. I don’t know if I’m more pissed off at myself for being affected by her or her for putting me in this position. Or the mother fuckers down the bar for looking at her like she’s their next meal.
“No,” she says, yanking her leg out of my grip and I swear, I just saw her teeth.
This one might bite.
When she squats down on a low note, I take advantage of her proximity and grab her under the arms, scooping up under her legs, as I whisk her off the bar top.
“Put me down!” she cries, her fist banging on my chest.
I get a glimpse of sexy kitten heels coming way too close to my face and back away. “Whoa,” I whisper, not trying to gain an audience, and I’d rather not have to restrain her, but I need her to listen to me and promise she won’t get back on the bar.
“I said,” she starts, her voice getting louder, fists stronger. With my good arm, I hold hers down to the side of her body as I reposition her back on the barstool, my hand going over her mouth.
When her gorgeous green eyes, full of fire, hit mine, I feel it as if it were an actual punch.
With her chest heaving and my dick springing to life, I swallow. Hard.
“I’m going to need you to calm down, alright?” I ask, hoping for a nod or something to let me know she’s feeling me right now, but all I get is a sassy glare. When I finally take my hand off her mouth and release some of the hold on her shoulders, she sags a little in what feels like defeat. “No more dancing on the bar.”
“Floyd,” she calls out over her shoulder. “I’m gonna need another shot of José.”
Floyd’s eyebrows shoot up in question and I just shrug. Someone should probably cut her off, but I don’t really want to be that guy. She’s obviously got something going on … pretty girl in a strip club, drinking alone. That doesn’t exactly scream typical Saturday night. I want to press, ask her what her story is, but seeing that we haven’t even officially been introduced, I decide to leave it alone.
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