by Brenna Zinn
Iron Rods
Brenna Zinn
Strip Club, Book 1
The women of Austin, Texas, could mix fantasy with flesh at Iron Rods but the strip club is now in disrepair. Bennett Truitt, estranged son of the club’s aging and half-crazy owner, wants to replace the landmark with condos. He hires feisty Tatum to manage the club, sure she will fail, but not before he has a chance to sample her skills in bed.
After another rejection letter, Tatum realizes she’ll never be a professional dancer on or off Broadway. Down on her luck, she’s determined to make the run-down club successful no matter what, or who, it takes. She never expected her new boss to be so enticing they’re breaking doors down to get to each other, get their clothes off, taste each delectable inch.
A Romantica® contemporary erotic romance from Ellora’s Cave
Iron Rods
Brenna Zinn
Chapter One
His father did not do normal.
At least not that Bennett had ever seen. Lyle Truitt was eccentric and ornery, and his shoulder-length hair and handlebar mustache made him look like a character from Buffalo Bill’s Wild West rodeo troupe. Granted, Bennett hadn’t spent much of his thirty years around his father. His mother moved back to New York when he was five, taking Bennett with her. But the summers he and his father had spent together were enough to confirm what Bennett knew deep down in his gut. Lyle Truitt was half crazy and about as strange a creature as any New Yorker might see in a Dr. Seuss book.
In other words, his father was a Texan. Worse over, a Texan from Austin.
As far as the sixty-two-year-old was concerned, normal equated to average and any yahoo with half an ounce of sense could be average. How often had Bennett heard from his father’s lips that average men don’t end up in history books?
More times than he cared to remember. That’s how many.
Bennett shook his head and raised his sleepy eyes to heaven as he drove down the narrow dirt road to his father’s ranch.
Oh yes. More times than he cared to remember.
Lyle’s aversion to average could be noted in nearly everything he touched, even his home. From a distance the Royal Flush Ranch looked much like any other large spread in the area. Nestled deep in the Texas Hill Country not far from Austin, the five thousand acres of pristine rolling hills boasted the same ancient live oaks and meandering dry creek beds as did others of its size. Even the metal windmills and water tanks could be seen on any typical Texas homestead.
But among the cattle grazing in the pasture stood three dozen large-as-life ceramic longhorns painted with various scenes of Texas on their sides and heads. And rather than typical stone construction, his father’s two-story ranch-style home had been built from old beer bottles and concrete. When the sun hit the layer upon layer of glass at just the right angle, the rooms inside the house glowed amber and green. Atop the outlandish structure several solar panels glistened like black jewels against the gray roof tiles.
His father, the ranch and the whole damn Austin area defied convention. How anyone managed to operate a successful business in this madness was beyond Bennett’s understanding, but somehow Lyle did. And Bennett had been foolish enough to leave a good job and the sanity of New York to help his father run the Truitt Holdings Company.
Foolish or proud? Probably a good dose of both. Either way, for better or worse, he was in Texas now. The opportunity to prove his worth to the cantankerous old man had finally arrived.
Bennett pulled his sports car alongside the garage of the odd house. After killing the quiet purr of the engine, he mentally prepared for a confrontation with Lyle. Not an easy thing to do considering his tired brain ached for sleep after poring over ledgers and bank statements the entire night.
He momentarily closed his eyes, releasing a weary sigh. The news he brought would not be well-received, and his recommendation to resolve the issue would undoubtedly make his demanding father see stars. But now was the time for change. If Lyle truly wanted to retire and transition the company over to Bennett’s care, he’d have to listen to reason and eventually let go of the reins. When he did, Bennett would be ready with plans to make the company twenty-five percent more profitable within the first four years. He’d would take the successful company his father created and build it into a nationwide empire.
Maybe then the gruff old man would sit up and take more notice of his only son.
Despite it being spring and so early in the morning that dawn was just beginning to break, Bennett met a wall of heat and humidity as he stepped out of the car and left its welcome air-conditioning. Then a strong smell of cow manure assaulted his senses. By pure reflex his nose wrinkled against the obnoxious odor. Why would anyone prefer the scent of shit over the glorious aromas of cooking food and fresh-cut flowers found on city streets? Even exhaust fumes smelled better than this foul stench. Would he ever get used to living in Texas?
Loud grinding noises of the garage door lifting broke the early morning silence. Lyle, dressed in a skintight cycling jersey and even tighter cycling shorts, strolled out, his road bike and helmet in tow.
Lyle frowned as he took in Bennett, making his long curled mustache dip low. “Either someone’s dead or in jail because it’s too damned early on a Friday morning for a social call.”
Bennett trained his gaze on his father’s intense blue eyes, doing his best to avoid glancing down at the ridiculous bulge in Lyle’s riding shorts. Why couldn’t he put on underwear like a normal person? He had to own at least one pair.
Bennett automatically slid his hands into his pants pockets, seeking the familiar shape and texture of his Susan B. Anthony dollar, and then twirled the coin between his fingers. “It’s Iron Rods. I thought you’d want to hear the club’s news, all of the news, as soon as possible.”
“Too bad for a phone call, huh?”
“Pretty bad,” Bennett warned. “You may want to go inside and sit down.”
His father shook his head, making the silver in his hair glint in the morning sun. “I’m a long way from needing to be babied. I’ll take whatever you have to say right here. Lay it on me.”
No way to gently broach the topic other than telling things exactly the way they stood. If Lyle wanted to discuss business in the middle of his driveway, so be it.
“Your friend Cotton has gone missing. Iron Rod’s bartender, a man by the name of ‘T’, called last night to say Cotton hadn’t been around the club in almost a week and there’s a pile of invoices that need to be taken care of. I know you prefer to handle Iron Rod’s business yourself, but I looked into the bank records and the club’s liquor receipts for the last few years. There’s some irregularities we need to address.”
Bennett paused to take in Lyle’s reaction as well as let the information sink in. Iron Rods was his father’s baby. Unfortunately, this baby, which Lyle claimed he loved, had been severely overlooked and neglected for some time.
Some things never changed.
“Although liquor purchases have steadily decreased,” Bennett continued, “the bank deposits look much smaller than they should be.”
He carefully weighed each word of his next few statements. Lyle needed to understand the gravity of the situation. “It appears someone has been skimming money from the club and has been for a while. I’m unable to reach Cotton and no one seems to know where he might be. I can’t help but think he’s skipped town with money from the club.”
Bennett sank his heels in the ground, anticipating the worst. Lyle’s temper was legendary, and for good reason. He’d seen his irritable father literally wrestle a steer to the ground because the dumb animal broke through a fence and had eaten every one of Anne’s beloved bluebonnets from the front yard. Lyle had zero pati
ence and a tenuous hold on his self-control. Inside his pocket, Bennett’s fingers tightened around the old coin. The accusation of Cotton stealing money might just be a match to set off the old man’s fireworks.
“Well, that’s a bunch of bull hockey.” Lyle’s lazy drawl pulled at each word. “Cotton’s one of my best friends and has been managing Iron Rods for over thirty years. He’d sooner take a bullet to the chest than swindle me. I’d trust Cotton with my life.” He stared off into the distance for several moments then heaved a deep sigh. “You’ve only been in Austin two months and you don’t know how things are done here yet. Believe me, there has to be another explanation.”
The muscles in Bennett’s shoulders tightened beneath his tailored cotton shirt, though he did his best to maintain a nonchalant outward appearance. His father having more faith in some redneck buddy over his own college-educated son was hardly a surprise. Why listen to a man with an MBA from Harvard and seven years experience as a financial analyst when he could trust a former male stripper with the IQ of a Brahma bull?
“Lyle, I’ve had someone parked outside his apartment since seven last night. He didn’t answer his door and didn’t come home.” Bennett noted a hint of exasperation in his voice and mentally checked himself. He wasn’t in New York anymore. His lack of patience and desire to move on things quickly wouldn’t get him anywhere with his father. It never had. Best to appear calm and indifferent as the old man had always done.
“I’ve checked every hospital in between Dallas, Houston and San Antonio, as well as morgues and jails,” he said, more satisfied with his tone. “He’s in none of those places. If Cotton’s in Texas, he’s where no one can find him.”
“How do you know he’s not in his apartment? If he’s been gone so long, maybe he had a heart attack or hit his head in the shower. For all we know he’s gone on a bender and is passed out on the floor. Wouldn’t be the first time. Knowing Cotton, it won’t be his last.”
Bennett resisted the urge to rub his hand over his face. His hard-to-please father knowingly let a drunk manage one of his clubs? Good God. He knew the Truitt Holdings Company needed help, but clearly it was in worse shape than he imagined. Their payroll probably brimmed with ex-cons, addicts and illiterates. Though the club Cotton managed was only a trashy strip club for women that would hopefully be bulldozed to the ground soon, business was business. What other kinds of craziness and mismanagement would he find once he had time to closely look at each company within the holdings?
“We can rule out anything that might have happened in his apartment. My man talked to Cotton’s landlord. She hadn’t seen him lately either, so she used her key to check in on him. He wasn’t there. If Cotton has been out of his mind drunk this week, he’s doing it very discreetly, which gives him a little more credit than he probably deserves.”
Lyle’s bushy eyebrows rose high on his forehead. “So, how do you really feel about my friends, son? Not good enough for a city slicker like yourself, I imagine.”
Oh no. Here we go.
“You listen to me, Bennett. Just because the folks I know and do business with didn’t grow up in Manhattan with a silver spoon shoved in their mouths doesn’t mean they ain’t good people. You would do well to remember I got my start as a stripper at Iron Rods too, like Cotton. That club was the first business I ever owned. The same place I earned enough money to send you to those fancy schools in New York.”
The same fancy school where I regularly had my ass handed to me because one kid overheard his gossiping mother talk about my father the stripper, and then shared that juicy tidbit of information to the rest of the school. Should I thank you now or later?
“And if you plan on making a name for yourself in Austin,” Lyle added with a low drawl, his cheeks stained a vibrant pink, “you had better get off your damned high horse and soon. You might be a big-shot expert in finance, but people around here won’t tolerate you looking down your nose at them.”
Disciplining his features, Bennett leaned back against his car as if he didn’t have a care in the world. If the old man’s intention was to get a rise out of him or to needle out some sort of an apology, he’d have to wait for a cold day in hell before getting either. Bennett was too exhausted and too used to Lyle’s tirades to let a minor tongue lashing like this motivate him to do anything but feign disinterest.
“In the meantime,” Bennett said, changing the subject, “we have three problems to resolve. We need to find Cotton, we need someone to manage Iron Rods until Cotton’s situation is worked out, and we need to figure out why Iron Rods isn’t banking what it should be, let alone how to make it profitable again.”
“And we have to do all this today at the butt crack of dawn? As you can see,” Lyle said, nodding to his bike, “I’m fixin’ to go on a ride.”
Bennett shrugged. “The club is open tonight and it doesn’t look like we have a manager. You tell me.”
Lyle’s frown turned into a scowl. “Here. Hold this.” He pushed his road bike and helmet to Bennett, then fished out his cell phone from the back pocket of his bright-red cycling jersey. “If Cotton’s alive, he’ll take my call. I guaran-damned-tee it.” With a thin hand showing more age spots than flesh-colored skin, he pressed a few buttons, waited a moment and started talking. “Cotton! Where the hell are you?”
Bennett stared in disbelief. What power did the old man possess to always make things go his way?
“Mexico? Yes, I know where that is. Why are you there? Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving?” Lyle offered Bennett a toothy grin, no doubt implying he could manage situations as easily as a genius figuring out a third-grade math problem. “Oh. Well damn, Cotton. I’m real sorry to hear that. You should have told me. I would have paid to get you the best help there is. What? You what?” Lyle’s smile instantly vanished. His once-beaming face suddenly morphed to a study of incredulity. “Damn it, Cotton. I would have given you anything. All you needed to do was ask. Uh huh. How much?” The old man’s shoulders fell. He sucked in a breath of air and slowly released it. “No. No. Consider it your retirement.”
Satisfaction, warm and intoxicating, flowed through Bennett like a good Scotch. He didn’t need to hear any more of the one-sided conversation to know he’d been right. The priceless expression on his father’s face said it all. Cotton had flown the coop, taking Iron Rods’ money with him. Exactly how much money had been stolen remained to be seen. Whatever amount Cotton quoted his father would need to be double-checked, but the answer would be easy enough to confirm after a day or two of thorough research—Bennett’s specialty.
He didn’t know why Cotton bolted, but the answer didn’t matter. The club was in financial difficulty and its manager was in Mexico. Bennett couldn’t have planned a better disaster if he’d tried. With all this hell breaking loose, surely Lyle would see the time had come to close the strip club. Tearing down the old building would finally put a close to the worst chapters of his life, and the property could be developed into something that would really make them some money. Luxury high-rise condos would be nice. Iron Rods was located on the part of South Congress knee-deep in transition from run-down to renovated. Building something elegant and sophisticated there could only be a huge step for the betterment of the neighborhood. Anyone who saw the situation differently would have to be crazy.
He glanced at his father, feeling as though he might be looking crazy square in the face.
Bennett wheeled the bicycle back to the garage, letting Lyle finish out the call in private. He rested the bike frame against a wall, entered the house and headed straight for the kitchen. An energy-draining yawn stopped him in his tracks.
Coffee. He needed coffee. Nectar of the gods. After the long, sleepless night he’d had crunching numbers and trying to make sense of the records from the club, the blacker and stronger the brew, the better.
Pausing as he rounded a corner, he stared at his worn-out reflection in an oversized mirror taking up the entire side of a hallway wall. How could he possib
ly be Lyle Truitt’s son? They looked nothing alike.
Though now almost completely gray, Lyle’s shoulder-length hair had once been blond. Bennett’s short mane was nearly black, like his mother’s. The old man stood under six feet tall with a medium build. Bennett had grown to six four by the time he turned seventeen and had broad shoulders, plus a large stature like his mother’s father. Ice-blue eyes were the only similarity he and his father shared. Well, that and their unusually small ears.
His father was day and Bennett was night in more than just looks. Their personalities, polar opposites in every way, had caused a great deal of friction between them for years. The fact his father asked him to take over the position of Chief Financial Officer for the business still bewildered Bennett. When Lyle had explained he eventually wanted Bennett to assume the role of Chief Executive Officer after he retired, Bennett had actually looked around the room for a hidden camera.
His half-wild, absentee father planned to put him in charge of the family business. Considering Lyle had shown little interest in Bennett from the time his mother had left Austin for New York, the job offer seemed as farfetched as asking Justin Bieber to play for the New York Knicks. Then again, when had his father done anything that really made any sense? Now that Bennett was in, the Truitt Holdings Company would be more profitable and respectable than ever. At last he’d receive the recognition and respect from Lyle that he’d never been given.
“Oh honey, there ain’t a single strand out of place. You’re perfect in every way. You always have been.”
Anne’s voice, soft and sweetly Southern, floated from the dining room. Bennett turned from his reflection and took in the woman who had tolerated his father’s insanity and rough edges for the last twenty-one years. Long blonde-and-silver hair caught up in a messy bun and wearing white linen trousers and a flowing blouse, Anne looked like a fifty-five-year-old angel who had lost her wings. In many ways, she was. Lyle might be an irritant, but his lovely wife had always been a balm.
