by Brenna Zinn
This was the moment, she realized through the haze of romantic delirium clouding her brain. Right now, right here was the John Wayne moment she had fantasized about.
A bold, strong man with amazing good looks had her in his big arms and was kissing her at a time when she least expected it. She’d wished for and envisioned this scene so many times she had choreographed each step as if it were a dance routine. Funny how completely wrong her imaginings turned out to be. She had figured on a cowboy laying her down on a blanket in a field of bluebonnets. Never in her wildest dreams could she have guessed this fantasy would take place in a strip club office with a city slicker from New York. And never could she have imagined just how absolutely sexy and alive she’d feel.
Closing her eyes, she leaned into the kiss, fully enjoying this dream come to life. She drank him in one sweet millisecond after the next while a warm, euphoric sensation, like sitting too long in a hot tub, spread through her core and limbs, making her weak. Her legs trembled to the point she wasn’t sure how long she’d be able to stand on her own. She linked her arms around his shoulders as much for support as for the need to be closer to him.
Complete awareness of his size and strength sank in as he held her captive. She knew she was far from small, but wrapped in his powerful arms, she felt tiny and fragile. He was much bigger than any other man she’d ever been involved with. Tall, brawny and muscular. This man could easily take whatever he wanted from her and there would be no way for her to stop him. Rather than frighten her, the knowledge only excited. She had no doubt of her safety, but the riskiness of the situation, the least of which was getting caught, only turned her on more.
Bennett held her tighter, deepening his kiss. He drew her lower lip between his teeth and nipped the tender flesh. The sensation elicited an exquisite tingling between her legs, followed by softening and wetness. Having a mind of its own, her body had already forecasted the future and begun preparations. If things between them progressed the way she hoped, she would be ready for him. Hot, wet and slick. Based on his height and his massive build, she’d need to be ready. Bennett’s cock could be enormous.
Yes, yes, yes. Please let him be enormous. Enormous is good. Enormous is very good.
He lowered his hand to her ass and squeezed while plunging his tongue into her mouth. The bold move caused her pussy to cream with expectancy. With forceful strokes, the length of his tongue swept across hers and then brushed over her teeth and the roof of her mouth.
How long he continued to drug her with mind-altering kisses, Tatum had no idea and didn’t care. Aside from getting the new job, being enveloped in Bennett’s embrace and kissed to the point she couldn’t see straight was the best thing to happen to her in months. Years.
When he finally broke the kiss, the firm bones and strong muscles she relied on as a dancer had melted to a wobbly pool of mush. As far as lip-locks went, his had all the others eating his sweet dust. Bennett was both gentle yet bold. His mouth had been warm and generous, coaxing and commanding, taking from her what he pleased.
She raised her lips and used what little strength she still had in her arms to pull him back. He resisted.
“The staff will be here any minute,” he said, gazing at her through hooded eyes.
“Staff?” The word barely registered. Only one thing dominated her thoughts—the need to put her body out of its aching misery.
“Yes. They’re coming for the meeting this evening. You’re going to tell them about all your ideas for the club, remember?”
She nodded drowsily. Her mind struggled to draw itself out of the impassioned fever Bennett had induced. Kisses. She craved more kisses. Some stroking would be nice. The couch looked very comfy. A great place to move on to second base. Hell, a great place to hit a home run. She so wanted to hit a home run.
“I think I hear them coming through the front door,” Bennett persisted. “The bartender has a key.”
A meeting?
A key?
Her back stiffened as the thick fog in her head parted and realization dawned.
“I’d like to finish what we’ve started, but now isn’t a good time.” He removed his arms from her waist, then stepped back and straightened his shirt. “You’ve got work to do.”
Heat rose up from her neck and spread across her face. Had Bennett just successfully played her? Were the last few minutes and all his rousing kisses nothing more than a ploy to throw her off her game right before the staff arrived? Or was this a case of extremely bad timing?
As much as she hoped for the latter, she couldn’t be sure.
She took in his relaxed demeanor. Poised, confident and in full control of his faculties, he didn’t appear to be affected by their spontaneous make-out session in the least.
He offered her a smile and winked. “Go knock ’em dead, Tatum. I’ve got your back.”
Did he? Or had he attempted to cripple her before tossing her to the wolves?
Tatum shook her head, clearing her brain of the confusing thoughts. Now wasn’t the time to worry about anything other than getting the club’s employees on board with her plans. She needed to concentrate on being positive, getting the staff excited and involved, and moving forward.
Whatever just happened with Bennett would have to wait. If he was toying with her and attempting to stand in the way of her success, she’d know soon enough. At least she hoped she would. Her limited experience with men and the games they liked to play didn’t exactly give her an edge with Mr. Perfect. The best she could do was not let him know he’d rattled her.
Tatum pulled the ponytail holder from hair and fluffed the long locks with her fingers, then straightened her simple T-shirt and cutoff jeans. She frowned and cast a wary glare at Bennett. She was meeting her new staff looking like someone he had just pulled off the street.
To hell with him and the horribly awkward position he put her in. She might not be as prepared to talk with the staff as she would like to be and she might not appear professionally dressed, but she would go out and nail this meeting. By God, she would.
Failure is not an option.
Chapter Five
He’d been in Texas too long. He’d drunk the crazy water and submitted his application for his nut job membership.
Those were the only explanations for his lecherous actions that made any sense. Had he been in New York around other sane people, the chances of spontaneously acting on inclination fueled by lust would be a big fat zero. He simply wasn’t the type to give in to temptation. Yet when he’d seen Tatum ripping off her shirt and strutting around in a pretty pink bra, all flat stomach and soft curves, he’d come damn close to tossing her over his shoulder and whisking her off to the nearest hotel for some much-needed sexual relief.
As things turned out, he’d lost all attempts at restraint in the manager’s office. He should be furious with himself. He was playing with fire. Unfortunately, deep in his gut he knew if he had a chance to do it all over again, he would.
Bennett pulled his familiar coin from his pocket. He leaned against the bar, mindlessly walking the Susan B. over his fingers again and again while Tatum spoke with the Iron Rods staff. This was an important meeting. He should be paying attention and taking things seriously. But despite an effort to concentrate on the discussion, he couldn’t shake the image of Tatum dancing half naked onstage. His mind replayed every bump and grind of her hips, twist of her shoulders and flex of her toned legs. The desire for the perky but smart-mouthed Texan that had smoldered since their unexpected meeting only days earlier now blazed like an out-of-control wildfire.
Where was the control he’d so carefully honed?
Why did someone so unsuited for him continue to tempt him?
If he didn’t watch himself, the stigma he’d worked hard to escape would reclaim him. His grandfather might be a thousand miles away in New York, but the lessons the manipulative old tyrant had forced on Bennett about class and social distinction would always be with him. As would the memory of bloody noses
and black-and-blue welts he’d received from his boarding school classmates after they had discovered his father stripped for a living. The hallowed halls of the Laughton Academy deserved better than a white trash kid from Texas, and not even his affluent grandfather had been able to remove the stink that had clung to Bennett.
Sidestepping the unwelcome remembrance, Bennett pocketed the coin and focused his gaze on Iron Rods’ imposing bartender, who paced between the bar and a nearby table as if he were a caged black panther. A man of few words, T’s lack of dialogue hadn’t stopped him from communicating exactly what he thought of his new manager. If looks could kill, Tatum would have been torn apart and buried next to Jimmy Hoffa by now.
“In addition to hiring a new cleaning service, some waitstaff and someone to collect money at the front door booth,” Tatum said with a nervous glance at T, “I’d like to bring on another bartender to help with the overflow.”
The giant black man stopped mid-step and whipped his colossal body around. Flames burned hot in his dark eyes. “Like hell you will.”
T’s deep voice boomed through the large room like a cannon shot. Several of the staff who were slumped in their chairs suddenly sat up at attention. Tatum’s face drained of all color and her tall frame went rigid.
Well, this ought to be interesting.
Bennett cocked his head, curious to see how Tatum would handle the powerful bartender. Her college business classes might have taught her the theoretical aspects of managing people, but tackling a real situation involving a pissed employee who ate small cars for dinner wasn’t something anyone could learn from a book.
T shot out a massive arm and pointed to the bar. “This is my bar, you hear me? I don’t give a rat’s ass what you do with the rest of the place or the staff, you keep your hands off my bar. If any changes need to be made, I’ll tell you what they are and what should be done.”
Like spectators taking in a tennis match, the profiles of the open-mouthed employees shifted from right to left as they monitored the ensuing drama. T had just scored a point. The ball was now in Tatum’s court.
“I’m glad to see you’re so interested in what happens at the bar, T. I definitely want you to be a part of the process,” Tatum said after a visible swallow. She spoke slowly, appearing to consider each word before uttering anything aloud. “But I’m responsible for what happens at Iron Rods, including the bar. If y’all want to turn this place around, we have to work together. We’re all a team now. Our goal isn’t just helping Iron Rods limp along a few more years, but to thrive. You do want this club to be successful, don’t you, T?”
Clever girl.
Bennett grinned at her strategy. She put the unofficial leader of the motley crew on the spot with a proposition he had to agree with. Bennett hadn’t expected her quick thinking and ability to turn the situation around to her favor. She seemed to be full of surprises.
T did not look amused.
“What the hell kind of question is that? Of course I want this place to do well,” T fumed. “But I don’t need nobody’s help in deciding what’s best for this bar. Especially from somebody who never worked in a strip club before.”
A few heads in the small gathering bobbed in agreement. The chubby Rodriguez twins, who were in charge of the DJ booth and bouncing at the front door, sat on the edges of their chairs. Alonzo and Miguel gazed up expectantly at Tatum.
“Did Cotton help you decide what’s best for the bar?” Tatum asked the bartender.
“Hell to the no,” T shot back. “Cotton didn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground. That old man barely bothered to show up for work. When he did, he was either drunk or stoned.”
“So you were responsible for how well the bar did then?” she pressed with her sweet Southern accent.
“Damned right I was. I still am.”
Tatum turned to the group. “Then you can tell the rest of the staff how well the bar did this last year.”
T narrowed his eyes and clamped his mouth shut while his broad chest expanded and contracted. His massive hands clenched then flexed several times at his sides but he said nothing. The atmosphere in the room grew heavy and uncomfortable as everyone waited for the big man’s answer.
“Here’s the truth y’all need to hear,” Tatum finally said. “Iron Rods isn’t doing as well as it could. This is not the fault of the bar, the strippers, or any one person or thing. It’s a combination of many things. Things that must be addressed and corrected if this place is going to turn itself around.”
She took several steps into their ranks, then tapped a pink fingernail on one of the tables. “Y’all take a look around. We have an outdated decor, outdated furnishings and outdated means for making a strip club work. It’s time for a change. Actually, a lot of changes. But making those changes will take all of your combined efforts.” Turning to face the bartender, she added, “T, I truly value your thoughts and your input for the bar and who helps staff it, as well as anything else you may want to weigh in on. You have more experience here than any other employee, and you may be the reason Iron Rods has stayed afloat as long as it has. Can we count on you to work with us and get this place back on its feet?”
The staff turned their attention to the bartender whose stony face and shiny bald head looked as though it had been carved from ebony. He took a moment to look directly at each person attending the meeting.
Raising his chin, T nodded. “This place ain’t going down on my watch. I’m in, as long as I have a say in what’s done with the bar and who gets hired to help me.”
Tatum’s entire body relaxed and she let out a breath. “You have my word on it.”
“What about us?” Zeeda Wilson asked. The seventy-something black woman with silver hair lifted her considerable girth from her chair. Her dark-purple dress, a throwback from the sixties, could have been the fur-lined cape of an African queen for the tall and proud way she stood. Hard to believe she worked for tips in the women’s restroom, providing customers hand towels, hairspray and perfume.
Zeeda placed a balled hand on her wide hip, her head held high. “If you going to make changes to the ladies’ room, then I have a few suggestions of my own to add. Like getting me a better chair than the ol’ stool I sit on now. By the end of the night my back’s so sore, I can’t hardly even stand straight.”
Elmer Templeton raised a shaking hand. The old man’s skin, pale and paper thin, looked almost transparent, even from where Bennett stood.
“I need new brooms and cleanin’ supplies,” the lanky senior citizen said in a thin voice. “Can’t get a place clean with dirty old mops.”
Elmer lowered his hand, but apparently thought better of it. Within seconds, he’d shot it back up again.
“And I need some GD help,” he added, avoiding the use of the Lord’s name in vain. “Cotton promised me years ago he’d hire a helper for me. This place is too big for one man to clean on his own.”
“Um-hum,” Zeeda agreed. “I’ve seen dirt floors cleaner than this one.” The big woman sat back down and patted Elmer’s knee. “No offense, you understand. You done yo’ best with what you had.” Before the janitor had a chance to respond, Zeeda removed her hand and pointed a finger at Tatum. “Cotton promised a whole lotta things he never delivered on. Including a regular salary for me. I live on a fixed income. I can’t afford to work for tips no more. Not if I plan on eatin’ or puttin’ gas in my car.”
Miguel Rodriguez jumped up, his eyes bright with excitement. He raced on chubby legs to the stage, made an abrupt about face, and extended his clasped hands, which he’d manipulated to look like a pistol.
“I need a gun,” he said.
“No!” the entire staff shouted back.
The heavyset bouncer frowned and dropped his hands. “Ah, come on guys. I’m working security. I need a gun.”
“Like you need a hole in yo head,” Zeeda said. “Only women come to this place. Ain’t like you need to wear a bulletproof vest and carry a club to keep them in line.”
>
“Well I might. There’s some rough characters living on this side of town,” Miguel said in an exaggerated Mexican accent.
“We live on this side of town,” Alonzo, Miguel’s brother, shot back and rolled his eyes.
“That’s right. And we’re pretty badass.” Miguel angled his round face up to the ceiling and stroked at a nonexistent beard on his double chins. “Machismo even. Have I mentioned that we’re babe magnets? Women like tough guys like us.”
“Tough or tubby?” Zeeda let out a hoot and was joined by the rest of the staff.
“All right everyone.” Tatum raised her voice and waved her arms in the air, bringing the conversation under control. “I get the picture. As soon as we have a contractor hired, I’ll get with y’all and we’ll discuss the plans. In the meantime, start looking for potential dancers to audition. Anyone who refers someone who is hired will get a finder’s fee.” She nodded to the four strippers sitting in a small group near the bar. “Guys, that includes you too. If you’re rehired, you’ll get the finder’s fee. Keep in mind, I’m more than happy to help you choreograph and practice for your audition piece if you want. Just let me know.”
Bennett regarded the dancers. He could only imagine the thoughts that must be crossing their minds.
Only six of the ten regular strippers had bothered to come to the meeting. None of them appeared much happier than T. When Tatum had dropped the bomb they would have to audition for spots when the club reopened, as well as learn new dance routines and get new costumes, a mutiny had almost erupted. Two of the dancers, a hefty redheaded guy who went by the name Mad Dog and another called Cowboy Willie, had offered their new boss a one-finger salute and stormed out of the building.
