Bare Knuckle: Vegas Top Guns, Book 5 (27 page)

After climbing on the bus and flashing her monthly pass card, bound for the Paris, her phone trilled with an incoming text. From Eric. Only one word, of course.

Absolutely.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Eric had attended a couple shows when he’d first arrived in Vegas, as part of the whole Sin City ritual. He hadn’t really cared one way or the other, but it seemed a rite of passage among the Aggressors. Hit the Strip, get smashed, gamble half a month’s pay.

He’d held firm on gambling. The rest had been great. In fact, the shows had seemed like a waste of time. He’d wanted to head back to the strip clubs instead.

Watching Trish strut her stuff across the giant stage was altogether different.

The women were dressed in matching costumes. Iridescent headdresses caught the light, as did more sequins than Eric would’ve thought possible to sew on a few square inches of fabric. Red bikini tops. Crimson smiles. And tiny twists of white linen over sparkling thongs, perhaps to evoke Egyptian togas. Or whatever they’d worn.

Despite the Barbie-doll sameness, Eric spotted Trish. Easily. He knew her hips, knew her ass. Knew those legs as she kicked above her ears. She had the largest headdress too, which trailed feathers down to her hips. Spaghetti straps accentuated the long, lean muscles of her outstretched arms as she sang.

He barely remembered to look at a few of the brunettes. Which was Mallory?

Inexorably, he returned his attention to Trish. How beautiful and stately she was wasn’t any surprise. He’d known she could move, that her elegance would make the stage come alive. He’d also known that she’d light up—ten times the magnitude of the sun. Fearless and bold.

He hadn’t known exactly how
talented
she was. She made the heels and the outfit and the overly dramatic poses work, elevating crass to art. She made each step count. Her voice filled him with melancholy or joy depending on every minute inflection.

In truth, he’d been doing her an injustice this whole time. That she was taking a course on finance, that her designs could wow trained professionals…that she wasn’t just a pretty face. She wasn’t a showgirl because of looks alone. Trish Monroe was a treasure.

He had no fucking clue why he should’ve been surprised. He was, and he was uncomfortably ashamed of that surprise.

As soon as the show finished and the last of the applause faded, he made his way backstage. The pass she’d left for him at Will Call got him past bouncers obviously meant to protect the women.

And women there were, by the truckload.

They dashed around, some of them topless, swarming toward the dressing rooms, digging items out of bags or greeting visitors. Trish had convinced another ring girl to switch nights, with the final show cast party as her backup entertainment for the night should arrangements with Mallory fall through. Otherwise she would’ve been one of the frantic women trying to change and hurry off to the boxing arena. Hell, she
had
been one of those women ever since they’d met.

How was she not exhausted twenty-four seven?

She stood in the entryway of a single dressing room, blocking the entrance with her narrow shoulders and one hand propped on the opposite doorjamb. The headdress was gone. She’d donned a short white robe that she held closed with one hand.

She didn’t like the guy she was talking to. Eric knew it instinctually, which made her smile baffling.

Eric pulled his hands out of the pockets of his slacks. He considered it a win that he didn’t ball them into fists as he joined the pair. Trish might like his bruiser side, but that was only in the ring—or when it meant giving her a mean fuck and a hard orgasm. Punching out random men in her professional realm wouldn’t earn him praise.

She lit up when she saw him. “Eric.”

She quickly knotted the tie of the robe and held out a hand. He took her cold, unsteady fingers and wrapped them in his. The angle of her body was intimate and seemingly in need of shelter. He wasn’t used to feeling as if she truly needed his protection. She was vulnerable, but she was a woman who could hold her own in any situation.

So what situation had he wandered into?

Later. First he needed to say what he’d wanted to say since the first song and dance number. “You were amazing,” he whispered privately.

The ultra-lush lashes of the showgirl makeup fluttered. “Hush, you.”

“You love it.”

She smiled softly. Her real emotions were revealed by the sheen that welled in her pale eyes.

The bland man coughed. He wore a poorly fitting tan suit over an average middle-age build. At least he was lucky enough to have a full head of hair.

Trish stiffened beneath Eric’s fingertips. “This is Hank Yardley. He was just leaving.”

Eric refrained from punching the man, sure, but he couldn’t keep from tightening his free hand until his knuckles cracked. “Is there a problem here?”

Though her pulse fluttered wildly at the base of her throat, Trish shook her head. “He’s leaving, like I said.”

Hank’s mouth twisted, but he didn’t argue. He held a card out. Trish hesitated before taking it. She didn’t meet the man’s eyes when he said, “If you change your mind, call me. Listen to your mom. She knows what’s best for you.”

He disappeared into the throngs of women and their admirers, leaving Eric alone with Trish. Finally.

When he kissed her, he poured in every hot, sex-drenched thought he’d had while watching her hips sway. Then he gave her the emotion she’d affected him with during song after song.

Her fingers gripped the placket of his button-down shirt. She pushed just beneath the buttons to stroke his skin. “Now that’s the kind of greeting a girl likes.”

“But that guy… Who was he?”

Her nose wrinkled with distaste. “An agent. And a…well, a photographer. Or he thinks he is. I can do better than that on both counts,” she added with a sweetly coy smile—a smile that said she was playing him and they both knew it.

“Your mom?”

Her gaze dashed to the side. Framing her face in his hands was easy and natural, especially when she seemed to be fraying at the edges.

“Yes,” she said, lifting her eyes. “She likes Hank.”

“You don’t.”

“No one does,” chimed in a new voice. “No one with sense, at least, and Trish’s got gobs of sense.”

As soon as he turned, Eric knew without asking.

Mallory.

She was quite the looker. Long brown hair was braided back from her face. Although she’d cleaned off her stage makeup, she wore lip gloss that made a man think of blowjobs. But Trish had said Mallory was a lesbian. The way she stared at Trish backed that up, like she’d eat the girl in two big bites given the least invitation.

Fucking hell was that hot. The images Trish had planted in his head burned like supernovas. The idea was more fire than he knew what to do with.

“And here’s an introduction I’ll actually enjoy making.” Trish nestled close to his side. Her lean curves were warm and vital, devoid of the stiffness she hadn’t been able to hide when fending off that guy Hank. “Mallory, this is Eric. Eric, this is Mallory.”

Mallory grinned as she stuck her hand out. “Nice to meet the man who’s put color in my girl’s cheeks.”

He couldn’t hold back a chuckle. “Your girl?”

“I’m fond of her. Kinda took her under my wing.”

Trish rolled her eyes. “You two are going to make me feel like some lost innocent. I’m right here, you know.”

“You sure are.” Bright mischief sparked in Mallory’s dark eyes. “In that case, why don’t you tell us something. Who eats pussy better, a guy or a chick?”

“Oh my God, no. I am not answering that.” A grin looked ready to split Trish’s face.

“On the grounds that you might incriminate yourself or someone else?” Apparently Mallory was chatty too. Eric didn’t mind. Their teasing chatter gave him the chance to watch them together.

What an image. Dark and light. They’d be beautiful when intertwined.

Trish gestured to her hips before ducking into the dressing room. “I have simply
got
to get cleaned up. If I keep this thing on any longer, I’ll chafe.”

The room was tiny. One chair sat in front of a mirror. The fancy feathers she’d worn throughout the show draped over a stand in the corner—he realized, a little sadly, for what would be the last time. This was part of her life at an end.

He leaned against the far wall.

After Mallory closed the door behind her, Trish dropped the white robe with no fanfare. Eric could almost believe she’d done it as a matter of course, no big deal. Except he caught her eye in the mirror—the way she watched his reaction, then looked at Mallory. Trish’s pink nipples tightened. She’d just performed for ninety minutes with hundreds of people watching her. Now she stood in the small room in a red-and-silver thong as an erotic queen for only two people.

Mallory licked her bottom lip and managed to pull her gaze up to Trish’s face, then over to Eric. “She’s got a body to die for, doesn’t she?”

She was testing him and Mallory both. They all were testing each other, like some warped game of chess. Which turn would the night take?

If the stars worked and the constellations aligned, would he actually be able to watch his blonde, gorgeous girl with another woman? The answer was hell yeah. His body was in agreement, and his mind arrowed toward the prize. Both prizes. His blood charged. He wasn’t hard, but that was a matter of self-control and not wanting to embarrass himself.

The issue now was Mallory. Eric had purposefully kept from catching sight of himself in the mirror. He was made of bruises on top of bumps on top of scars, like a car-crash victim who’d promptly been mauled by zombies. If Mallory didn’t want to be anywhere near him, Eric wouldn’t hold it against her.

He pushed away from the wall, getting close enough to touch…but he kept his hands to himself. “She’s the whole package.”

“I miss her.” Mallory swept her hands down the curve of Trish’s waist, facing her. A kiss of sun had tanned Mal’s skin, darker in comparison to Trish’s paleness.

Trish giggled airily. She held Mallory’s waist, the women as mirror images. “But you’ve seen me practically every night.”

“Not the same.” She rested her chin on Trish’s shoulder, looking past her to scrutinize Eric. “Not the same as tasting you every day. Tell me, baby doll. You miss having my face between your legs?”

A hard jolt—right through Eric’s torso. He woke up, all of him
aware
. He feathered his fingers through the short hair at the top of Trish’s neck. He needed to touch, and that was the safest place. “Are we doing this?”

She reached back to grip his thighs. Her tight ass pressed against his stiffening cock. “You tell me,” she breathed. “Eric?”

He kissed behind Trish’s ear, where her pulse throbbed. “Yes.”

“And you, Mal?”

Mallory was watching him like a judge preparing to pass sentence. Heat lived in her dark gaze, but so did possessiveness and a hint of suspicion. “Can you promise this’ll be worth my time?”

Trish smiled on a long sigh. Her body lost the last of its tension. “No, but we’ll both try.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Trish knew his loft. Knew how it smelled. Knew the temperature of the air. But she and Mal looped their arms and huddled near, as if she’d never ventured inside. That night, everything felt new.

“Wow,” the other woman said. “Nice place.”

“Thanks.” Eric tossed their bags into the corner by the front door. Such a loud, heavy thunk.

Amazing how much crap she needed to get through a performance. Trish could probably get away with carrying half of it, if not for living out of her cruddy hotel room. That she could think at all was unbelievable considering the circumstances. Although they were all stone-cold sober, she felt as if she’d downed an entire bottle of bubbly.

Mal leaned in and whispered, “Been a while.”

A shiver of anticipation worked up to Trish’s lips. She kissed Mal on the cheek, then nuzzled there. “It has. One-time shot though, okay?”

“Oh, I know. You got it bad, baby.” She glanced toward where Eric doggedly filled a couple glasses with water from a filter pitcher. “He’s pretty rough, and obviously a dude, but you finally found a good one.”

“Hush, you. C’mon. I’ll show you the bedroom.”

Their high heels clicked in tandem across the hardwood floor. Such a different prospect, being with a woman after so long. And knowing Eric would watch gave it an altered flavor. The fizz of want and the heavy beat of lust in her belly was nearly too much to acknowledge, like staring dead on at a floodlight.

“Oh, those are gorgeous,” Mal said, her voice hushed. Wide, dark eyes flicked over the collection Eric had assembled on his wall. “Who’s the photographer?”

Trish waved toward where Eric’s array of equipment sat in the bedroom’s dark corner. The setup waited for them like a curtain ready to lift for a once-in-a-lifetime performance. “Him.”

“Wow.
Definitely
a good one. He really sees things, doesn’t he?”

“That’s the scary part.”

Mal cupped Trish’s face in her smooth hands. She leaned in and kissed, so softly, with her lips brushing against the gloss Trish had applied in the car.