Deception (Southern Comfort) (2 page)

He was just about to move past the interesting choice of party favors when he spotted Rogan Murphy.  Shoulder-length brown hair caught back in a low pony-tail, a huge grin on his beard-shadowed face, he hobbled toward Josh on his cane.  Three months ago he’d been injured – drugged and pushed down a flight of stairs to facilitate the abduction of Rogan’s young cousin – by the same man who’d shot Josh.  Murphy had endured a couple of setbacks with the shattered ankle he’d sustained in the fall, and the cane was a vivid reminder of what they’d all been through.

Josh tried not to grow angry all over again as he watched him make his way over.

“Harding.”  Josh found his hand filled with a bottle of Killian’s.  “Glad you could finally make it.”

Josh accepted the bottle with a smile and a nod, taking a long pull as he surveyed the crowd.  “Got caught up at work.” Josh had to virtually yell to be heard as the room erupted in applause for Clay’s drinking prowess.  The future groom was pretty much wet from his blond head to his boot-covered toes, having spilled almost as much alcohol as he’d drunk.  “I’m trying to put in some extra time and make nice with the superiors, since I had to spend my first few weeks on the job on medical leave.”  When he’d been shot, he’d still been a sheriff’s deputy in the small town of Bentonville, and his convalescence had carried over into the start of his new position. 

Rogan nodded, opened a bottle of brew for himself.  “Kathleen said you’re settling in okay.  Deflected a few verbal blows about your ability to handle yourself.”

Kathleen Murphy was Rogan’s older sister, and a detective with Charleston PD.  “You know how it is,” Josh demurred, taking another pull on his beer.  “A couple of assholes who don’t cotton well to a small town cop – particularly one with a degree in art – joining their illustrious ranks.  They seemed to think that my being shot was directly related to the fact that I can do more with a pencil than write out tickets.  Just your basic Neanderthal bullshit.  They get confused by what they don’t understand.”

Laughing, Rogan started to reply but then sent his hand into his pocket and felt around.  “Well hell, it’s about damn time.” He pulled his vibrating phone from his pants and checked the text message.  “The stripper’s half an hour late and I was afraid Clay’d be out cold by the time she decided to show up.”  He glanced over toward where his future cousin was sprawled in a chair, looking a little green around the gills.  “Which, by my estimation, is one of the next scheduled events in his immediate future.  I love the guy like a brother, but he sure as hell can’t hold his alcohol.”  His wicked grin was a slash of white amidst the chestnut stubble, giving credence to Josh’s guess that Clay had already held a good bit more than his fair share of alcohol tonight. 

Rogan’s smile widened as he texted something back.  “Looks like you got here just in time, Harding.  The main attraction has just shown up and is ready to perform.”

“So your girlfriend was just a warm-up?” Josh inclined his head toward the doll.

Rogan laughed, tapping the inflatable woman with his cane.  “Can’t you read, Harding?  That’s my wife.”

“Hmm.  Congratulations.  I had no idea you’d taken the plunge.  But I guess if you’re going to do so, there’s some practicality in taking a wife who can float.”

Rogan barked out another short burst of amused air and then started toward the stairs.  “Why don’t you grab a good seat?  I’m going down to let our girl in.”  He picked up his cane and limped off with a slight grimace, prompting Josh to ask if Rogan would rather he do it. 

“Nah.  I’m good,” Rogan assured him with a backward glance, but Josh saw the shadow flit quickly behind his eyes.  “Why don’t you go greet Clay while he still might stand a chance of recognizing you?  I’ll be back in just a few minutes.”  

Josh nodded, knowing he’d cast plenty of his own shadows lately, and then turned around to check out the noisy crowd.  He spotted a man near the now pasty-looking bachelor who he felt reasonably sure was Clay’s best man, based on Clay’s descriptions. Josh had never had the opportunity to meet him, alt
hough he was acquainted with the man’s younger brother, Justin, who was a surgeon at MUSC Hospital.  Figuring now was as good a time as any for a meet-and-greet, he snagged another bottle of beer out of an open cooler and made his way across the room.

ROGAN
Murphy swallowed a string of virulent curses as he hobbled toward the service entrance off the darkened kitchen.  His damned, piece of shit ankle felt like someone had been after it with a hammer.  He hadn’t taken any pain meds today as he’d known he’d be drinking, but he was paying a hell of a price.  He’d sort of hoped the alcohol would numb his senses, but ironically he felt sharper than he had in months.

He was scheduled to undergo another surgery in a couple of weeks, but until then he was forced to live with the ever-present pain which followed him around like a damn shadow, sometimes faint and hazy, sometimes so solid it was like it was a living thing, as well as having to rely on the stupid cane.  He felt li
ke someone’s geriatric uncle.  Josh had meant well with the offer of help, but he was sick and tired of the disability, of being treated like he was something less than a full man.  It was an overreaction, he knew, when so many other people dealt with disfigurements and impairments that were so much worse and way more permanent, but tell that to his fine Irish temper.  Or maybe it was his ego.  Either way, the whole gimp routine was getting old.

Flipping on the overhead light in the food prep area, Rogan unlatched the back door.  Standing on the concrete stoop, looking both exotic and uneasy in the security lamp’s bluish light, was the stripper from the company he’d contacted last week.  Even if the heavy make-up, outrageous wig and black boots hadn’t given her away, the knee-length trench coat on this mild October evening would have offered a hint as to her line of work.

“Hi,” he offered his hand as he ushered her in the door.  “I’m Rogan.  Glad you finally made it.”

Wide greenish eyes – wary beneath the troweled-on eye gunk – skittered briefly away before returning to meet his head on.  “Sorry about that,” she offered, shifting her weight from foot to foot.  “I, uh… had some difficulty getting here.”

Rogan’s brows drew together slightly as he considered the woman in front of him.  “I hope the directions were okay.”  Of course, unless she lived in a bubble or was new to the area, Murphy’s was a pretty big blip on the local radar.

“Oh, not that sort of trouble.  It was…” Again with the skittering eyes.  “Car related.”

Uh-huh.  The girl was a really miserable liar.  And unless Rogan missed his guess – something he didn’t do often – she was nervous as hell about what she was here to do.  Super.  Leave it to the kind of luck he was experiencing as of late to have hired a virgin stripper.  Stifling a sigh, he motioned with his head for her to follow, and limped toward the downstairs bathrooms.  “I wasn’t sure if you needed to change or… whatever,” he admitted, waving his hand toward the door marked lasses.  “But whenever you’re ready, our bachelor is on the verge of passing out upstairs.  You made it in the nick of time.”

“I’m… sorry,” she said again, looking both sheepish and a little defensive.  Her nerves were evident in the way she couldn’t manage to stand still, but then after a deep indrawn breath she seemed to make an effort to pull it together.  Glancing at the bathroom door, she brought her hands to the belt on the trench coat.  “I’m already dressed,” she allowed, and as the edges of the coat fell away Rogan did his level best not to gawk like a school boy.  Holy cripes, the woman was built like a brick –

“But if it’s all the same to you,” she interrupted his lascivious observation, “I wouldn’t mind a moment to just… get myself together.”

Blinking, Rogan tried to find his tongue.  The combination of the policewoman’s uniform, black go-go boots and red wig really should have been a turn-off.  After all, his sister was a red-headed cop, which made the whole thing a little bit… well, nasty. 

But there was another redhead.  Another cop.  Another woman with an incredible body.  And despite the fact that he’d been an asshole lately where she was concerned – hiding out like the pathetic cripple he was, dodging her calls, making himself generally unavailable – he had absolutely no trouble imagining her taking off her clothes. 

In fact, it was one of his favorite pastimes.

Realizing that his little head trip made it look like he was leering at the stripper’s chest, which… well, he guessed that was kind of to be expected, wasn’t it?  But still, it made him feel like some back alley pervert considering it was just the two of them alone in the corridor, so he cleared his throat and made it a point to look her in the eye.  “I’ll be heading back upstairs now, so when you’re ready, just come on up to the second floor.”  He pointed to the stairs which were just visible off to the left.  “And thanks… um, you never did tell me your name.”

He wondered if she’d give him some stage handle, like Honey or Cherry or what was that one Bond girl?... Pussy Galore.

“It’s Samantha,” she told him, chin jutting up just a little. 

But underneath the tough bravado she’d worked up in the past few minutes, Rogan could see that the woman was wary.  Hell, a lone woman, built like she was, wearing nothing but some uncomfortable footwear in a room full of drunken men?  He’d be wary, too. 

“Look, Samantha,” his voice came out low, a lot softer than his usual gravel.   “I just want you to know that this is a pretty good group of guys.  But even good guys can turn into assholes when they’re faced and in a pack.  So if anyone gives you any trouble or makes you uncomfortable in a way you think you can’t handle, you just give me a shout.”  He smiled, throwing off just enough charm to make her feel at ease.  “I’ll hit ‘em with my cane.”  He waved said object in the air, and was rewarded with a small laugh.

“Thanks,” she replied drolly.  “That makes me feel a whole lot better.”

“Thought it might.  Anyway, I’ll see you upstairs.”  With that, Rogan left the stripper – Samantha – to battle her personal demons, and swallowed more curses as he dragged himself and his gimpy leg back to the party.

AND
wasn’t he a charmer.  Sam watched Rogan Murphy limp off.  He looked like he’d just fallen off one of Blackbeard’s ships and wandered through a time warp.  Even the bum leg added to the effect, bringing to mind visions of peg-legs and the walking of planks.  There was something… untamed about him that must draw women to him in droves.  If he ever got tired of the food and beverage industry, she was pretty sure he could have a career modeling for the covers of those historical romances that littered the check-out lanes of most grocery stores. 

Though his words of comfort had made her feel better, the fact of the matter was that she was disgusted with herself.  Presentation, how she let herself appear to others, was something she knew how to carry off quite well.  She’d learned, through years and years of practice, to never let anyone – any man, especially – see her fear.  Not all men were animals, but there were plenty of predators out there, and if you let them scent your vulnerability you might as well paint a big, round target on the middle of your back.  Or your breasts, more precisely.

Steeling herself against what she was about to do, she planted herself in front of the mirror over the bathroom sink. Going up there looking like the proverbial doe in the headlights was not an acceptable option, so she practiced a big come-up-and-see-me-sometime smile, rolling her eyes when her attempts looked like something you’d expect to see on a laxative commercial as opposed to a centerfold spread.  If she blew this, she’d never get any more bookings, and then she’d have to find another source of quick cash that wouldn’t land her in jail. 

“Relax,” she scolded herself.  It wasn’t like she hadn’t been naked in front of people ever before.

But this was different.  The crowd upstairs wasn’t a group of avant-garde art students looking upon her body as simply a lush example of the female form, sketching her in quiet contemplation.  No, these guys were a bunch of over-sexed, under-couth, liquored-up rowdies.  She could hear them hooting and hollering even through the closed door.  Murphy’s assurances aside, the situation made her feel nauseous, and she shot a desperate glance toward the porcelain god in the closest stall, praying that it wouldn’t require her to once again bow down and worship.  There wasn’t anything left in her stomach to present as an offering anyway.

“Suck it up, Martin.”  She would have splashed some cold water on her cheeks, except she feared she’d create a make-up landslide, so she settled for drawing a couple of deep breaths.  She needed the money, and as awful as this was, this was just about the quickest, easiest way to earn a buck.

Legally, anyway. 

Shuddering, pushing aside the growing worries that had festered in the corners of her mind since her
older brother’s accident, Sam thought of all the times Donnie had sacrificed in order to take care of her.   Donnie, her beloved brother, the savior of her childhood. Who currently lay comatose in the hospital, with no one to assume responsibility except for her.  Overcoming a little trepidation, a little misplaced modesty, was small potatoes in the grand scheme of things.  And the company she was working for had an excellent reputation. They screened their clients and made sure they were sending their employees to somewhat reputable locations under very clear circumstances.  This was not an escort service, or any other form of expected or implied prostitution.  She was here to take off her clothes, give the groom-to-be and his cohorts a good show and a few fond memories, and anything beyond that was strictly Not Gonna Happen. The girl who’d turned her onto this line of work had informed her that one of her friends had gotten the boot for having sex with the prospective groom at one of these things, which relieved Sam to no end.