Four Seconds to Lose (16 page)

I take a deep breath and roll my hips with the slow guitar twang of Head of the Herd’s “By This Time Tomorrow”
as I reach up to loop my finger through the tie of my bikini top. Baring my breasts like this still feels like a punch to my stomach. The only thing that makes it easier is ensuring that I’m facing Cain when I feel the cool air hit my skin and I toss the small scrap of sequinned material down. I don’t mind Cain looking at me like that, and it helps block out the random catcalls and hoots of appreciation from the
real
customers.

I do that again now, as I have every night since my second show, slowing my hips and locking eyes with his as I toss my top in his direction. Normally I’ll catch his eyes drop to my body for a second before lifting to my face again.

Tonight, though . . . Cain’s hand slides off the railing to reach down and adjust himself. I’m not sure if he meant for me to see it. It would be the first time he’s done something so visibly sexual. I can’t help my jaw from dropping for a split second. When my eyes snap back up to his face, I see his usual indecipherable mask and I assume he doesn’t realize that he did it.

Until he winks.

The simple act sends a jolt through my body, right down to my thighs. Taking a deep breath, I’m unable to suppress my smile as I dive into an invert.

It appears that I’m not the only player in this little game anymore.

■ ■ ■

“Oh, come on. Like you weren’t
trying
to make those drinks unpalatable,” Ginger mutters, pouring a round of Guinness as her hips bop to the music. Ginger doesn’t stand still. Ever. “Who doesn’t know how to mix a Harvey Wallbanger?”

My third night here, Ginger decided it would be a good idea to move me on from pouring straight shots and pints of beer to mixing cocktails. Without instruction. The customers didn’t seem to mind, especially when she announced my “de-virgining” was on her.

After my first creation twisted a customer’s face so sickly that DeeDee ran for a bucket, it quickly became a game. Ginger makes me do at least one foreign-to-me drink per night, awarding my concoction with a new name based on her mood and what that brave customer’s face looks like the instant his taste buds get assaulted.

The names usually make my jaw drop.

Ginger has a surprisingly foul imagination.

I raise one hand to cheek level. “Clearly, me.”

“Oh, still so much to learn,” she murmurs, winking at me as she slides the drinks over the counter. “I swear I’d think you never partied a day in your life before Penny’s.”

Do high school house parties with cases of beer and Smirnoff coolers count?
Sam was strict about only a few things, and drinking was one of them. He said it was dangerous, that you end up saying things you shouldn’t say and getting yourself into a lot of trouble. Well, I sure didn’t want to slip about anything I was doing, so I avoided alcohol for the most part, nursing a drink all night just so I wouldn’t be empty-handed. So I’d fit in.

I’ve been working at Penny’s for over a week and, as shocking as it is to admit, I don’t know that I’ve ever had more fun in my life. Hanging out with Ginger and DeeDee on the bar all night is entertaining, the nights go by quickly, and I’m making good money. Not as good as what I’d be making in the V.I.P. rooms, but Cain hasn’t allowed it yet. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t relieved about that. And dreading the day he gives his okay.

Because then I’ll have no valid excuse.

Stripping onstage is still a horrendous, nerve-wracking four minutes, at best, but my mind no longer has to wander off to the mountains and the beach and all those other places I imagine myself going when I’m finished being Charlie Rourke. It keeps getting stuck in a dimly lit room, alone with Cain.

In his office.

In a V.I.P. room.

In the walk-in beer cooler.

Really . . . anywhere.

Ginger has created a monster.

And what feeds these illicit thoughts is the fact that Cain keeps coming out to watch. There haven’t been any more cock-adjusting, winking moments. He’s made no effort to speak to me since hiring me. The few times I’ve crossed paths with him in the back hallways, I’ve gotten nothing more than a nod.

But while I’m on that stage, I feel those dark eyes on me, like those of a predator stalking his prey, while the music vibrates through my body, and my limbs coil around the cool brass, and my hips swirl and curl and dip and bend.

I really am a fantastic actress.

And Cain is an even more fantastic distraction.

■ ■ ■

Show Number Thirteen

I’ve become bold. I’ve switched up my short shorts because, despite what he said, I don’t want Cain getting bored. So I’ve adopted this little short-skirt–bikini-bottom combo that is more revealing but not completely. Like a skimpy bathing suit, I tell myself.

And I don’t bother to hide what I’m doing anymore. I face him head-on as my fingers curl around the fabric of my top and peel it off. As I offer him a wink. I see his lips part slightly and his ghost of a smile as his eyes rake over my body, shamelessly. Even from here, I see the fire in them.

I love the feel of his eyes on me.

Although the possibility of him being my pimp has faded, I still don’t know what the hell to think about Cain. At night, when I’m lying in bed, relieving myself of this pent-up frustration so I can actually fall asleep, I’m still picturing him as an unemotional, demanding man.

Only now, it’s in a very appealing way.

I’m not sure how accurate Ginger was when she called him “safe.”

This is my boss.

But, while I silently wait to escape my life, this is also one hell of an intoxicating game.

chapter fifteen

■ ■ ■

CAIN

“Cain!”

“Two and a half weeks for a simple background check! What the fuck am I paying you for, John?” I’m glad I had the good sense to install a sound barrier in the walls of my office. It doesn’t completely drown out the throbbing music in the club, but I can at least have a phone conversation without shouting.

A horn blasts in the background and I picture my P.I.’s round belly pressed up against the steering wheel of his nondescript black sedan, tailing someone’s cheating spouse or a fraudulent insurance claim through the streets of L.A. He spends most of his days doing just that. And they’re long-ass days from what he tells me. John works more than I do. After his third wife left him, he figured out that marriage and his career don’t mix.

I met John ten years ago, when he was still a cop. He’s well connected, fast, trustworthy, and—most important—he’s as discreet as they come. He’s also expensive, but it’s worth it. I use him for all of my employee history checks. He finds things that no typical background check would ever uncover, and I can usually get answers from him within a few days.

“Yeah, well, this isn’t Backgrounds R Us,” he grumbles wryly—the usual dig at the kinds of places normal employers use. “This one took a little bit more work . . .”

My stomach tightens as I silently await his verdict, wondering what he uncovered. I’ve been dreading this moment.

“You’ve got yourself a runaway there, Cain. Charlie Rourke was last seen four years ago in Indianapolis. She took off on her eighteenth birthday and no one’s seen her since. No police record to speak of. She’s been a ghost until she opened a bank account and booked a flight from New York to Miami in May.”

“Huh.” I shouldn’t be surprised, and yet I am. I’ve had other runaways here before. Kacey, an exceptionally bright redheaded bartender and Storm’s best friend, was one. It hadn’t taken John long to gather the basics that explained the unapproachable fiery-haired woman—the accident that killed her parents, her serious injuries, the long physical recovery, the nonexistent mental recovery.

The self-destructive aftereffects.

But it wasn’t hard to figure out what Kacey was trying to escape. “What’s Charlie running from?”

“My guess is her drunk, abusive father. Beat the shit out of her mother, who finally bit the bullet three years ago. Daddy-O’s in Pendleton for life for that one.”

“Shit . . .” I run a hand back through my hair. If she’s been on the run for four years, I wonder if she even knows that her mother is dead. “Any other family?”

“Useless uncle. Father’s brother. Otherwise, no one.”

“So she’s legit. I mean, her age, everything else checks out?” I hold my breath. There’s nothing about the woman teasing me on that stage that says “child.”

“Yeah, looks like it.”

I sink back into my chair, weeks of tension pouring out of me.

“Driver’s license that came up is the same as the one you sent me. No previous one on file. I also found an older picture of her. They look like the same girl. Hard to tell with those, though, especially when your girl’s all done up like she is.”

That doesn’t surprise me. I’ve seen Charlie under all that makeup. She looks like a completely different person. “Her eye color?”

“Blue, I think. Wait . . .” There’s a rustling sound. “Yup . . . blue.”

Violet could be mistaken for blue. Unless the photo is a good-quality close-up, no one would be able to tell. “And I wasn’t able to confirm her working at that club in Vegas, but my sources tell me the owner’s been known to do under-the-table hires, so it’s quite possible she’s telling the truth.”

“Huh.” I don’t doubt that she worked there. The way she dances, she knows what she’s doing. “Okay, good.”

“Why . . . you tapping that?”

“John . . .”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ve heard it all before.” His disbelief annoys me. “I’m gonna be in Miami in a few months, I think. I’ll swing by. Enjoy a show or two.”

“You do that. Ask for Mercy. Your fat, old ass will have a heart attack.”

The responding roar of laughter makes me shake my head and smile. John is in his early fifties and, if he’s as I remember him, he’s still living off black coffee and greasy burgers. “It’d be good to see you again, my friend.”

Hanging up the phone, I flip through the stack of papers with Charlie’s scrawled handwriting. So, she’s been off the grid for four years. She would have been crashing at friends’ places. Guys’ places. Taking jobs under the table to make ends meet. I guess that’s why there’s no record of her. No gas bills, no credit cards. Nothing.

Maybe she was afraid of being found and that’s why she laid low. Or maybe she found out that her dad is in jail for life and figures she’s safe, so she’s come out of hiding.

Speculation. That’s all I’ve got.

That she refused Rick Cassidy’s demands tells me she probably wasn’t making ends meet in alleyways. I find myself breathing easier over that knowledge. But she’s got the designer shoes and clothes. And the brand-new car that she got from a supposed inheritance. I find that detail hard to believe, especially now.

I rub my chin slowly as I ponder this riddle. There’s an excellent possibility that Charlie was getting paid for sex, but if so, with a very wealthy clientele. A sugar daddy, even. But then, where’s all the money? Where did it go? Why no bank account until a few months ago?

It doesn’t matter, I decide, with steely resolve. If she’s here, she must be trying to start over. And it’s time that I stop avoiding her because, just maybe, I can help.

If she’ll trust me.

And if I can control myself around her.

■ ■ ■

Blasts of music hit me as I stroll out to the floor. Ben’s face splits into a wide smile when he sees me, and his mouth starts moving as he says something into his earpiece to all the bouncers. I have a good idea what it is, because Nate filled me in on the rising chatter. I just shoot him a severe look and keep walking. For years, I made a few laps around the club each night. But the customers started getting on my nerves, and watching my employees flaunt their bodies has never been my thing. So I stopped coming out about two years ago, unless there was an issue that security couldn’t handle.

And yet, every night for the past two weeks, when the hands on my wall clock approach eleven, I find myself wandering out with glass of cognac in hand to lean against the rail.

Like Pavlov’s dog.

Only there’s no juicy bone at the end of the road. Just a gorgeous dancer and mounting frustration.

I’ve become a masochist. The affliction seems to have developed overnight. The night that Charlie started working here, to be precise. And each night after that, as I came out to watch her strip.

For me.

It’s very clearly, very obviously, for me.

The tension between the two of us is palpable and growing at an alarming rate into a heady, and highly risky, intimate connection. I’m addicted. There’s no way in hell that I can sit still in my office while Charlie’s up here on my stage anymore. Worse . . . I’ve started coming out to the bar later in the night. I have enough common sense to stay away from her, killing the time by having conversations with Nate, some of the other dancers, and the few regular customers whom I don’t want to choke.

But the electric charge between us keeps intensifying.

I find Nate standing in his stationary spot—with the best view of the floor—and slap him over the shoulder. He knows better than to comment about my timed appearance. “How’s it going? Crammed again, I see.”

With a grunt, he reports, “Tossed two guys out, but it’s been pretty tame so far.”

“Good.” My eyes drift over the floor, mentally calculating how much an average girl will take home tonight with this big a crowd. A solid amount, thankfully. A glance at the stage shows me that Cherry is nearing the tail end of her show.

She’s
up next.

Nate’s attention shifts to his earpiece for a moment. With a scowl, I hear him announce, “Kinsley and China are at it again. Ben’s heading into the dressing room now to break it up.”

“Shit,” I mutter. “What am I going to do? One of them is gonna have to go if this keeps up.” It will have to be Kinsley. The girl is putting herself through college with this job, but I’m not as worried about her making the kind of stupid, desperate decisions that China might make. She’d end up back somewhere like Sin City if I fired her.