Hot as Hades (3 page)

If he was a member of the MC, he didn’t wear a cut like his brothers. From her research, she knew outlaw bikers always wore their colors. It was a point of pride.

Hmm
. Maybe he belonged to a different gang? Though, that made even less sense. Why would he risk being in another MC’s territory? They carved out areas for themselves and guarded them zealously.

I could see if he has any tattoos….

Bikers were usually tatted up and the ink would tell her which gang he belonged to, but that would mean removing some of his clothing while he was unconscious and vulnerable.

Maybe you just want an excuse to see him naked?

She stared at him for a moment, six and a half slumbering feet of sex on a stick. Hell, yeah, she wanted to take a closer look.

 He had a muscular build with longish dark brown hair and a couple of days’ worth of beard growth on his handsome face. She gingerly undid the buttons on his denim shirt and then eased the edge of his black cotton T-shirt up, but he didn’t stir.

No chest hair and no tats on his torso, just a couple of necklaces, one a steel cross and the other a horse pendant. He had a muscled abdomen and smooth tanned skin, which her fingers itched to explore further, but she had to keep site of the mission.

She carefully pushed the denim down his arm and then peeled the shirt back to reveal his bicep.
Hmm.
Another horse. This time, a club logo, the kind bikers wore on the back of their cuts.

Four Horsemen, Texas.

 
It was official. Cowboy wasn’t a Raptor. They Raptors had this whole bird of prey symbol–hawks and eagles, and other flying taloned things.

 That meant she should stop undressing Cowboy.

Damn.

But she hadn’t sated her curiosity. Not yet. She wanted to see more of his tawny skin. Besides, he’d gotten a free show earlier in the evening. Tit for tat, right? Literally, in this case.

 She unveiled the other arm, and found a
horseshoe inked on it. When, she tried to maneuver him forward, so she could see his back, she couldn’t quite lift him, not without risking waking him up. Well, she could check a bit lower instead, just in case any other tats had escaped her notice. Seated low on his hip, he had a six shooter tattoo, positioned as though it had been strapped to him. It disappeared beneath the waistband of his tight blue jeans.

She paused, tempted to ease open his fly. Earlier, she’d felt his cock pressing against her when she’d slid down his body, hot and hard and
oh so thick
. She couldn’t help but wonder what it looked like, what it would feel like in her hand. Maybe her mouth.
Oh God.
And the way he’d watched her every little move…she’d gotten lost in the role of
femme fatale
for a few minutes.

Daisy shook her head, trying to get a grip.
Back to business.

She couldn’t afford to listen to her clamoring hormones. With a sigh, she put his clothing back to rights.  Daisy stood and on impulse, leaned down and pressed a kiss to his full, sensual mouth.

 He sighed, turning towards her. “Wildcat,” he murmured, eyes opening briefly before he drifted off again.

 “Good night, sweet prince.” What a pity. If they’d met under different circumstances she would have loved to spend the night with him. He looked like the perfect candidate for a one night stand. Sexy, good looking, and most importantly – disposable. Bikers weren’t exactly the dating type.

Enough fooling around.

Cowboy would okay, sleeping it off in the room and she had a more pressing priority. The champagne room happened to be right across from the Pussycat Palace manager’s office, where all the records were presumably kept. Could get dicey if she got caught, but she’d risk it for her sister. Three tours in Afghanistan had quelled most of her fears. She rode headlong into danger with the best of them now and it barely fazed her anymore.

She struggled back into her discarded lingerie, feeling awkward as crap in this slutty getup. She’d take fatigues and combat boots any day of the week. Easing open the door, she poked her head out to see one of the bouncers at the end of the hall, his back to her. He surveyed the club, arms crossed, and his full attention firmly focused on the group of army boys by the stage.

Sucker.

She tiptoed to the office door and removed the lock pick kit she’d smuggled in. She’d had to duct tape the damn thing to the inside of her corset. It took up precious breathing room, but was totally worth it.

She kept one eye on the bouncer and placed her ear against the wooden door to listen She didn’t hear anyone inside, so she inserted a little wrench into the keyhole and then the pick. And listened carefully to every creak and click the lock made as she painstakingly raked the pins one by one, lifting them up until all of five had released – letting her in easily.

The dumbasses had a regular lock and breaking in took a matter of seconds. She quietly shut the door behind her and stuffed the kit back in her corset.

 
Snoop time.

The place had seen better days. The room had dingy cream paint on the walls, yellowed with age and discolored by stale cigarette smoke, a threadbare gray carpet covered the floor, dotted with mystery stains. She had no idea what had caused them and given this establishment? She was pretty sure she didn’t want to know.

No computer in sight. Strange.

She searched the rusty old desk first, but didn’t find anything other than staplers and pens, and some blank pads of paper in the center drawer. In the bottom drawer, she came across a box full of receipts, mostly liquor purchases, so nothing of interest. Then, she found a leather-bound ledger, but it only had the payroll and some random expenses in it. She wondered why the club used something so antiquated instead of modern software, but she had no doubt it related to their illegal activity. Easier to cook the book without an electronic record.

 In the very bottom of another locked drawer, which she’d easily been able to coax open, she found a stash of ecstasy -- hundreds of pills. Earlier that evening, Junior, the club manager, had offered up X to anyone who wanted it before the doors opened tonight.

The drug reportedly induced euphoria and a desire to be touched, so she bet the club thought it would help their bottom line by making the girls more pliable. All the dancers had willingly swallowed it down like candy, except for Daisy, who had only pretended to take a dose.

 While the club used drugs to coerce the dancers, it only took Daisy a couple of hours to determine the women here had not been trafficked. They came and went as they pleased; they got paid for their work, too, even if the club took half of their tips. Daisy stared at the brightly colored pills, and wished she could flush the X down the toilet, but she couldn’t let on that she’d been in here.

Besides, the club would only buy more junk to drug them with. She’d shut them down soon enough. Permanently. Daisy relocked the drawer and then headed over to the filing cabinet.

As she turned, the he door flew open and she reached for her gun, which she’d also stuffed into her corset, but managed to stop herself at the last second. No point in blowing her cover if she didn’t need to.

“What the fuck are you doing in here?” Junior bellowed, staring at her from the doorway, arms crossed over his barrel chest. He was a short man with a long graying beard and rusty red hair that nearly brushed his shirt collar. “Your ass is supposed to be shaking on stage.”

She pasted on a dazed look.

Daisy had her fair share of male attention in the Marines and she’d learned how to flirt and tease.

There seemed to be two routes women in the military took. One, embrace your sexuality and risk being labeled a whore. In fact, some of the men referred to “easy” women as “mattresses”.
How disgusting was that?
The other route involved, rejecting your sexuality and being considered a prude—a classic no win situation.

Straight out of basic, she used sex as a crutch her first few months in the desert. In the middle of a war zone, when she could have died any minute, sex had a calming effect on her jangled nerves. She viewed it as a treat in the beginning, something pleasurable which made her feel better, like ice cream or a good book.

 “Sorry. The door was open, and I couldn’t help but wonder,” she whispered to Junior, “if you had any more of those happy pills.”

He cocked his head to the side, studying her, and then grunted in response, but he seemed to have bought her act. “I told those idiot prospects to keep this fucking door locked.” He walked to the desk and rummaged around until he retrieved another pink pill with a butterfly embossed on the top.

“Open up wide,” he said, holding it out to her.

She obediently opened her mouth for it and he got close, crowding her. She tensed as he ‘accidently’ grazed her breast when he raised his hand and then placed it on her tongue.

Daisy licked her lips, pretending to savor the pill, but quickly tucked it in her cheek and only pretended to swallow. “Mmm,” she said and added an intoxicated giggle. “That’s what I needed. Thank you.”

Junior’s eyes drifted to her breasts, which were pushed up by the corset. “Damn, you got some big titties.” He ran one stubby finger along the satin edge of her corset, fingertips grazing her skin.

She fought the urge sock him in the jaw.

“I don’t pay you to keep ‘em hidden though.” He started to undo the hooks and eyes, his meaty hands fumbling with the clasps.

Her brain raced, trying to come with a way to keep him from discovering the lock kit and gun tucked in her lingerie. She eased away from him and his brow furrowed as he watched her. Then turned and bent over, wiggling her butt. “And what do you think of my ass?”

He laughed, obviously taking the gesture as a flirtation rather than the evasion it really was.

“It’s pretty fucking fine, too.” He gave it a hard smack. Junior rubbed his palm over the bared half-moon of her left cheek revealed by her panties. “I don’t have time for a fuck now, but we’ll play soon enough. Now get your backside out on stage.”

She sauntered to the door, putting a wiggle in her walk.

“And take off your top for fuck’s sake, the men paid to see your tits bouncing, not some costume.”

She resisted the urge to turn around and punch him in the face, lay his wrinkled butt flat on the floor.

Lately she felt out of whack. Things that only should have been mildly annoying made her furious. The rage always seemed ready to bubble to the surface, eager to consume her.

But she had to focus on Rose. Not her fury. She gripped the door jamb for a moment and breathed in and out. Slowly, the terrible tension released. Junior seemed oblivious as he opened a desk drawer.

 With a soft snick, she shut the office door behind her and slanted a glance at the bouncers. They watched the crowd. She eased open the door to the champagne room.

 Luckily, Cowboy still slept, mouth open, legs outstretched. With any luck, if someone found him, they would assume he’d had too much to drink.

She marched back onto stage and danced the rest of her shift. Eventually, she even took her top off for the howling group of army privates and got some gas money for her trouble. One cheap bastard had tried to shove a roll of quarters in her G-string, but she’d told him to save it for his laundry.

After the club closed, she actually had to clean the place. The club mentioned the waitress/stripper hybrid aspect, but they’d left out the janitor portion of the job. The girls did loads of glasses, scrubbed down the bar, and cleaned the bathrooms which contained a foul mixture of urine and semen.

At the end of her shift,
she
stopped to check on the biker, but the room was empty. She hadn’t seen him leave, but he hadn’t confronted her about the drugged champagne either. Maybe he assumed he’d gotten drunk and passed out for a bit?

Thank God.

All of the other dancers had left as soon as they’d finished cleaning. But she lingered as she grabbed her gear, hoping to overhear some nefarious plans.
No such luck
. Junior and his buddies seemed to be more interested in counting the registers down so she’d given up and left.

She headed to her Silverado outside. The staff parked behind the Pussycat Palace, so the lot was deserted, except for a couple of Harleys. The overflowing Dumpster stunk to high heaven. Texas in June could be ungodly hot. Even in the wee morning hours, the temperature hovered in the eighties. During the day, it easily shot up around the century mark.

A pebble skittered across the pavement behind her, alerting her to another person’s presence, but before she could turn, an arm clamped over her ribcage and a hand settled over her mouth.

Chapter Three

Daisy tried to bite her attacker, but he kept her lips plastered against her teeth.

“Keep quiet and I won’t hurt you, Wildcat.”

Crap. Cowboy!

“Let me go, asshole!” she mumbled.

Evidently, he understood her muttering. “Consider yourself lucky, if a guy pulled this shit on me, he would be in a world of pain right about now.”

She tried to break free, but he jerked her back against him.

“Stop it! I’m not letting you go until I get some answers.”

He placed his mouth against her ear, his breath ragged. She wished he didn’t give her a case of the naughty shivers.

“Why the hell did you drug me?”

He knew!
When in doubt? Deny, deny, deny.

 “I’m going to remove my hand from your mouth. If you scream, or draw attention to us in any way, I’ll throw you over my handlebars and we’ll take this someplace real private,“ he growled in her ear.

Oh hell no!

“Nod if you understand,” he snarled.

 She nodded.

He released her mouth she sucked in a wobbly breath. Pissing off bikers? Not the best idea.

 “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she lied. “Not my fault you can’t hold your liquor.”