Chapter 29 Jagger
JAGGER
“You sure this is a good idea?” Ford asks.
I scoff. “You know, you ask me that question a lot.”
“Does that statement say more about me or you?” Ford counters as he reaches for the glass door’s handle.
It was blacked out long before I knew the strip club existed, but I’ve never wondered why.
A place like The Body Shop doesn’t need flashing lights or billboards.
Nah. Word of mouth is more than enough to keep the place busy.
With a low rumble of amusement, Roman claps me on the back and urges us inside.
I’ve only been here a time or two. Usually Roman or Hawke does the dirty work, but after Roman heard rumors of Ethan taking bets on an NBA game last night, I’m afraid I have no choice.
The lights are dark in the club as we walk inside.
Black walls, a few neon signs, and a bar on the right.
Half-naked girls are scattered throughout.
Some with trays. Some behind the bar taking orders.
Others earning their tips with their bodies, whether it’s on the center stage or behind the curtains in the back.
Not that I want to know. A combination of smoke and floral vanilla cling to the air.
It’s from the men’s cigars and the dancers’ perfumes, if I had to guess. It could be worse.
It could always smell like sex.
“This way,” Roman murmurs. He strides past the bouncer right inside the entrance and toward the back of the dark club as a spotlight highlights a dancer on stage. Ford stalls when he sees her, and I roll my eyes, shoving him forward. “They’re just tits.”
“Just tits,” he grumbles. “You’re joking, right?’
“Come on, man,” Hawke interjects. “Let’s get this shit over with.”
At the back of the establishment is a worn, leather booth with three men, though only one sits.
Bourbon in hand, Gus watches the girl on the stage who’s half his age.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he’s watching paint dry.
One of the men with him inspects us as we approach.
Once we’re only a few feet away, he crosses his arms and tilts his head.
“Lucian,” Roman greets him. “Mind if we chat with Gus?”
The bodyguard’s attention shifts toward his boss who dips his chin without bothering to look in our direction. Satisfied, Lucian leans back against the edge of the booth, granting us access to Gus.
I offer my hand to the old man, and he takes it, shaking it once.
“Nice to see you again, Mr. Harden.” His gaze shifts to Ford, then Hawke, and Roman. “Gentlemen.”
“Hey, Gus. Been a while.” Ford slides into the booth after me while Roman takes his place at the edge of it, mirroring Lucian’s stance. It's funny. Because I never asked him to play bodyguard. Never asked him to do anything but be my friend. My confidante. But he fell into the roll, anyway.
A waitress in five-inch heels and black lingerie approaches. The scrap of lace barely covers her as she balances a tray of drinks. “Hey, Unc, sorry I’m—” Her attention flicks to me, and my eyes widen in surprise.
What the hell is Violet’s friend doing here?
“Jag Off?” Confused, Lexie takes in the rest of us at the table. “Chrysler?” She snaps her fingers. “No, it’s only one syllable. Jeep, right?”
“So close,” Ford returns.
“And then there’s Romeo,” she continues, folding her arms and checking out Hawke with a blatancy I can’t help but admire.
“And last, but certainly not least, we have the aviary brother. Let’s see…
eagle? No, something smaller and less…majestic.
” She taps her manicured fingernail against her chin, her full lips pursing as if she’s in deep thought. “Robin, right?”
I watch Gus watch Lexie, more curious than I’d like to admit.
I’d know they’re related, even if I hadn’t heard Lexie call him Unc before recognizing me and my brothers, but I never expected to see her here.
Why the hell would an uncle hire his niece to work in a strip club?
“You all know each other?” Gus questions, though the man’s too good at hiding his emotions for me to pinpoint what he’s thinking. Whether he’s bored or curious, I can’t tell.
“Friend of a friend,” Lexie returns without bothering to hide her interest as she looks Hawke up and down one more time, like she can’t help herself. “There a Harden Night tonight I don’t know about?”
“Shouldn’t you be asking us what we’d like to drink?” Ford challenges.
Tongue in cheek, Lexie glares at my baby brother. “You old enough to be drinking, Jeep?”
“He’ll have a beer,” Hawke answers for him. “Whatever you have on tap.”
Lexie looks at Hawke. “And you?”
“Can’t. I’m working.”
Holding Hawke’s stare, Lexie reaches for her uncle’s bourbon and downs what’s left, her expression barely changing as the burning liquid slips down her slender throat before her tongue darts out and she licks her bottom lip. “So am I.”
“That’s from a forty-five hundred dollar bottle of bourbon,” Gus announces.
Lexie gives her uncle a wink, then sets the glass on her empty tray. “I’ll bring you a fresh one. Anything for you, Jag Off?”
“Whatever your uncle’s having,” I reply.
“Coming right up.” With a smirk, she sashays away, her heels clicking with every step.
Hawke watches her hips sway back and forth as she disappears, though I can’t pinpoint where his mind is. But he’s always been that way. Learned it from our father.
“She’s hell on wheels, that one,” Gus mutters. “After her parents died, I stepped in to raise her, but it was too late. I blame her mother, Esmerelda. Too much sass for her own good, and I’ve yet to figure out how to tame her.”
Hawke’s attention shifts to Gus. “She’s not a problem.”
“She’s hell on wheels, is what she is,” he repeats, using the same term again. “Now, where were we?”
“We’re here to discuss your nephew,” Ford says.
Gus’s eyes thin. “I’ve already discussed my nephew with Roman.”
Ford shrugs. “Guess we have a few follow-up questions.”
“I don’t like questions.”
“Neither do we,” I return. “Which is why we’ll keep this brief.”
Hawke stares at someone behind me until a pair of perky tits practically spilling out of their lacy bra are two inches from the side of my face.
“Jag Off,” Lexie purrs. I don’t bother turning toward her, well-aware this is a test. Whether it’s Gus’s or Lexie’s, I’m not sure.
The familiar clink reverberates through the table as she sets a glass of bourbon in front of me.
It’s followed by Ford’s and Roman’s beers, then Gus’s beverage, and finally, she offers Hawke a shot glass.
“What’s that?” Ford asks.
“It’s a slippery nipple,” Lexie answers. The three liquids separate to look like a nipple through the clear container as she sets it down in front of Hawke. “I have a feeling you’d love to have a taste—”
“Lex,” Gus warns.
Her lips press into a thin line, but she doesn’t look away from Hawke. “Drink up, Robin,” Lexie tells him. “I made it just for you.”
“Probably poisoned it,” Ford interjects.
Gus’s mouth flickers with mirth, but he covers it quickly. “Enough games, Lex. Go.”
“Fine.” She juts out her bottom lip but reaches for the shot glass in front of Hawke when he takes it instead.
His stare holds Lexie’s over the rim as he brings the shot glass to his mouth and downs the whole thing in one go.
Uh, am I interrupting something? If that isn’t a bold move, I don’t know what is.
Hey, Hawke, her uncle’s right there, asshole. Maybe stop eye-fucking her in front of him. What do you say, pal?
“Hmm,” she humphs. “And on that note, it looks like it’s my turn on stage.” She hugs the empty tray to her chest and looks at Gus. “Anything else, Unc?”
“That’ll be all, Lexie.”
With a subtle nod, and the smallest of curtsies, Lexie says, “Gentlemen.” Then, she turns and leaves, disappearing around the back of the stage instead of striding toward the bar like last time.
“Gotta hand it to you, Mr. Harden.” Gus’s low voice cuts through the lingering tension. “You’re either foolish or brave, flirting with my niece right in front of me.”
Yeah, no shit. Then again, Gus lets his niece work at a strip club.
She’s already almost naked and likely will be fully nude by the time her turn on stage is finished.
He can’t be too overprotective, can he? Or maybe she works here for a different reason.
Maybe she’s here to keep an eye on things and report back to him.
It’s smart. If the roles were reversed, it’s what I would do.
My focus shifts back to the precarious situation unfolding in front of me. What are you going to say Hawke? Are you going to defuse the situation or make it worse?
“You were right before,” Hawke returns. “She is hell on wheels.”
Gus doesn’t break his stare, hell, it’s unwavering.
Lucian’s massive body grows tense behind me as if he’s waiting for a cue.
A nod. A frown. A fucking blink. While the rest of us hold our breath.
Don’t get me wrong. We know where we are.
We know shit can turn south fast. We know Gus is not to be trifled with.
But it doesn’t matter how many bodies he’s buried, three Hardens do not go missing without repercussions.
And our best friend does not go missing without us doling out said repercussions with our own two hands.
A harmless bout of flirting isn’t enough to trigger a few missing bodies, but it doesn’t mean the possibility doesn’t cross our minds anytime we’re in Drift territory, let alone sitting across from the uncrowned king himself.
Apparently, we do have a sense of self-preservation. Uncle Judge and Titas would be so proud.
“Glad we agree,” Gus finally says. He settles back in the booth, satisfied with Hawke’s response.
And just like that, the hostility dissipates.
The awkwardness lifts. The underlying pressure eases, and my lungs expand in relief.
We’re not out of the woods yet, but it’s a step in the right direction.
“And so is my nephew,” Gus adds, addressing the real reason we’re here.
Leaning forward, Ford rests his elbows on the table and cradles the beer in his hands. “Look at us.” He smiles. “Commiserating over your brother’s offspring. Pains in the ass, am I right?”
“Wouldn’t go that far,” Gus warns. “They are family.”
Ford shrugs. “Family can still be a pain in the ass. Right, Jag Off?” he challenges with a dryness that almost instantly puts everyone at ease.
I have to hand it to my baby brother. He’s getting better at guiding a conversation where it needs to go while somehow getting his point across and not pissing anyone off in the process. Honestly, it’s an art.
“So, what did Ethan do this time?” Gus questions.
Ford takes a sip of his beer, then sets it back down. “Word on the street is he was taking bets on an NBA game yesterday.”
“And?”
“And considering the check Roman dropped off last weekend, I’d say it’s a big fuckin’ problem,” Ford quips.
I don’t miss the venomous bite simmering beneath his indifference.
Yeah, he’s pissed. Sports betting is his thing.
It’s always been his thing. Finding out Morgan’s been stepping on his toes isn’t only an inconvenience, it’s a blow to my brother’s ego, and he won’t take it lying down.
“Sports gambling isn’t illegal,” Gus reminds us. His lack of brevity grinds on me. Hell, I’m insulted. Not only for my brother, but personally, too. We’ve been working with Gus for what? Six months, now? And this is what he has to say? It isn’t illegal?
What game are you playing?
“We were under the impression we have an exclusive agreement with you,” I point out, feeling like I’m explaining the sky is blue to a damn toddler. “If that isn’t the case anymore, we’d appreciate you being up front.”
Leaning back in the booth, Gus steeples his fingers in front of him. “You’re worried my nephew’s encroaching on your territory.”
“No shit,” Ford mumbles under his breath. I kick him beneath the table.
“Yes,” I answer Gus.
“Was he in Drift territory when he was seen accepting wagers?”
My eyes thin, but I nod again.
“Then I don’t see the problem.”
Part of me wants to reach across the booth and throttle the bastard, but I know better than to let him see it.
Not here. Not now. If I don’t play this carefully, everything we’ve worked for—our entire operation—could go up in flames.
However, if he sees us as weak or easy to manipulate, we’ll lose even more.
Shifting forward, I hold Gus’s stare over the rim of my glass while taking a long drink and setting it back on the table.
“We pay you a decent percentage to rent Drift property for our activities—”
“And you may continue to do so,” Gus interrupts. “At my discretion.”
“And your nephew?” I prod.
“Will not interfere with your…Harden Nights, as my niece so eloquently put it.”
That’s it? That’s all he has to offer? A flimsy promise?
Okay, flimsy’s a bit of a stretch. The man tells most of the people in town how to wipe their ass, let alone where to shit.
If he says Morgan won’t interfere with our Harden Nights, then he won’t.
Most likely. Then again, I’ve seen the way his niece walks all over him.
Is Gus’s relationship with Morgan the same? If it is, we have a massive problem.
“What if he does?” I challenge.
The bastard’s eyes widen, but he immediately slips a mask of indifference into place. He glances at his bodyguard, then holds me with his stare and tilts his head. “Are you questioning my word?”
My back molar threatens to crack from sheer force.
I want to tell him Morgan’s already interfered.
He cheated during the last fight. Nearly took my eye out.
But I already know how the rest of the conversation would go if I did.
Gus would ask if the ref called it a clean fight.
I would grudgingly say yes. Then he’d say my accusation had no merit.
And we’d be right back to where we started.
Tossing back the rest of my drink, I stand. “Good seeing you again, Gus.”
“You, too.” He hesitates. “And tell your father I said hello.”
It’s how he ends every interaction. Openly dangling our affiliation in front of my father’s nose. I don’t even like the man, but it still feels like a low blow, and I don’t like being seen as a pawn in a bigger game I know nothing about.
“I’ll be sure to pass along the sentiment the next time I see him,” I lie.
“Good man.”