Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
T he doorman at Vipers greets me with a fist pump before opening the large wrought iron door. Pricy leather, warm bodies, and the scent of alcohol filter into my nose when I enter the main section of the strip club.
My eyes divert from a pretty redhead with gold tassels on her breasts to the entryway bar when a distinctive throaty voice sounds through my ears. “Brax, it’s been too long.” Keke saunters around the bar to wrap her arms around my neck.
I return her embrace. “Hey, Keke, what are you doing over on this side of town? The prim and proper get too dull for you?”
She laughs before scraping her lengthened French tip nails down my forearm. “I’m always on the lookout,” she purrs while skimming the full-to-the-brim club.
“For clientele or new staff members?”
Keke winks before she continues scanning the room. She is the manager of a very exclusive club on the other side of Ravenshoe. Maison du Sexe (French for House of Sex). Although she refers to her establishment as a bordello, every male on this side of Ravenshoe calls it a brothel. An incredibly high-priced, invited-members-only exclusive brothel. Though if you’re friendly with the manager, even guys from my side of the tracks can dip their toes into the high-caliber services Keke offers.
Does that mean I’ve accepted the numerous offers she’s bestowed upon me? No, it does not. Even though I only accept cash payments for my services, that doesn’t mean I’m willing to cough up my hard-earned cash for services I can get without money exchanging hands.
Although with my dick on hiatus the past few weeks, I may need to consider other options.
Keke curls her arm around the crook of my elbow and leads me toward the main stage. She stops in front of a beautiful brunette doing an aerial ribbon routine with a set of black satin ribbons suspended from a bolt shackled to the ceiling. Her outfit selection, although skimpy, is more conservative than the clientele at Vipers is used to seeing. It could be deemed more as a gymnast’s outfit than a stripper’s ensemble.
My heart leaps out of my chest when the brunette rolls down the satin ribbon, her stomach-churning tumble only stopping a mere inch from the stage. One wrong move and she would have been splattered on the highly-polished wooden stage.
After loosening the satin material from her slender thighs, the brunette curtseys to the wolf-whistling crowd before the stage lights are switched off, plunging the entire area into blackness.
“Beautiful. Yes?” Keke questions, her fake French accent fully exploited.
Smirking, I nod. Even with the brunette having her god-gifted assets hidden from view, her routine was provocative and entertaining. No doubt a rare treat for any male clientele in a strip club.
“The clients at Maison’s speak fondly of her very often, but no matter how much money I offer, she never accepts my proposition.”
My shoulders lift into a shrug. “Showing your body for money is one thing. Selling it is entirely different.”
When Keke scoffs, I turn my brown eyes to her and arch a brow. The longer I stare into her rich, chocolate eyes, the more her refined posture slackens. The persona she displays when working is a completely different Keke than the one you see behind closed doors. Keke is from Fredericksburg, Virginia. She rides horses bareback, drinks beer by the gallon, and when she comes, her voice reverts to its original country twang. Y’all included. How do I know this? We’ve messed around a few times in the past year.
Now don’t take my admission the wrong way. Keke may be the manager of a brothel, but she has never once worked in that industry. Like the pretty brunette who just finished her ribbon performance, Keke refuses to sell her body for profit. Her firm stance on the issue ensures her staff at Maison’s are treated with the utmost respect and dignity. For the industry she works in, that is no easy feat. Luckily for Keke and her staff, she’s backed by an exceedingly notorious man—Mr. Henry Gottle, Sr.—mob boss of New York City.
“Have you thought about asking her to do a routine at Maison that excludes a bedroom?”
Keke’s face brightens more with every word I speak. “Brax, you little devil. That could work. Get her in the door and convert her once she’s signed on the dotted line.”
“That wasn’t what I meant.”
Keke doesn’t hear a word spilling from my lips. She simply smiles and presses a kiss on my cheek before sauntering to the roped-off backstage area. Once she enters through the dark red velvet curtains, I swing my eyes around the space, seeking Damon. His rift with his big brother is the sole reason I’ve rocked up to a strip club at one in the morning on a Sunday.
While adding three hours to his back tattoo earlier today, Damon suggested we meet up for a few beers with his brother. Considering his brother is my best mate, I readily agreed. I had no clue at the time that his watering hole of choice was a strip club on the outskirts of town .
I will admit, though, my initial assessment of this establishment was a little off track. I thought it would be a seedy establishment with dingy lighting and cracked vinyl booths. It isn’t. The owner has pumped some serious coin into this place, giving it a nightclub atmosphere.
The booths are high-end with varnished wood trim and black leather upholstery. The lighting setup is impressive, with it being incorporated into the music pumping out of the speakers shackled to the ceiling. From the caliber of staff I’ve seen serving clients and dancing, the standard is high. Incredibly high. It feels more like I’ve walked into the dressing room of a Miss Universe swimsuit competition than a seedy strip club.
My aimless wandering comes to a halt when I hear “Brax!” shouted by a profound voice in the distance.
Cranking my neck to the side, I spot Damon in a booth in the back corner. Surprisingly, he is alone. I dip my chin in greeting to numerous scantily clad women as I make my way across the room. The scent of sweat-slicked skin intensifies the closer I get to the back of the club. Damon stands from the booth and greets me with a slap on the back and a man hug.
He grimaces when I return his gesture.
“Sorry, still fresh?”
He nods. “I haven’t drunk enough whiskey to lessen the sting of my new ink,” he replies, laughing.
“Where’s your brother? ”
Just as the final syllable escapes my lips, I spot Ryan making his way through the throng of people mingling in the vast space. A smirk etches onto my lips when I see the disappointing glare Ryan is directing at Damon. Ryan and Damon are brothers cut from two entirely different cloths. Ryan was born and raised in Ravenshoe. The week after he graduated high school, he applied to join the police force. He was immediately accepted. He’s spent the last nine years working at the Ravenshoe Police Department.
Damon was also born and raised in Ravenshoe, but unlike Ryan, he left the instant he turned eighteen. Although it’s never been fully disclosed, there are rumors circulating that Damon and a certain member of the law enforcement office don’t see eye to eye. That may be the reason this is Damon’s first visit home in over eight years.
My brows lower when Ryan and Damon greet with a shake of hands. Anyone would swear they were strangers meeting for the first time, not brothers.
While issuing my greeting to Ryan, I mutter into his ear, “It’s been eight years, man. Time to let bygones be bygones.”
Ryan pulls back and peers into my eyes. “You know why he picked for us to meet here, don’t you?”
I smile. “Yeah, I know. But there’s nothing wrong with an off-duty detective spending his weekend looking at some fine ladies.”
Damon picked this establishment as he knew Ryan would hesitate to show up here. Ryan works hard at keeping his reputation as an honest detective sparkling clean. It is a well-known fact that certain business entities in this area pay for the privilege of keeping their establishments off the local enforcement radar. I’m pretty sure this is one of the clubs that kept Ryan’s dad’s bank balance in the positive during his twenty-year stint with the Ravenshoe Police Department.
Within forty minutes, I’ve downed three overpriced whiskeys, Ryan and Damon haven’t spoken a word to each other, and Damon has secured himself not one but two lap dances.
I nudge Ryan with my shoulder. “What’s the deal? Why is he back?” I gesture my head to Damon during my last question.
Although Damon and Ryan have personalities on opposite ends of the spectrum, their looks are nearly identical. Both have glacier blue eyes, cut facial features, and they’re extremely popular with the ladies. I’ve never had any problems pulling in the ladies, but my looks are often referred to as laid-back compared to Ryan’s. He has the cutthroat-businessman appearance, with his attire of choice being suits and polished shoes. My outfit selection rarely strays from ripped jeans and designer shirts.
Ryan tosses back a mouthful of the whiskey the waiter just sat in front of him before answering, “I don’t know. He sent Ma a message a few days ago saying he might head back this way in a few months. He turns up on her doorstep the very next day.”
My lips quirk. “You think he’s running from something?” I query, noticing a mask of concern slipping over Ryan’s face.
“Something or someone,” Ryan mutters before taking another gulp of his drink. He runs the back of his hand over his mouth before locking his blue eyes with mine. “So what’s the deal with you? I’ve seen you turn down three girls since I arrived. That’s not the Brax I know.”
After shaking my head in disgust, I down my entire nip of whiskey in one hit. “I think my cock is broken.”
Ryan coughs, splattering the countertop with the whiskey he was in the process of swallowing. “What?”
I nudge my head to the gorgeous blonde prowling past our booth for the fourth time in the past three minutes. “Beautiful ass, a sinful body, and a rack I’d love to bury my face in.” I drop my eyes to the crotch of my jeans. “Nothing. Nada. It’s fucking broken. ”
Ryan throws back his head and laughs. I’m glad he can find amusement in my life-threatening situation. I’ve never faced this type of issue before. Normally, I’d just mumble the word ‘pussy’ and schwing ! My cock is ready to pounce. But for the past two months, it’s like my cock packed up and went on holiday, no notice given to me or my lust-riddled brain.
Ryan signals to the waiter for another round before aligning his eyes with mine. “Maybe things have just gotten too easy for you?” His voice is more sincere than his leering expression as he runs his eyes over my face and shoulder-length brown hair. “You need to mess up that pretty face of yours. Make it more of a challenge. Your dick has gotten bored with the ease of the game.”
While rolling my eyes, I punch him in the arm. When he chuckles, I shake my head and turn my eyes back to the crowd to silently ponder. There are beautiful women as far as my eye can see, yet my cock feels nothing. Not a twinge. Not even a slight fucking throb. As much as Ryan thinks I’m joking, I truly believe my cock is broken.
But I’m twenty-eight for fuck’s sake. I’m not even close to the age most men seek help with this type of situation.
Maybe Ryan is right? Maybe the game has gotten too easy?
My wallowing over my broken appendage stops when Ryan asks, “You still buying into Inked?”
I nod, happy to change the course of our conversation. “Yeah. With everything going on with Ryder’s boy, he doesn’t want to spend as much time at the shop. It’s kind of a win-win situation. He gets time with his family. I get to dig my fingers into ownership.”
Ryder’s son, Slater, was admitted to rehab earlier this month. Slater’s band, Rise Up, started smashing the charts late last year with two singles off their debut album. The week following the band’s massive success, the band’s lead singer, Noah Taylor, was involved in a traffic accident which resulted in him spending three months in a coma at a local private hospital. Ryder was worried about his boy, but Slater seemed to be handling the situation well… until his friend recovered. Then it all went downhill.
Ryder was suspicious a few weeks before Slater’s best mate, Marcus, arrived at the shop, but he was giving his boy the benefit of the doubt. Once Ryder had solid proof Slater was dabbling in a wide variety of recreational drugs, he dragged his son’s ass to rehab. After some heavy discussions with his missus, Ryder decided to put Inked on the market so he could spend more time with his family.
After losing their daughter a few years ago to leukemia, Ryder and Lucia weren’t going to sit back and watch another illness claim the life of their child. Although I have enough coin saved to fully buy Ryder out, the fifty percent buy-in I suggested is a better situation for us both. Inked gets to keep Ryder’s honorable name associated with it, and once Ryder’s boy gets his head back in the game, Ryder will have Inked to fall back on if home life becomes too dull.
“So when will I make you a customer at Inked?”
Ryan smiles against the rim of his glass. “When you stop accepting cash only for services.”
I laugh. “That will never happen.”
“Then I guess I won’t be under your inking gun any time soon.”
I waggle my brows. “You keep talking like that, and it won’t be an inking gun you’ll need to be worried about.”
Ryan chuckles. “Lucky I can handle myself,” he replies, his tone full of cockiness. “Because I’m not just a good detective. I’m the best?—”
“Fucking detective Ravenshoe has ever seen.” I noogie his head, messing up his hundred-dollar haircut. “Better watch out. Your head might not fit out the door with how fucking big it’s getting.”
He grins a smile that causes the girls fluttering around our booth to move in closer. He gestures his head to the crotch of my jeans. “You better watch out, or your severe case of blue balls might not fit in your jeans anymore.”
When my eyes narrow in on a pair of rich chocolate eyes emerging from a set of dark velvet curtains, any concerns about my blue-ball status are on track to be decimated.
“I’ll catch you around,” I say to Ryan while lifting my chin in agreement with Keke’s suggestive finger crook. “I’ve got some business to take care of.”
Ryan stands from the booth to say goodbye in the same way he greeted me an hour ago. Upon noticing that Damon is indisposed with a pretty blonde, I issue him my farewell by paying for his tab before ambling to the door.
Keke interlocks her arm with mine when we emerge onto the bustling sidewalk outside the club. “My place or yours?”
My brisk pace falters.
“I’m just playing with you, Brax,” she purrs, her voice quickly reverting from French madame to the Keke who only emerges behind closed doors. “I know you don’t take girls back to your place.” She spins on her heels and walks backward while undoing the buttons on her black trench coat. “Although, when you spot what I’m wearing underneath this coat, you may change your mind.”
When she does the quickest flash, exposing inches of a baby pink lace teddy she’s wearing under her coat, I snap my eyes closed and send a prayer to God for leading me to Keke tonight. Because not only did my eyes bulge when awarded with a visual of her naughty little ensemble, so did my cock.
It’s back, baby! Primed and ready to go.