CHAPTER FOUR
SEVEN
The electronica, bass-thumping remix of “Hey Mickey”threaded through me as I wound deeper into the black carpeted paradise known asGemstones. I’d already read up on the establishment—one of the classier affairs in SoHo, with plenty of so-called champagne rooms, VIP lounges, and some of the most gorgeous dancers the city had to offer.
I followed the most gorgeous one of all deeper into the sultry labyrinth. Jordan looked over her shoulder at me, eyes twinkling. “Remember, you’re my friend.”
She smiled over at a bartender, who shouted out “Hey, Sapph!” as she strutted past. A half-dressed dancer slunk by, squeezing Jordan’s shoulder.
“Right. Your friend. Who’s Sapph?”
“Sapphire. That’s me. Stage name.”
Which explained why as soon as we’d stepped into the building, something came over her. Like she was playing a part in the show. She still wore simple leggings and the black leather jacket, but she moved with the importance of someone who knew she was about to get up on that center stage shortly and command the entire fucking room.
And I didn’t want to admit how excited I was to witness it.
I looked around the spacious warehouse illuminated by sensual purple and blue lights from above. It sure didn’t feel like four thirty on a Sunday in here. Scantily clad women wandered the club—some wearing body suits, others in skintight dresses, and some in mere thongs and bras. Every last woman was toned, busty, and beautiful.
I wasn’t supposed to be itching at the chance to see Jordan strip down. But I considered this a secret perk of the job.
“I have to go back there,” she said, leaning in to speak into my ear. She jabbed her thumb toward a door that stated GEMS ONLY. “You can hang around. Get a drink if you want. Just try not to look like Bodyguard Ken, okay? Be friendly. Don’t stare like a Neanderthal.”
I flexed my jaw. “I’ve been to a strip club before.”
“Just thought you might need a refresher.” She pasted on a fake smile and patted my shoulder. “And who knows, maybe you could try to have fun? If, you know, it’s not too much of a risk.”
She winked at me before she disappeared into the back room, leaving me secretly amused and distantly horny. I appreciated her wit, as well as her ass—not that I’d ever let her know that. I rolled my shoulders back, scanning the room to understand the layout a little better. Between all the butt cheeks and gyrating bodies, this place was sensory overload. I roamed the main room, pausing to watch whatever erupted around me—one girl giving a surprise lap dance to a solo gentleman; a busty waitress who trailed a finger along my bicep while purring about snacks.
The main stage lay silent and dark. Jordan’s shift was only five hours, which was plenty of time for me to get a feel for how risky this job was. While she was in the back getting ready, I strolled as much as I could of the thousands-square-foot club. I made note of all the exits and entrances to private areas—the champagne rooms, which were partially visible to passers-by with low, backless couches around a central, tiny stage, and the VIP lounges, which were fully closed off rooms that I couldn’t look into. A few different bars stretched along the perimeter of the main area, decked out in glossy wood and glittery, brightly colored floor-to-ceiling shelves stuffed to the brim with liquor bottles.
I mapped out the bathrooms, even peeked into the women’s restroom just to make sure there wasn’t an unexpected point of egress. I’d killed almost forty-five minutes by the time I returned to the main area—all my notes and questions for later logged on my phone—and plopped down into an overstuffed leather chair facing the stage. Almost all the other chairs were full, not to mention the uncounted men roaming the club floor. The place was far more bustling than I’d expect for a Sunday, but apparently horniness never slept in a city like New York.
The music shifted then, going a bit quieter. Spotlights flooded the main stage. Someone was about to perform.
Please be Jordan.
I needed to see her as much as I didn’t want to. In the deepest part of me, somewhere between my balls and my gut, I already knew the truth. Jordan could ruin me. She’d break me apart and show me something new. Something I didn’t fucking want or need in my life.
A different, lower-tempo electronic music filled the club, with modulated moaning forming part of the background. Out of nowhere, someone began sliding down the silvery pole. Huge, translucent heels were strapped to her feet. Creamy thighs led to the sharp V of a black bodysuit.
Jordan descended the pole in a slow, calculated spin. She dropped her head back as she lowered, a spray of lush curls cascading below her. Her body was all lean muscle and sensual curves. I’d seen women wearing bodysuits before, but there was something special about what Jordan chose for tonight’s performance. I coughed into my closed fist as she touched the ground in her sky-high heels. Her bodysuit was cut scandalously high. Smooth, creamy skin glinted everywhere I looked under the bright lights of the stage.
As expected, Jordan was pure perfection.
She sank to her knees, gripping the pole above her head in a needy, submissive pose. Electricity snapped through the air, and it seemed like every man in the room was transfixed by her, leaning in closer. My cock twitched as I watched her. Fuck.
Her full lips were painted deep burgundy. Every inch of her looked provocative and sexy. She arched her pelvis toward the audience, gyrating in a slow, sensual move that made my fingers curl and my cock go from thinking about it to hard as a rock. I sank back in my chair, hardly daring to blink as she mesmerized the audience with every movement.
Jordan traced her tongue along the outline of her lips along with the music, dragging one hand down the front of her skin-tight suit and between her legs. Men drifted closer to the stage, hollering as she mimicked pleasuring herself—a little too well. Dollar bills began flying as she responded to their encouragement. Then the music tempo switched, and she popped to her feet and began scaling the pole.
She spun and humped and damn near fucked that pole, legs spread and tongue out. Everyone with cash crowded the stage, showering her in a rainstorm of money. A genuine smile broke through on occasion as she winked at someone.
I knew that hard-ons and titillation was the fucking point of a strip club—I just didn’t expect to get hard pretty much immediately upon seeing the crease of Jordan’s pussy through her bodysuit. This didn’t bode well for our protector/client relationship. In fact, it made me hope Jordan made good on her promise to take the recommendations and fuck off afterward.
I wasn’t sure I’d be able to withstand working alongside a stripper as sexy as her.
A waitress approached me as I watched the show. I ordered a root beer—drinking on duty was a no-no, as a rule, but especially in a situation where even slightly lowered inhibitions could lead to me saying or grabbing something I shouldn’t.
Other strippers milled around, trying to engage individual members of the audience. I only had eyes for Jordan. While she was in the room, I couldn’t spare the attention. This could be my one chance to see the show.
Jordan made the pole her bitch. I’d seen my fair share of pole dancers, but her performance could only be described as Cirque du Soleil with less clothing. For her final move, she did a backbend off the pole and onto the ground. The entire club lit up with cheers as she held up the peace sign with both hands and strutted down the side staircase and onto the club floor. She was a celebrity, swarmed by men. I surged to my feet just as the club security stepped in. I was supposed to be her friend, not her bodyguard. I smoothed the front of my shirt and sat back down.
I watched as Jordan coyly entertained a middle-aged man. Couldn’t tell what he said, but it must have been good because she followed him, hand in his, to one of the champagne rooms. A few other guys followed, all of them eyeing her like fresh meat.
I tapped my closed fist against my mouth, unsure what to do with the conflicting urges inside me. Fucking the client was obviously the biggest faux pas in the personal protection business. Especially as I was aiming to start my own company and begin raking in the millions as the boss, instead of the day-to-day grunt.
But what about when Jordan’s express work goal was making men want to fuck her?
I’d fallen into the trap. Luckily, I was strong. Desiring from afar was one thing. I’d certainly never act on it.
No matter how much I couldn’t get the vision of the tight V of her pussy out of my mind.
I took a sip of my root beer, adjusted my pants, and headed for the champagne room. Over the half-walls that encircled their semi-private area, I saw the men gathered around her on the couches while she shook a champagne bottle then uncorked it, laughing hysterically as the cork popped and bubbly sprayed her guests.
“Can I lick it off you?” one man asked.
“I want to see you lick it off yourself first,” she purred. He obeyed, looking like he was in heaven. “You’re a good boy, huh?”
He nodded eagerly, his imaginary tail wagging.
Jesus Christ.
I lingered outside the champagne room, trying to look like I wasn’t keeping tabs on what was happening inside, though really, I was logging every bit of activity within. Did sex acts occur? How far did Jordan and any of these men go? Who was there to stop them if they pushed it past the limits? Had that happened before? Was she worried it would happen again?
All questions I needed answered ASAP. While I knew how some strip clubs worked, I needed the insider scoop on how this strip club worked.
The champagne room session lasted about an hour. But as soon as she finished, she was whisked away to another booking. From what I could tell, her one dance set her up for an entire evening of private performances. Smart, and likely lucrative from the way I saw these guys slip her twenties, fifties, and hundreds as they got their time with her.
This time, she was escorted into one of the private VIP rooms by a bald man in a designer suit. He could easily be the CEO of some Fortune 500 company. Hell, some of these patrons were likely D-list celebrities and I had no idea. I saw one group that looked like a rapper and his entourage, dripping with bling. On the opposite side of the room, a man who must have been in his seventies with a blond bombshell on his arm. There was an immense amount of wealth in this club. I had to hand it to Jordan—if she wanted to make a living, she’d come to the right club.
Once the door shut behind them, I decided to test the boundaries. I waited a few moments, then I strode up to the door and turned the knob.
The door swung open, revealing Jordan sitting with her legs crossed on a huge velvet couch, leaning into the man. The entire room was bathed in sultry red lights with black, velvety walls. Everything screamed sensual delights. A small stage and pole took up the middle of the room, but the couches in here were much wider—more in tune with lying back, stretching out, and seeing what happened.
Both sets of eyes turned my way. Jordan looked surprised, but Mr. CEO was just pissed.
“Hey! I paid for time alone with her—get the fuck out!”
“You okay?” I asked Jordan, offering a thumbs up.
She nodded quickly, sending me a grateful look. I retreated, lingering near the door to listen for sounds of foul play. It was just the two of them in there, and on my brief sweep, I hadn’t seen any cameras. That didn’t rule out the possibility of some other type of surveillance. It didn’t appear the door could lock from the inside or outside, which was a plus. If there were locks, Jordan could get trapped in there by some sick fuck and get taken advantage of—and nobody would ever hear it over the loud music.
They were in there for an interminable amount of time. All I could do was lean against the wall and try not to imagine what I’d be doing in there with her. Or back in her bedroom in Chinatown. Or even, impossibly, back in my king bed in my Tribeca bachelor pad.
I imagined a hundred other men were having similar thoughts, now that she’d teased us beyond belief with her amazing skills on the pole.
I ground my jaw as I tried to corral my thoughts. The club was effective, that was for fucking sure. I considered myself a rigid man of honor. In here, I was one sexy look away from asking Jordan for a half hour in the VIP room. It had to be the lights. Or maybe the relentless ass cheeks. Whatever it was, I was just as much as victim as the next guy.
I definitely need to end this contract as soon as humanly possible.
I checked my watch. They’d been in there for almost two hours. I’d left once to piss, and another time for water. She had to be making good money—or maybe they were just having good sex.
I didn’t like that last thought.
When the door flew open, Jordan bolted out, tossing her hair over her shoulder, a fat wad of bills stuffed under the clear ankle strap of her heels. The man came out a moment later and heaved a sigh. He spotted me there, his eyebrows went up.
“You been waiting this whole time?”
I shrugged. “Nothing better to do.”
“Sapphire’s worth the wait,” he confirmed, then he staggered off. I couldn’t tell if he was alcohol drunk or sex drunk. My stomach twisted at the thought of it being the latter.
I spotted Jordan across the club, entertaining a small group of guys with a lap dance. On the main stage, another dancer used the pole, but she wasn’t nearly as captivating or skilled as Jordan. Half the audience engaged with different girls or chatted amongst themselves. I cut to the bar along the far wall and ordered another root beer. The bartender, a brunette with pigtails and volleyball-sized tits smushed together in a sport bra, lifted her brow at me.
“Again?”
“It’s all I drink on nights like these.”
She filled my glass with a wry grin. “I’m gonna call you the Root Bear.”
“Bear?” I considered myself pretty trim, not nearly as bearlike as some gym rats could become.
“It has a good ring to it, for a stage name.” She pushed the glass my way across the countertop. “You’re a big guy, you could get away with it. You trim your body hair or no?”
I hefted with a laugh. “I do.”
“Mmm. The trim Root Bear. Gotta get you on the stage sometime, sweetie. We do get women in here, and they’d eat a guy like you alive.”
“Thanks for the offer.” I lifted my glass in a salute. No way in fuck I’d ever get on a stage or anywhere near a pole. But a woman could fantasize about whatever she liked. I wouldn’t stop her.
I settled into the plush seats to while away the rest of Jordan’s shift. She moved from lap dance to lap dance. Men ate her up, and fuck, she looked sexy with every glance, breath, and dip. By the time she wrapped up with the lap dances, she breezed past me, patting my shoulder.
“I’m off to change. Meet me by the doors in twenty, okay?”
She didn’t wait around for my response. Every inch of her skin glistened with sweat under the lights. She’d spent the last five hours in those heels, which seemed like a physical impossibility, much less moving with grace and sensuality at every turn.
I texted Legs to let him know we’d be needing him outside soon. Once I’d paid for my drinks and left a hefty tip—“Don’t be a stranger, okay?” the bartender purred as I handed her the fifty-dollar bill—Jordan was heading for me in leggings and her black leather jacket, clutching the straps of a new backpack.
All traces of the incredible performances were gone. save the luscious deep lipstick, winged eyeliner, and her curls, which were pulled back into a low ponytail.
“Oh, he’s your friend?” the bartender asked, jerking her chin in my direction.
“Sure is,” Jordan said with a tight smile, slapping my shoulder.
“I named him the Root Bear,” the bartender said, her Brooklyn accent revealing itself.
“Aww. You like that one?” Jordan pushed onto her tiptoes to pinch my cheek. “You’re a cute little root bear.”
“All he drank was root beer,” she went on. “What else am I gonna call him?”
“Root Bear, meet Joss.” Jordan gestured behind the bar and Joss grinned in return. “Stage name is Jade. She’s the best damn bartender in this entire club. Her Manhattans will knock your socks off.”
“Nice to meet you,” I told her. “Do you all have gemstone alter-egos?”
Jordan laughed. “Most of us.”
“I also told him he needs to get on that stage a time or two,” Joss added.
“Oh, now there’s a thought.” Jordan eyed me from head to toe.
“Not gonna happen,” I confirmed.
Jordan and Joss shared smiles and goodbyes before Jordan led the way out of the club. We hit the cool night air, and Jordan strode off down the sidewalk. I paused under the club’s black awning and took a deep breath. Clarity flooded me now that I was away from the seductive lighting and bare bodies.
“What are you doing?” Jordan stopped about five paces away and looked back. “The subway station is this way.”
“I called for a car,” I told her. “He’ll be here any minute.”
She smirked. “I don’t use private cars to get home.”
“At ten o’clock on a Sunday night, you should.”
Her smirk turned into a sneer. “Thanks for the advice. The subway is perfectly fine, and it’s better for the environment. Anything else?”
“I’d like to review what I found inside the club tonight,” I told her. “I’d rather do that in a private space than in the middle of a crowd with uncounted strangers listening in.”
She bored a hole through my head with her gaze. Finally she said, “Fine. Guess it won’t hurt to experience your life of luxury just once before you’re gone forever.”
The shiny black Fairchild SUV rounded the corner, pulling up to the curb in front of me a moment later. The hazard lights blinked, and I gestured toward the tinted windows. “Ready?”
She trudged toward me, and I opened the door to the back seat, waiting patiently for her to climb in. I couldn’t pry my gaze off the flex of her ass as she stepped in, only able to see the bare half melons she’d been flaunting for the past five hours.
This assignment definitely needed to end. I trusted Jordan to follow through on her promise to fuck off once I handed over the final report.
Once we were both settled into the backseat, Legs waved from the driver’s seat.
“Hey there.” He twisted around, eagerness shining in his dark eyes. “I can’t believe I’m lookin’ at ya.”
Jordan’s brows scrunched together, and she glanced between Legs and me. “Do I know you?”
Legs thrust his hand between the front seats. “Name’s Legs. I’m a Fairchild driver.”
She received it hesitantly. “I’m Jordan.”
Legs let out a sharp laugh. “Don’t I know it! You’re all my guys have been talking about for the past two weeks. Can’t believe I’m seein’ you with my own eyes.”
Jordan shifted in her seat, nodding slowly. “Nice to meet you.”
“Have you seen the building yet?” Legs asked.
“What building?”
“The one they named after ya!” Legs laughed as he pulled ahead, merging into the flow of traffic. “You gotta see it. It’s a real beaut. You and Kaylee are on there.”
Jordan dipped her chin, saying nothing as she examined her nails. A dark cloud seemed to descend over her.
“We’ll be showing her sometime soon, I’m sure,” I offered. “Legs, I’ve got some things I need to go over with Jordan before she gets home.”
“All right, all right.” He waved me off. “You do your thing, I’ll do mine.”
Legs cranked some music in the front of the SUV. I cleared my throat, running through the mental snapshot of my list before I spoke.
“Okay. So your club has pretty good security. We didn’t pay to get in obviously, but is there typically a cover charge or any limits to admission?”
It took her a moment to look away from her nails before she shrugged. “They offer corporate packages sometimes. Free entry with the purchase of however many VIP rooms or something like that. Typically it’s $50 to get in at the door. They have a dress code, too.”
I nodded. I’d noticed that the entire place stayed classy. Not a ballcap in sight. “What happens in the VIP rooms?”
She hefted with a laugh. “Whatever you want.”
My stomach executed an unnatural squeeze. “Are you fucking people in there?”
“Me? No.”
“Do men expect it?”
A coy smile graced her lips. “They all want it. But they don’t get it. That’s how we make our money.”
“But if you turn them down and they get aggressive? What happens then?”
“They’re usually fine. We have a reputation for being a classier joint. Nobody really expects to get fucked in the VIP room. Though they push the limits whenever they can.”
“Are there cameras?”
“Not in the VIP rooms.”
It wasn’t quite enough for me. There were too many risks. “So what’s the escape plan when a group of men want to take what they think is theirs?”
Her mouth opened and closed a few times before she deflated slightly. “There’s a panic button. That’s it.”
I cleared my throat. “Which I’m sure you couldn’t reach in ninety-nine percent of emergency scenarios. Great.”
“It’s a risk we take for the job,” Jordan shot back. “The money is worth it.”
“Do any of these men ever follow you out of the club after your shift? Can they track you down?”
“I never give out my real name or number. They know me as Sapphire, and I have both a plan B and a plan C for men who push for my number.”
“You didn’t answer the rest of my questions.”
She lifted her chin. “Some have tried to follow me.”
“Jordan. This isn’t good.”
“What do you want me to say? It is what it is. And if your report is going to recommend I quit this job, well, you can fucking keep it to yourself.”
I rubbed my palms together, trying to strategize what a long-term game plan might look for her. The only thing I could think of was daily, on-the-scene protection—inside the club. But lord above, I wouldn’t survive an assignment like that.
I’d be putty in her hands within a month, tops, if I had to watch that performance multiple times per week.
I ran through the last few questions I had for her—mostly logistical things and layout concerns regarding the areas I’d never have access to—and we finished just as Legs pulled up to her apartment building.
“Couldn’t have gotten here a second sooner,” Jordan muttered, halfway out the door. “Thanks for the ride, Legs.”
“Send me your schedule for tomorrow as soon as you can,” I ordered her.
“We’ll see.” Then she slammed the door shut and strutted up to her apartment.
I watched her go, heaving a sigh.
“Sounds like another Fairchild firecracker,” Legs murmured, more to himself than to me. Thank God Jordan hadn’t been around to hear herself linked to that last name. She might have socked Legs in the face for it.
Once she was inside the building and the light of her apartment had flicked on, I relaxed into the back seat.
Tonight’s shift was over.
And if Jordan made good on her word, only one more to go.