CHAPTER 3
I hate days like this, when pain is my steady companion upon waking. It makes spending the day surrounded by bright lights and loud music a cacophony of torture, and in those moments, I want nothing more than to sell my share of the club and be done with the alcohol, women, and pasties.
It wasn’t always this way. There was a time when the migraines were few and far between, when I used to feel like what I was doing here mattered. The women reminded me of Elle. They were at risk in the same way she was. Protecting them gave me a purpose. One I couldn’t easily walk away from.
After all, if I didn’t look after these ladies, who would?
But this? This right here, is bullshit. It makes me want to pull every silver hair from my head. The bass is a sharp knife splitting my skull apart. The song choice and the sight of another girl without the necessary skills to do the job—it’s a fucking medley of torment.
I used to have more patience for this shit. After five years, I’m worn the fuck out. Running a strip club means many moving parts and a ton of drama. I’ve done what I can to minimize it, but it’s still too much sometimes.
I rub my forehead. “Seriously… what is this? What in the fuck is she doin’?”
Bodie, my HOC brother and best friend, tilts his head to the side. Maybe he thinks a different angle will give him deeper insight. “Uh-mmm… walkin’ like an Egyptian is my guess? Or it could be that modern dance shit Blaire likes.”
A frustrated groan rumbles out of me. How is this my life?
Raven, the best assistant manager in the world, stands off to the side of the stage waiting for my signal. I give her a slight shake of my head. That’s all it takes for her to stop the music, thank the girl, and lead her off the stage.
A short-haired, dark-skinned woman with more than a few handfuls of curves is up next. Her best move is a dolphin dive where she belly flops on the stage, then proceeds to hump it to the beat.
Bodie rewards her with a standing ovation. Only when she’s escorted offstage does he plop back into his seat beside me and laughs like an idiot. “Oh my God! Please hire her. I need that girl in my life.”
I glare at him and massage my temples. As the auditions progress, I pop half a dozen aspirin.
The potential is here to make this place a goldmine. However, the locale and the available talent have hindered its success.
Another dancer takes the stage, and it’s another no.
“But I haven’t even taken off my bra yet,” the busty brunette whines.
Bodie smacks my chest. “Yeah, man, let her at least take off her bra first.” The girl hears him and frowns.
Her gaze darts between us, like Bodie has a say, and maybe if she can convince him, she’ll get the job.
I elbow his side hard enough that he’ll feel it tomorrow.
The grunt followed by a curse is music to my ears.
The man has been a pain in my ass for longer than I can remember. Literally.
“You ready for the next one?” Raven calls out.
No, but fuck, it has to be done. “How many left?”
“Two.”
My woeful groan is all in my head. I nod grimly, then look up to curse the man upstairs. Am I really asking for too much here? C’mon.
Bodie grins and rubs his hands together. “This shit is just gettin’ good.”
I hear Raven kindly say, “You’re on, honey. Knock ’em dead.”Then the music kicks in, and ‘Bawitdaba’ by Kid Rock blasts through the speakers.
A young, fresh-looking blonde steps onto the stage wearing a red two-piece, fishnets, and clunky heels. She doesn’t appear comfortable in the shoes. If anything, she’s unsteady. She has little curves to speak of, but some men love that sort of thing.
If I had to guess, she’s a college student looking for a way to pay that hefty tuition bill.
You do this long enough, it’s easier to spot what category the girls fall into: single mom, college student, lifers—girls who get addicted to the attention and never want to give it up, and the Annies—the girls searching in the wrong place for their version of Daddy Warbucks.
She spins around the pole with some skill, and for a spare second, I think maybe I judged her too quickly. There’s some raw talent there.
As soon as the thought hits me, the girl slips. She falls, and I swear to God, the sound of her head cracking on the stage echoes.
“Shit!” I’m not sure who shouts it—maybe both of us at once—as Bodie and I jump up and race toward her. We swiftly assess the damage, much like we used to do in the field back in our Ranger days, when he was just Rivers to me, a West Coast beach bum turned soldier.
The girl moans as she comes to. She reaches for the back of her head, but Bodie pulls her hand away and holds her arm down.
He begins asking her questions to gauge her awareness.
I get a quick flash of memory of him doing the same to me after the Humvee incident we nearly died in.
It’s one of the memories I haven’t lost track of, and this moment brings it to the surface.
While he takes care of the girl, I call for an ambulance, and Bodie’s baby blue eyes meet mine as soon as I end the call. They say she seems fine, but fuck, she landed hard. Hope you have good insurance, man.
Bodie tells her to relax until they get here.
Staring at the girl, all I can think is… this is a sign, right? Because it sure as fuck feels like one.
For a moment, I let myself think about what that would look like—more time to work in my woodshop, more time helping the women in Veno’s circle get back to their families. However, if I push any harder, it might draw too much attention, and that means blowback for the club.
“What can I do to help?”
The voice cuts through my morbid thoughts.
It washes over me like aged bourbon. There’s a sultry elegance to each word.
A divinely feminine lyrical quality to it.
My focus snaps away from the girl and up.
For a moment, the overhead lights momentarily blind me.
An outline of a shapely form stands over me, her face in shadow.
Her curves, though, are insane. The golden glow hitting her skin and hair makes her appear otherworldly.
I know it’s merely a trick of the light, but it feels as if someone upstairs is telling me to pay fucking attention.
So, I do. I eat up the vision before me.
The word angel pings in my mind, but no, there are no wings attached to this beauty.
“Is she okay?” Her voice stirs up an image of a meadow filled with wildflowers in my mind. I’m not sure why, maybe it’s her scent that triggers the memory, but the connection to that visceral image is instant, and it leaves behind a feeling of lingering warmth.
She drops to her knees beside me, face pinched with concern. I take note of her long, French-tipped nails and olive skin as she reaches out and asks her directly if she’s all right. When her gaze slowly pans to me, I’m struck stupid.
I see women, beautiful women, all the time. But this woman is next-level stunning. Her most prominent features are her angular cheekbones and plush lips, until her eyes steal the show. They’re a captivating blue, with an inner ring of a honey hue around the pupil.
Time— whatever the fuck it is —sort of shifts to a halt as our gazes tangle together. Me… I’m over here trying to understand how this exotic creature practically landed in my lap. Like, where the fuck did she come from?
A blush blooms over her cheeks, and she shyly looks away. Her hair is long as hell, rich brown with lighter strands, the ends curling over her ample chest. As I take in the rest of her, I see that my assessment of her is correct. She’s unreal. Every bit of her is pleasing to the eye.
Too perfect. Almost suspiciously so. I continue to stare until her lips twist as she fights a smirk.
“She’s gonna be fine, but damn, gorgeous, where’d you come from?” Bodie’s voice snaps me out of the trance I’ve fallen into.
She folds her hands in her lap. “Backstage. I was supposed to go on next.”
Her sultry voice is infused with Southern charm. The accent has a lyrical quality, making her words flow seamlessly into one another and sound sweeter than they are.
When we both continue to eye-fuck her, she becomes visibly nervous and runs her fingers through her hair, sweeping from left to right.
Her scent works like a fucking defibrillator, burrowing deeply into my chest. It’s alluring and seductive, but also soft.
A gentle floral scent with hints of raspberry.
It wakes my dormant libido and kickstarts it into overdrive instantly.
Because yeah, my dick perked right the fuck up.
I’m so caught off guard by it, I sway in my crouched position, dropping to a knee and planting my fingertips on the floor to steady myself, so I don’t, you know, eat shit and end up on my ass over this woman.
A familiar blast of pain hits behind my eyes. Pressing my palm to my temple, I apply pressure and bear it.
Bodie speaks, but it’s a murmur to me as picture-like images flash behind my eyes.
A cholo, Veno Chavez, wearing a black folded bandana over his forehead and eyebrows.
An adversary I know well. The three blue teardrop tattoos below the corner of his eye and the scorpion neck tattoo are his most distinguishable features.
His face is pinched in pure rage. He’s shouting and pushing a nine-millimeter into a girl’s mouth, a teenager with bleached hair. Wild strands cover half her beat-to-shit face. One of her eyes is swollen to the point it’s completely shut.
I catalogue the details as the memories begin to fracture. A torn black dress. Matching ballet flats with pink flowers on the toes. The arrow tattoo with script, and a pink hummingbird inked on her hand. A full garbage bag at her feet. We’re all standing in a dirty alley.
And then there’s the fact she’s warning me to stay back with one hand, while seeming to beg Veno for her life with her wide and tear-filled eyes.
My little bird.