Chapter 2
MARTINA
I freeze in my tracks as my brain scrambles for a way out, or a way around whoever’s huge palm just landed on my shoulder. Judging by the size of his hand, and the deepness of his voice, this man probably outweighs me by one hundred pounds.
I slowly turn around, half expecting to see a cartel goon, but instead it’s one of the leather-wearing giants from the end of the bar. Weighing the odds, I decide he is the lesser of two evils—until—
His hard face splits into a grin, a very sexy grin. “I know Ricky hired some new girls, but I gotta say, you are top of the line.”
“Top of the line?” Yeah, I know I should ignore his misogynist comment, but really . . . he makes me sound like a brand-new Lexus.
He blatantly eyes me from head to toe. “Ohhhh, yeah, you are definitely Grade-A.”
Great. I’ve gone from a shiny new car in the showroom to a piece of prime rib.
I shuffle away from him, but he moves with me. “Don’t be afraid; I ain’t gonna bite.”
“Uhhh, I was just looking for the ladies’ room.” When in doubt, always go with what frightens men most—all the workings of the female body.
“Sure, sure.” He points farther down the hallway. “That’s for the public, but you can use the one in the dressing room.”
“Dressing room?”
“Yeah, you passed it back there.” He points behind him. “It’s the second door on the right.” He lets his eyes travel over my black crop top and leggings. “I’m Diesel, and the party tonight is for me. It’s my birthday.”
“Ohhhh, well, happy birthday.”
“Yeah, this birthday is definitely shaping up nicely.” He waves his huge hand over me. “What kinda costume is this?”
“It’s not my costume; it’s—”
“Well, you better get changed, ‘cause the party’s gonna start soon, and I can’t wait to see what you got to offer.”
I was so close to the back door, I could make a run for it, or I could just play along. Decisions, decisions.
“I don’t give a fuck,” the gorilla guarding the back door yells. “Boss says you’re late.”
“Ahhh, c’mon, I’m only a little late.” The guy on the other side of the door is hidden by the biker’s bulk, but it doesn’t matter. I’d know that whiny, manipulating voice anywhere—Eduardo.
I look around Diesel at the same time the biker at the door shifts. Eduardo’s eyes bug out, and we stare at each other for a split second before the biker slams the door in Eduardo’s face.
Decision made.
“As you said, I better get in my costume.” I smile sweetly at my new best friend. “Wouldn’t want to be late for my performance.”
Plan C morphed into a very shaky Plan D.
As of tonight, I’m officially a stripper. Had a lot of crazy jobs over the years, but this would be a new one to add to my resume. Now, all I have to do is find a costume and learn how to dance in sky-high stilettos while taking my clothes off.
I throw Diesel my sweetest smile then backtrack to the dressing room, which is noisier and more chaotic than the strip club. Women of all shapes and sizes are scrambling around in different directions in all stages of undress.
A woman in five-inch stilettos towers over me. “Hey, honey, are you one of the new girls?”
“Yes,” I say while taking it all in. A long lighted mirror covers one wall with a counter under it and chairs.
Tubes of makeup, mascara, and eyeliner pencils share space with personal pictures and even a few plants.
Costumes and articles of clothing are strewn over chairs and jammed together on a rack in the back of the room.
Accessories ranging from ball caps to furry boas, and even a bull whip hangs from hooks along the opposite wall.
Maybe it would be easier than I thought to find a costume.
She eyes me up and down, similar to Diesel, then clucks her tongue. “You’re awfully skinny, but we can make that work.”
“We?”
“I’m Danica, and I kinda run shit around this madhouse.” She spins me around. “What are you, like a size four?”
I nod. “Sometimes a two.”
“Holy shit, you are tiny.” She grabs my hand and half drags me to the clothing rack in the back of the room.
“Who’s she?” A tall brunette with the biggest boobs I’ve ever seen narrows her eyes and frowns.
“New girl.” Danica’s already swiping through the tangle of clothing on the rack.
The brunette slams her hands on her wide hips, and somehow her boobs get bigger. “Ricky hired you for the party?”
I nod, remembering my bestie biker’s words about it being his birthday.
“Don’t go giving her shit, Chantel.” Danica sifts through the assortment of costumes. “She’s just trying to make a buck like the rest of us.”
“Well, don’t go giving her any of my stuff ‘cause it’s all custom-made.”
“Right, at Sluts R Us,” Danica mumbles, and I chuckle. Then she waves her hand over me and turns on Chantel. “Like anything you wear would fit her tiny body.”
Chantel huffs out a breath, struts out of the room, and I’m awed by her confidence. Sure, I’m a daredevil, but I’ve always been self-conscious about my figure—or lack of a figure.
“Don’t give her a second thought.” Danica flicks her wrist in Chantel’s direction. “First of all, her real name is Brandi.” She rolls her eyes like the name explains everything. “And like a lot of us, she’s here in Tijuana ‘cause she ran from something in the States.”
Danica leans in. “Texas to be exact. Seems her abusive boyfriend was cooking meth in their double-wide, and when the damn fool blew himself up, Brandi just stood outside and watched. Let that fucker burn like a steak on the bar-b-cue.”
I manage to keep my face expressionless, but, shit—note to self, stay far the fuck away from Chantel.
“Me,” Danica points to herself, “I was stripping in a dump in Cali until the DEA raided the joint, hauled the owner off to jail, and put a padlock on the place. So, I came down here with another gal, and they hired us on the spot, no references, no questions about my past, and paid in cash every week.”
“Nice.” I glance over my shoulder, half expecting Eduardo to swoop in any minute. That was the bad thing about paranoia. Even though I knew it was impossible, it still freaked me out.
“Here we go.” Danica holds up a sequined neon-yellow pair of chaps and a matching bikini top. “This is perfect.”
Okay, I could do this. The only thing really exposed would be my ass cheeks. I point to the matching string looped over the hanger. “Where does that go, around my neck?”
“Oh, honey, you’re a hoot. That’s a G-string for underneath.” Danica points to the snaps on the chaps. “They’re rip-away pants.”
I press my lips together to keep my mouth from dropping open.
“Let’s get you ready.” She bundles everything into my arms and pushes me toward a curtained-off area in the back of the room. “What size shoe are you, hon?”
“Seven.”
“Okay, that should be easy enough.” Danica turns toward a large plastic bin and rummages through a jumble of shoes that resemble weapons.
Once behind the curtain, I stare into the mirror and briefly wonder how my life got so off-track. Of course, I know the answer lies with me trusting Eduardo, but right now, it’s all gas, no brakes. High speed and going off the rails hard and fast.
“How’re doin’, hon?” Danica calls through the curtain.
“Okay.” I hear the crack in my voice, but what choice do I have?
Eduardo clearly saw me before and is most likely waiting to pounce right outside the club with that maniac Benito.
Or maybe he even wheedled his way back into the club.
When it comes to conniving and conning people, my brother is the master.
Either way, my only chance is staying in this crowded club, even if it means getting up on that stage and taking off most of my clothes.
I swallow hard, peel off my top and leggings, then proceed to figure out the intricacies of stripper clothes.
The top is basically a bikini, but the G-string is another story.
The sequined band is less than an inch wide with a small—no, tiny—patch in the front.
It takes a bit of adjusting to put it all in place while keeping the sequins from scratching my more delicate parts. Kind of like an erotic Rubik’s Cube.
The curtain swooshes open, and Danica stands, hands on hips.
“Shit, you look amazing.” She circles me.
“When you rip away these pants, those guys are gonna lose their minds.” She hustles me over to one of the makeup tables, and I sit while she rummages through her makeup bag.
“I know this is your first night, but next time, you gotta bring your own shit, okay?”
“Oh, yes, of course.” Hopefully, my first night would be my last.
Danica quickly does the basics with eyeliner and mascara, compliments my perfect tawny skin (thanks, Mom) then spins me toward the mirror.
“Wow.” I’ve never been the girl who wore a lot of makeup, and after the last six months in captivity, a shower every other day is a luxury, but I really look good.
“All right, ladies, you’re up in five,” a male voice calls from the door.
“That’s Ricky. He manages the place, and he’s also a Royal Bastard.”
“A Royal Bastard?” What on earth does that mean?
“The guys who hired you, sweetie. They’re part of the Royal Bastards MC. They own this place and tons of other shit in Tijuana.” Danica leans in. “I had my eye on Smoke, the president, but he’s hooked up with a cartel princess.”
“Are the Royal Bastards connected to the cartel?” Just my luck, I probably walked into another trap without even knowing it.
“No, no, apparently the Bastards offed some cartel boss, and that’s how they got this place and the fight club.”
“Fight club?” Now that’s something I could get behind.
“Yeah, about ten minutes from here, just outside the city—underground cage fighting. They even brought on women recently. Supposed to be a huge moneymaker. Got so big, they added on to the gym, then put on a second floor to house the fighters.”
“Interesting.”
“Forget that shit. There’s no fuckin’ way I’d want to get my brains beat in. Had enough of that with my ex.”