Chapter 3
MARTINA
Diesel shoots a look to the guy next to him, who huffs out a laugh, like they’re in on a joke I’m not privy to. He pushes away from the table and heads in my direction. His grin—no, smirk—doesn’t reach his eyes as he focuses on me, like we are the only two in the loud, raucous room.
My hands flutter at my sides, not sure if I should cover my mid-section or my lower region. The bikini top, although much more revealing than what I would usually wear, is covering the most skin.
His broad hand moves to the small of my back, turning me in the other direction. “You were really good up there.” He jerks his chin at the stage.
“Thanks.” I tilt my head, but even with the ridiculously high heels on, he’s still got at least five inches on me.
He eases me along the wall behind the stage until we come to another door. He nods to the unsmiling bouncer, who swipes a plastic card over a keypad, and a second later, the door pops open.
Diesel extends his arm, and again I crane my neck to look up at him, my eyes wide.
“We’ll have more privacy in here.”
“Ohhh, I don’t think so.” I unsuccessfully try to keep the stammer out of my voice.
Diesel slaps his palm against the door, holding it wider. “Sure.”
Sure? I didn’t ask a question; I made a comment. “I have to give these clothes back to Danica.”
“What clothes?” His gaze burns through me, his dark eyes on fire.
He does have a point. You can hardly call what I’m wearing clothes. “True, I guess more like strips of material arranged in strategic places.”
He barks out a rough laugh. “Good one.”
I hug my arms around myself. “I’m so cold.” Actually, his intense gaze heats me from the inside out.
I hold up the crush of bills in my hand. “And I’d like to put this money someplace safe.” Money I intend to use for my escape. Even facing Eduardo outside would be better than being alone with a man who could bench-press me with one hand while snapping me in two with the other.
Diesel turns to the bouncer. “Go into the dressing room and get her a robe or some shit so she ain’t cold.”
“Right, Boss.”
“Problem solved.” Diesel angles me into the room, and the door whooshes closed behind me.
The lighting is low, but bright enough to see a black granite bar on one wall stocked with premium liquor and what looks like expensive glassware.
A U-shaped leather banquette runs along the opposite wall, across from a flatscreen TV.
In the other corner, three stairs lead to a stripper pole showered in star lights embedded the ceiling.
Much more upscale than I expected, but still—
“Sit.” He busies himself behind the bar, filling a short glass with two fingers of Jack Daniels. “Relax.”
Relax? Was he fucking kidding? I ease onto the edge of the couch, and the cold leather shocks my bare skin, along with the thought of who else and what else might’ve been on this couch.
“You want something to drink?”
“Ahhhh, no.” Drinking is not a good idea, but maybe . . .
Diesel comes around the bar and pulls a bottle of champagne out of an ice bucket on the kidney-shaped table in front of the couch. He easily pops the cork, pours some of the bubbly liquid into a glass and holds it out to me.
He either didn’t hear me, or, more likely, didn’t care about my answer.
“Go ahead,” he encourages. “You deserve it after that performance.”
Against my better judgment, I take a big swig. Yes, it’s good, and, no, it still isn’t a good idea.
The door opens, and the bouncer returns. He thrusts a short satin robe at me, and I gratefully slip it on, tying it tightly around me. Like a thin silky sash would deter Diesel, whose hands could easily palm a basketball. Not.
Diesel nods to the bouncer, and he returns to his post outside the door.
I check the robe, but no pockets, and since I’m almost naked underneath, I have no place to stash the money.
“Give it here.” Diesel holds out his hand. “I’ll hold it for you till you change.”
I pause for a heartbeat, and he laughs. “Don’t worry, I ain’t gonna steal it, just gonna keep it safe.”
Truth. He probably had duffel bags full of big bills similar to the banded money she strapped to her body four times a month for Benito.
Diesel takes the money, fans through it and looks at me. “Not bad.” He folds the bills in half and stuffs them into the pocket of his jeans. “Make sure you don’t leave money laying around this place, ‘cause there’s always somebody ready to snatch it up.”
“I’ll remember that.”
“You’re kinda different.” He eyes me as he sips his drink.
“Different?”
“You ain’t a sweet butt or a house mouse, and you haven’t looked at my patches once, so you ain’t a star gazer.” He gulps down more whiskey. “I’m thinking you’re more of a ride or die chick.”
“Maybe I should’ve asked the bouncer to stay as an interpreter.”
His hard face breaks into a smile. “A sweet butt is where I’d get my dick wet, a house mouse keeps my room clean, and a star gazer is only interested in being with an officer of the club.”
Frightening explanation, but concise.
“But a ride or die chick has your back. Somebody ready to step in the shit with you, no matter what.”
“And you’re thinking I’m this ride or die one?”
“Could be, hard to say just yet, but you definitely ain’t the other three.”
I didn’t know where to put all this information, but Diesel’s honesty was both endearing and scary at the same time.
“How long have you been stripping?”
I glance at the imaginary clock on the wall. “Not long.” More like not ever.
“Where’s the last place you danced?”
“Mission Beach, California.” Spitting out my hometown probably wasn’t a good idea.
“No shit, I spent some time around there before I hauled my ass to Tijuana. What was the name of the place?”
“By the beach, I really don’t remember.” ‘Cause it never happened.
He sets his glass on the table, narrows his eyes, and I pull the robe tighter around me.
“You wanna know what I think?” He throws his thick arm over the back of the sofa.
“Sure.” Anything to delay the inevitable, when he’d throw me over his shoulder, then pin me to this couch, covering me with his muscled body.
My head would tell me to resist at all costs, but then I’d feel his heat and strength surrounded by the erotic scent of leather, whiskey and male.
He’d spread my legs wide, then tease my clit with his tongue seconds before he’d thrust into me, relentlessly pounding my pussy until I screamed out from the best orgasm—ever.
“Am I right?” He’s waiting for an answer to a question I missed while I indulged in my sextasy.
“Well, I—”
The door bangs open, and the bouncer appears again.
“What the fuck!” Diesel bellows.
“Smoke wants to see you.”
“Now?”
“Right now.”
“Shit!” Diesel turns to me. “I’ll be right back.” He pushes off the couch, then stops at the door and points to me. “Don’t move.”
Yeah, right.
I gulp the rest of the champagne, and two seconds later, I vault to the door, pull it open, and come face-to-face with the grim reaper, I mean bouncer.
“Diesel wants you to stay.”
“The thing is . . . ummm, I need to use the ladies’ room.”
The bouncer’s lips twist, then he jerks his head. “Make it quick.”
It just amazes me how that excuse works every damn time on men.
I edge past my jailor and head toward the dressing room. I’ll get dressed, and then—shit—my money. Diesel has my money.
All right, new plan. I’ll get dressed, then approach Diesel and ask for my money.
Fully clothed, I’ll have a better advantage.
After all, it is my money. Hopefully, he’ll see it the same way because staying here and doing anything with Diesel would be an obvious mistake.
A hotter-than-hell mistake, but mistake nonetheless.
I’m about fifteen feet from the dressing room when Diesel and two of the other bikers barrel out of a room a little farther down the hallway. I duck into the alcove for the public bathrooms and listen.
“You must have a fuckin’ death wish,” one of the bikers yells, followed by something or someone being slammed up against the wall.
“Yeah, this is a private party.” Definitely Diesel’s gravelly rasp. “You make us wait, we tell you to get lost, but you sneak in anyway,” he continues. “Then the bouncer tells us you’re in one of the private rooms.”
“He wasn’t doing anything wrong.” A female voice.
“Stay outta this, Chantel,” Diesel says.
Chantel, the bitchy stripper in the dressing room.
Who in their right mind would even chance pissing off these men? Their bulk and muscle alone would dissuade most people. Plus, I’m sure I caught a glimpse of a shoulder holster under Diesel’s leather vest earlier.
“No, no, no, wait. You don’t understand.”
Oh. My. God. Eduardo.
“Don’t understand what?” Diesel again. “That you can’t show up to a meeting late, then come in here uninvited after we threw your sorry ass out?”
“I just thought—”
“Well, you thought wrong, fucker.”
Yup, that’s my brother, always thinking the rules don’t apply to him.
“Throw him the fuck out,” Diesel orders.
My idiot brother continues to whine and protest, then more shifting of bodies, cursing, and the slamming of the door.
“Shit, nobody got time for this,” Diesel complains. “Especially when I got a hot stripper waiting for me. On my birthday.”
My heart pounds hard, then thumps in my throat. I’m the hot stripper. Getting my money from Diesel and leaving might be harder than I thought.
“I promise, no more interruptions.” Laughter and back slaps fill the hallway. “Go get your birthday fuck on.”
Especially if he thought he was about to get laid. Had I suddenly been demoted from “ride or die” to “sweet butt”? So much for retrieving my money.
I carefully peek around the alcove. Two of them are still by the back door, but Diesel’s heading up the hallway.
A few more steps and he’ll definitely see me, so I duck into the ladies’ room.
I’ll wait a few seconds. The others should go back to the party, and by the time Diesel realizes I’m not in the private room and comes looking for me, I’ll be dressed and gone.
Taking my chances of Eduardo catching me has become the lesser of two evils.
I lean against the tile wall of the bathroom, which is probably never used, seeing the clientele is mostly men, and my mind spins. What could Eduardo possibly have to do with these bikers? Whatever it is can’t be good.
Maybe he’s into them for money too, but no.
It sounded more like he was late for a meeting.
Not a surprise. My mother would tell him an hour before the actual time, and even then he’d be late.
No accountability, ever. As much as I still want to save my twin from whatever mess he’s in now, I have to put me first for once.
Okay, moment of truth.
I ease the door open, slip out into the alcove, press my back against the wall, then peek around the corner.
“Shit!” The same two bikers are still by the back door.
One is waving his hand around as if they are in deep conversation.
Couldn’t they have their water cooler moment somewhere else?
If I wait any longer, Diesel will come looking for me, and I have no intentions of going back in that private room.
I have to make a break for it, as they say in the movies.
I gather the robe tighter, glance at the two bikers who are still in deep conversation, then I slip off the stilettos and make a beeline for the dressing room. I push through the door, and a huge palm slaps the door way over my head.
“Goin’ somewhere?”
Without my stilettos on, I almost have to do a back bend to look up at this man with the soulful eyes. Eyes that have the power to see right through me.
“I just wanted to change.”
“I just wanted to have a good time.” He stares down at me. “But I ain’t never had to beg.”
“I’m not known for good times. Screwed-up times, fucked-up times, I’m your girl, so believe me, you’re better off without my brand of trouble.”
A deep chuckle rumbles in his chest. “See now, there you go intriguing me again.”
“Intriguing you?”
“Like before when you were up on stage. At first, I said to Smoke, you looked scared shitless, like you’d never stripped before, then, all of a sudden, you took off like a rocket. Owning that stage and making it yours. You had those guys coming in their pants.”
I wince. “That’s quite a visual.”
“And that’s another thing, you’re fuckin’ funny as shit.” He huffs out another laugh. “What did you say before about needing an interpreter? Fuckin’ priceless.”
“Glad I made you laugh on your birthday, but . . .”
“Look, we need more strippers, and from what I saw tonight, you got what it takes, so if you’re looking for regular work . . .”
“I appreciate the offer, but . . .” Okay, so I was scared shitless up on stage at first, but then the music took over, and something weird happened—my body moved with the beat, and I let the crowd guide me.
Truth, it was intoxicating and addicting, like my martial arts competitions—only more, much more.
“C’mon,” Diesel encourages. “The money’s good, and you’d have a following, guaranteed.”
In any other circumstance, in any other world, it would’ve been a hard no, but with no money to my name, on the run from my crazy brother and the cartel . . .
“Let me think about it.”
“Fuck, yeah.”
I didn’t question his meaning because, well, he’s an outlaw biker. I’d get up on stage again and make more money, then hint around about needing a passport. Who better to hook me up than an outlaw? Who knows? This might work out after all.
I play it cool. Instinct tells me not to appear desperate or too eager, but my insides are churning. If the money is as good as Diesel promised, and I work on his sympathies regarding the passport, I might be back in the States before the end of the month.
With a little practice, I’ll bet I could do an inverted V.
Yeah, I’ve done some reading up on it. Truth, it was a secret fantasy to work the pole.
I even considered joining a stripper pole exercise class until saving my brother’s sorry ass landed me south of the border working for the cartel, and now, in a Tijuana strip club owned and operated by bikers. My life just keeps moving backwards.
Diesel’s warm hand burns through the silk robe. “How about you and me have the drink that got interrupted before?”
He angles me toward the back of the room, but I step aside. “Only if we have it out here at the bar.”
He stares down at me, his expression unreadable. Probably very helpful when doing drug deals and smuggling guns, but freaking scary when contemplating a cocktail at the bar.