K. Tucker - Four Seconds to Lose

Throwing a light jacket over himself to conceal it—he’ll die wearing that in the summer heat, but concealing your weapon is a law in Florida and I guess Cain is a law-abiding citizen—he walks over and, with one hand on the small of my back, ushers me toward the door. It’s not exactly rude, but it’s also far from polite. With me in the hall, he pulls his office door shut and marches out the back exit, not turning once.

I’m left standing alone, inhaling the faint scent of beer, my ears catching someone testing the sound system. The one that will play music that I strip to tomorrow night.

I take a deep breath as a rash of butterflies swirl through my stomach, the sudden urge to let loose my bladder overwhelming.

It’s not a big deal.

Mom did this.

I can do this.

After everything I’ve done, that I’ve been accomplice to, taking my top off in front of a bunch of drunks is nothing. I deserve to suffer a bit.

I glance down at the paperwork in my hand. He said he wants a copy of my license. That’s fine. The only accurate thing on it is my picture.

“Hi, Cain.”

She pushes one of those big, blond curls back over her bare shoulder, drawing my attention to her neck. It’s such a flirtatious move but, with Penny, I don’t believe she does it intentionally. “How are you, tonight?” She closes the distance and a delicate hand skates over my arm, as it does every time she greets me before her shift. Shivers run along my skin, as they do every time she touches me.

“I’m good, Penny.” I’m so much taller than her that, when she stands directly in front of me, she needs to dip her head back to peer at me. It gives me the best view of that wide mouth that I came so close to kissing last night. So close to giving in to a selfish urge.

I wish things could be different between us, but they can’t.

She deserves so much better than me.

Knowing that is what stopped me from kissing her last night, though she was obviously hoping for it.

I force myself to sound like I care when I ask, “How is Roger doing? I hope you two have plans for the holidays?” He’ll give her a good life. He’s a quiet plumber in his thirties who follows her around the club and desperately wants her to quit. They could have a nice life together. She’d be away from this world.

I can’t give her any of that. This is where I belong.

I catch the slightest furrow cross her brow before it’s gone. She tucks her hair behind her ear and steps back, swallowing before she speaks. “Oh . . . good. He’s good. Yes, we’re going to meet his mother.” Nodding her head as if to confirm her words, she tucks the same strand in a second time. “I should go and get dressed.”

I watch her walk away, drowning in my disappointment.

I know she’s not Penny.

And yet, as I race my black Navigator down the street—with the air-conditioning cranked to max—toward Cherry’s apartment, to deal with impending disaster, the name Penny plays over and over inside my head. Those blond curls, those full red lips, the eyes outlined in heavy black kohl that make me wonder what she looks like without makeup. Decent body , my ass! People pay thousands to have that beautiful hourglass figure. And those tits are fucking perfect. Plastic surgeons would use her as a design model. She doesn’t even need a bra to keep them up. She obviously wasn’t wearing one today when she slid her dress off.

Just like Penny that first day she walked into my dive of a club, asking for a job.

I don’t fuck my staff. Ever. I’m here to help them get on their feet and away from the sex trade, not drag them down further by being the sleazy boss who treats them like whores. From that day almost nine years ago, when I laid down the payment for The Bank—the club I owned before opening up Penny’s—I’ve maintained that code with stoic resolve. Of course, a young guy surrounded by strippers throwing themselves at him daily was a true test of willpower.

I had a lot of cold showers those first few months.

I figured I’d be fine. Then Penny walked in and, well, she was impossible to ignore.

Impossible not to love within seconds.

And if I had just stuck to my policy and stayed away from her in the first place, she wouldn’t have ended up with her head bashed in just steps away from my office.

If Penny’s death did anything, it stopped me from ever getting distracted from my purpose in this business. It sure as hell isn’t love.

Here I was, thinking I had put that tragedy behind me and moved on. Until tonight, a Penny lookalike walks in and blows my recovery to smithereens.

What did I do? I gawked at her like a fucking pervert. I stared at her body, I avoided her polite handshake, I made her squirm under my gaze.

And then she dropped her dress and that spark—the strange concoction of intrigue, hope, and lust that’s so much stronger than just a waiting naked body should provoke—hit me. The one I have felt only once before. When Penny walked into my office.

I went hard as a rock in an instant.

Ginger was right, though. She’s different. Unreadable, for the most part. Not cold, but she’s either very skilled at controlling her expressions or she’s not expressive at all. Aside from that blush when I pulled her dress up, she seemed unfazed through the entire ordeal. And that’s not normal. In all the years, in all the interviews, I’ve never seen a woman so calm as she asks for a job in my club. The women are always nervous. They’re usually flirting heavily. Once in a while, I’ll turn my back for a second and find them spread-eagled on my desk.

Not this woman, though . . .

She has never worked a private room. I caught that hard swallow when she stated that she’d like to work both. Either that or . . . she has worked a private room before and something bad happened. I’m keeping her out until I find out which it is.

I’ll certainly be passing her paperwork on to my private investigator. The one who does the kind of in-depth background checks average employers don’t bother with. I know it’s not normal, but I’m not normal and I won’t let any illicit shit get dragged into my place, derailing everything I’ve worked so hard to build.

Speaking of illicit . . . I pull into the parking lot outside Cherry’s apartment complex, wondering how long before this goes sideways.

“You sure you’re fine?” Nate’s booming voice thunders over the Bluetooth speaker in my Nav.

“Yeah,” I mutter. The passing streetlights cast enough light to reveal my swollen knuckles. I can’t believe I injured my hand, but I guess it has been a while since I’ve cracked a jaw with my punch. Years, actually. Despite the multitude of close encounters in this business, I’ve rarely had to lay a finger on the lowlifes that my employees naturally draw to themselves. Nate’s shadow passing over them typically has them running before there’s a need.

But Cherry’s ex is a special kind of scumbag—a small-time coke dealer with a penchant for slapping around pretty strippers. I guess he thought the “never so much as bat an eye at Cherry again” warning had a one-year expiration date. A more permanent removal from Cherry’s life was necessary.

And I think we made sure of that tonight.

While waiting for me outside Cherry’s apartment, Nate saw her son playing at the neighbor’s place, so we knew he wasn’t in imminent danger. A quick walk by Cherry’s window found her bent over the couch, clearly not fighting him off, while the jerk-off plowed into her from behind, in prime view of anyone passing by.