Crystal Green - Born to be Bad

To her credit, she didn’t back down. “I like the name. Cuffs. What exactly does it mean?”

Should he tell her it was an homage to the retired cops and blue-collar fellows who liked to hang out here?

“Use your imagination,” he said instead.

“Well, you’re not one for hiding behind social niceties, are you?”

“Never.” Not since his dad had gotten worked over. Not since Martin Theroux had died from the shame brought on by the ruins of his life. Not since his son had decided that being bad was the only way to live good.

“You’re not the type of guy who’d take pity on a woman in need and hire her out of the kindness of your heart?”

“Not as a waitress.”

“Then what…? Oh.”

There it went. The lightbulb. That’s right, Damien thought. Think the worst.

New Orleans cathouses were notorious, especially with men who dealt in Damien’s area. He didn’t know if Gem realized he ran a private gaming room in addition to his legitimate businesses, but going along with her assumption that he engaged in illicit dealings didn’t bother him in the least.

Prostitution and drugs were part of the scene. They drew in customers, served as perks. Gaming downstairs, sex upstairs. That’s how it worked.

Except for Damien. He was in it for the “marks”—victims—and the fleecing. Not that anyone needed to know why he kept his gaming clean of hookers and dope.

The more horrible his reputation, the easier it would be for him to survive.

“I’m not…” Gem gestured with her hands, waving them somewhere around her chest. “You know…”

“That sort of girl?”

She didn’t say anything.

Their gazes caught, and something unspoken passed from her to him. His blood jolted in his veins, warming, boiling.

What the hell was she about?

“Damien!”

He let go of Gem’s shirt, knowing that voice. “Roxy.”

A buxom redhead with streaks of gray framing her elfin features sauntered over to the dark corner, a jaded gleam in her eyes. “Who’s this here?”

“Ms. James was just leaving.”

“I’m needing help, you fool.” Roxy grabbed Gem’s hand, tugging the young woman toward her. “I heard the two of you. She asks for a job, and you putter around the subject. Look at her, would you. She’s what our customers like—pretty and young. I tell you, Damien Theroux, no more interviews for you. Stick to the upstairs work.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He gave her a lazy salute. Only two people in the world could ever talk to him like this— Roxy and his maman, bless her soul. Everyone else could go to the devil.

With a long-suffering sigh, Roxy took Gem’s hand and placed it between both of hers. “You need a job, baby, here it is. I’m shorthanded since Eva quit days ago, and Damien could care less. I hope you can look past him and be my savior?”

Gem’s smile almost lit the room. Damien sucked in a breath, then moved away, creating distance.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” Gem hugged the older woman, then clapped her hands once. “When do I start?”

“How ’bout now? Our busy time is some hours away, and I’ll want you up and running. We’ll consider this a test run tonight. How does that sound?”

“Great. I’ll be great. But may I make one quick phone call first?”

“Please.” Roxy snapped an impertinent glance to Damien, then shook her moneymaker in the direction of the bar. Gem herself gave him her own saucy look and made her way toward the entrance.

Damien watched her go, noting that her ass definitely was divine, just as he’d predicted. Firm and full in all the right places.

Before he did something ill-advised, he headed out of the bar and toward the stairs leading to his office. So Roxy had taken his departed maman’s place once again. Nice for her. Now Damien had a screwable waitress who could provide a few nights of distraction.

And he certainly needed it.

As Damien settled down to his desk to shuffle through his accounts, he lost himself in his work, happy to see what a profit he was making.

Happy to find his next victim so he could bleed the worst men dry.

WHEN GEMMA GOT BACK TO the Weekly Gossip that afternoon, she was pumped up, and it wasn’t just because she wanted to pitch the story of the decade to her editor.

Damien Theroux had done something to her. Flipped a switch, pushed a button…something to turn on the inner furnace.

Even now, as she sat in front of her editor’s desk, she couldn’t shake the feeling of Theroux’s thumb while it slid along her stomach, the drag of her silk top whispering out of her skirt as he tugged it toward him.

But this wasn’t the time for daydreaming, or for ducking into a restroom stall to press her fingers between her thighs to assuage the throb of excitement.

This was the time to finally rock and roll.

“So I trained for a couple of hours at Cuffs,” she said, relating the afternoon’s events to Nancy Mendoza, editor in chief, “and I’m in like Flynn with the head waitress, Roxy. The job is comparable to riding a bike. All those pizzas and beers I served in the past amount to a perfect cover.”

“Gemma…”

“I’m going back tonight, and that’s when I’ll really put the pedal to the metal. See, I want to find out about these ‘other’ dealings Lamont mentioned. We all know about the Damien Theroux in the papers, but what drives this man? How did he get into a life of gambling, drugs and prostitution? And if I could talk to people who know him and work for him, or sneak upstairs to chat with a couple of his girls—”

“Gemma!”

She stopped, mouth open to deliver another round of plans. From the corner of her eye, she could see through the office’s window. The other tabloid reporters punched away at their keyboards or stared at their computer screens.

She wouldn’t be one of their kind for much longer. No how, no way.

Nancy braced her hands against her desk, probably gearing up to break Gemma’s spirit. Again. It happened with every idea that didn’t exactly “fit” into the Weekly Gossip’s pages.

Holding up a hand, Gemma interrupted. “I know what you’re going to say. ‘Go back to your human-interest stories, Gemma.’”

“You’re good at them. Very good.”

“Is that why they’re referred to as ‘freaks and geeks’ pieces?” Gemma sighed. “Where’s the dignity for the subjects? And for me?”

Nancy’s brown eyes went soft with understanding. Every once in a while, when the editor tippled a drink or two at Friday happy hour, she’d lose her armor and tell Gemma that she’d never expected to work on a tabloid publication, either.

Funny. How many people actually did end up with the life they’d pictured while doodling on their Pee-Chee folders during high school algebra?

“Leave Damien Theroux for 60 Minutes or the newspapers,” Nancy said. Her brown hair was in a tight bun, and she was wearing her typical uniform of a crisp button-down and gray skirt. Her efficient manner had won her the nickname The General. “Theroux is beyond our scope.”

“An exposé on Theroux would take this publication places we’ve never been.” Gemma couldn’t help arguing. This story had reached epic proportions in her mind. “Imagine. We’re a national publication. If we could reveal even half of this city’s corruption to Molly Supermarket Mom of the Heartland, that would be the first step. The story would be picked up by more prestigious mainstream publications because, of course, it’ll be so well researched by me. A drop of water won’t even be able to slip through my reporting, the corroboration and evidence will be so tight. Heck, maybe we’ll even be getting calls from Bill O’Reilly or Diane Sawyer to consult on their shows….”