MADDOX
The red, blue, and yellow lights of the club pulse across the stage as I enter. The bouncer, Chris, gives me a nod and doesn’t bother to card me—they card everyone, from the new puppies all the way up to the old men—nor does he ask for a cover. I’m not here for the show and he knows that. I’m here for Brian, my chief of floor security for Turner Hotel casinos, who also happens to work as a bartender in this club three nights a week.
I’ve lived in this town for nearly four years, been the Chief Operating Officer for Turner Hotels for the last two. Chief of Security for the hotels goes with that job. But this is Vegas, a town known for pushing every envelope and limit ever conceived. Which means certain jobs fall well below my pay grade. Those tend to be my favorite jobs. The ones where I can get my hands dirty. But tonight, I’m not in the mood for the bullshit. For the strip-club vibe. Or the putrid stink of cigarette and cigar smoke that always cling to my clothes. And I’m definitely not in the mood for the horny old men upping their blood pressure pills as they pinch asses, or the bachelor party dude-bros hollering and trying to get the girls to fuck them for free. I’m not in the mood for the lights or the incessant pounding of house tick-hop music.
Honestly, the appeal of places like these was never there for me.
But tonight is not up to me. I would much rather be eating a great meal and drinking a fantastic glass of something while relaxing with my feet up and watching the Atlanta Hawks game. It’s Friday and the week was nothing if not long and filled with endless crap. But, tonight somehow became about an asshole carrying a gun into one of my hotels and threatening his girlfriend—making a huge scene and scaring people—while two other shadows tried to cheat with loaded dice. It was a nice little operation. I’ll give them that.
It was also a pro job.
Brian catches my eye, giving me a ‘what’s up’ nod, as he pours a line of tequila into shot glasses without spilling a drop. I approach the bar, leaning against the polished wood.
“I need ten, mate,” he says with his thick Australian accent. “Star is filling in for Magic tonight, and I have about fifty drink orders to finish for these drongoes before she goes on stage.”
Whatever. Who cares? I shake my head. “I have no idea what anything you just said means, but do your thing. I’ll wait.” I slide onto one of the empty barstools, slipping out my phone just as everything, except the under-bar lights, goes black. “The fuck?” I hiss out.
“You should watch the show,” Brian suggests from somewhere in the blackened abyss. “Star isn’t allowed dance the stage, but she had to tonight. I swear, everyone from the gray hairs to the joeys barely off their mother’s teats are out tonight to watch her. Somehow word got around fast.” Does he have to speak like we’re in the outback? I’m from Georgia; I get it, we have our own obscure way of speaking that most of the world doesn’t understand, but come on. I have no idea what he’s talking about. Which isn’t all that uncommon for Brian, but at this moment, I’m not in the mood to tackle our language barrier. I check emails and respond to crap that doesn’t really require my response when the cacophony of assholes whistling pierce my eardrums. “Strip clubs,” I mutter under my breath.
I glance up reflexively toward the stage, but there’s no way they could have seen the girl yet when everything—the club, the stage, the lights—is dark. A pounding bump, bump, bump starts, building up the anticipation. The lights flash on, pulsing with the beat, turning from black to purple as they swirl around the room before landing on an obscure form in the center of the long, phallic-shaped stage. I squint, attempting to decipher what my eyes are too slow to make out.
Fur coat.
Stockings.
Heels.
That’s it. Whether or not there’s a woman under all that is beyond me. If there is, I have no idea where her head is.
The symphony of swirling lights converges on her form in the center of the stage, upside down, sprawled across a bar stool. That pose tells me she’s not new to the stage, despite what Brian just said. That bump, bump, bump continues, intensifying until she twists her body upright, straddling the back of the stool and dry humping it like it can actually get her off.
“Lord Baby Jesus,” the man on my left groans. He’s easily in his sixties, and judging from the band on his finger, has a wife. Probably a few kids and a string of grandkids, too. Yet here he is, watching her like he’s on death row and she’s his last meal. The man on my right doesn’t even have words—his drool is too busy coating the floor.
Her body begins to undulate, grinding against the chair as her legs rise in the air, forming the most perfect V. Wider. Wider. She’s practically doing a split before she stops spreading her legs. She throws her head back, her dark hair cascading down as she moans, her hips continuing to work their magic on that stool. Damn. What did Brian call them? Drongoes?
Evidently I’m no better because I can’t pull my gaze away.
I’m watching with unadulterated lust as this woman with her long black hair and curvy hips—because the rest is covered in her fur coat—dry humps a stool that is so annoyingly there it’s ridiculous.
I am not this guy, I remind myself. But it’s to no avail. I am this guy. I’m succumbing to my baser instincts. To caveman-quality brain function and Viagra-level blood flow.
It’s just a show. Nothing wrong with watching the show.
Her arms reach behind her head, her palms planting onto the wood of the stage, arching her back and leaving her legs wide open and . . . fuck.
“Yeah, baby.” That’s Asshole One beside me. The one with the big-ass family. He crosses the room like a dog seeking a bone, tossing two hundred-dollar bills on the stage for her. She ignores them, like his offering isn’t near her standards. More bills go flying. Hundreds, fifties, twenties. Thousands of dollars find their way up on that stage and all she does is dry fuck that stool with her legs in a V and her body completely upside down.
But then, she twists off it, flying backwards and landing on those crazy heels of hers. She rights herself, turns to the asshole who was beside me, and winks. Her hips sway, contorting this way and that. She locates the pole in the center and wraps her legs around it, spinning in so many circles, I’m dizzy. And enthralled. And hard.
She doesn’t take off the fur coat.
It’s an afterthought. This girl doesn’t need to be naked or show any flesh to get hearts pumping. Her tease, her dance, is the ultimate weapon, and damn is it sexy. Then she flips her body upside down once more, fastening her body to the pole by knotting her legs around the metal and, yes, sweet baby Jesus, that fur coat slides up, revealing the creamy, toned flesh of her stomach. The room erupts into cheers and I inwardly twist that I am suddenly reduced to their level.
Men encroaching upon the stage in droves, each one vying to be just an inch closer than the other, desperate to be the one she notices. Only they don’t dare touch that platform. They know once they do, they’re out on their asses and their fantasy woman is lost to them.
She holds that position, arms extended out, until the music changes once more. That bump, bump, bump eases, turns from pounding to drippingly slow and erotic. Her body slides down the pole with incredible precision until she lands on the floor in a graceful pool of flesh.
More cheers. More whistles.
But she ignores it. Ignores the chants and demands for her attention.
The music escalates once more, building suspense. She flips over, grinding across the floor of the stage, picking up bill after discarded bill and tucking them into her G-string. The girl offers her clamoring fans a seductive smile and an artful wink. Someone yells, “Show us your tits!”
She stands up, holding her coat tighter across her body, covering those perfect mounds with her arms like the crude request offends her.
The collective groan of men echoes through the room and she smiles, flipping around and shaking her glorious ass to the beat. The cries of the crowd grow inflamed, demanding. The dollars thrown increases and all she’s done is give us a hint.
A peek.
A thrill.
I glance over at Brian, who is smiling a wide, toothy grin. “Told ya, mate,” is all he says. I shake my head, like I’m trying to figure out the ruse, but I know I’m not fooling him for a second. He feels it, too—you’d have to be dead not to—and the bastard works here. The reality is, they don’t make women like this in real life. All curves and muscle and softness and femininity, and pure, uncontained sex appeal. They don’t make women with thick, ink-black hair, flowing in ribbons down her back. They don’t make perfect asses like hers.
When she spins around, her coat somehow discarded during my exchange with Brian, I catch her full, real, unbelievable tits, and I know I’m just as screwed as every other guy in here. But it’s not her perfect body that’s holding my attention now. Or even the way she’s moving.
It’s her face.
It’s those large, obsidian eyes. The arch of her black brow above them. The fan of what I think are real lashes around them. The high pitch of her cheekbones. The smooth, creamy slope of her cheeks, brushed in shimmer. The thin, narrow slope of her nose and the beautiful fullness of her red lips.
My breath stalls. She’s fucking stunning.
Her eyes cast around the room and lock on mine. Something inside me burns, thrashing around violently. I hate the sensation of it. She doesn’t smile for me. I don’t even get a wink. Instead, she frowns, her expression almost stricken as if she doesn’t like the way I’m making her feel, either.
Like I’m the only one here who sees the truth she’s trying desperately to hide—she has no choice but to be up there. And she hates is.
Christ. What the hell am I doing?
Her eyes drop from mine and I turn around, moving back to the bar and taking a seat all the way at the end that has no clear vantage point of the stage. I don’t want to watch her like that anymore. With all those men around her. I don’t even know the woman, but that one look, that one secret exchange . . .
Brian comes over to find me, finally, sliding a glass of bourbon across the polished wood in my direction. “Thank you,” I say, needing the liquor I rarely drink to clear my dry throat and muddled mind.
“Look at these blokes,” Brian muses, wiping a glass with a clean towel. “Nothing fucks you up like a woman.”
I raise my glass to that sentiment and take another pull. “Why isn’t she allowed to dance if she does it that well and brings in the crowd?”
“Boss’s orders. No one talks about Star much for that reason as well. She’s quiet and keeps to herself, and I keep my nose out of her trouble. I’d advise you to do the same.”
Huh. I don’t like the way he says that. Her trouble. Like it’s a warning.
Still, I clear the woman from my thoughts, focusing on the reason I came here. “Tell me what happened today at The Palace.” That’s what we call The Turner Palace. There’s the Turner Grand, The Turner Palace, and The Turner. Those are the three hotels and casinos we have on the Strip. Across the country, there are a dozen other hotels and resorts under the Turner name. My best friend, my brother in arms if not by blood, is Jake Harris Turner—the owner of the entire empire.
Brian launches into his account of today’s events. He believes the couple with the gun and the guy with the loaded dice were working together and that they might be part of a sting, since we had a similar incident with a roulette ball and a man having a heart attack last week. I’m just hoping they aren’t connected and part of a larger underground organization out to get us.
“We switched out the dice after their fourth seven in a row, but by that point, he’d already cleared over twenty-five grand.”
I hum, taking another sip as I think this over. “And the dice looked just like ours?”
“Identical. There must have been something on it he knew about that we didn’t notice because he continued to pick those two dice every time he was offered the six to choose from.”
“Or he just felt the weight difference.”
Brian nods, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the lip of the bar.
I run a frustrated hand through my short hair. Cheating is nothing new in this town. Some are your run-of-the-mill fools who think they can get away with it. Some are card counters who think they’re smarter than everyone else. Some are well-funded, well-designed and well-executed. Like these people. And those are the ones you have to watch out for.
“Did we get him? I know we have the guy with the gun and the woman, but I didn’t get an update on the loader.”
“Yes. Marlin handled the initial conversation and then the bloke was handed over to police as required by law.”
“Damn law.” I laugh and Brian smiles, going to refill my drink before I wave him off. “I wish I had—”
“Brian,” a woman’s voice interrupts me. “Sorry.”
I sit up and the blonde in a tiny black uniform gives me a contrite smile. I’ve seen her in here before on the few occasions I’ve come to speak to Brian. “Mister Conti is here and asked that we not only give Mister Sinclair another drink of our best bourbon, but that he is not to pay for anything while he is here. Also, he requested a bottle of Cristal be delivered to his table with three glasses. Star will be joining him, so we’ll be down a waitress for the rest of the night.”
Brian curses under his breath and I spin around, searching the room until I find Anthony Conti. His eyes are on mine, like he knew I’d seek him out the moment his name was dropped. I raise my glass in thanks and he nods. On his left is an older gentleman I’ve never seen before. Across from him is a woman whose back is to me, and on his right is the dancer, Star. Her eyes are cast to the floor, her posture rigid. She’s no longer only wearing a thong or even a fur coat. She’s dressed in a black tank top and mini skirt of sorts that covers her up enough.
It’s the uniform of the other waitresses.
He’s not touching her and she’s not touching him, and I have no idea what her relationship is with her boss who also happens to own the Las Vegas underworld. I turn my back on Anthony Conti, and address the blonde waitress. “Please thank Mister Conti for me. His offer is extremely generous and much appreciated.”
“Of course.” But I hear the slight tremor in her voice and see the uneasiness in her posture. A pulse of tension now beats through the air. Brian loads up a tray of expensive champagne and crystal flutes that I imagine he keeps hidden somewhere else, and the blonde leaves us.
Finishing off the last of my drink, I slide the glass away. Brian gets back to work, our conversation done for now. My need to be here in this club over, I stand up, throw my jacket back over my shoulders and turn to face Conti. He’s involved in a heavy discussion with his guests, my presence all but forgotten. But as I meander my way through the club, Star glances up and instantly finds me, like she was waiting for me all along. She follows me all the way to the exit, the smallest quirk of an eyebrow, the tiniest hint of a smirk playing on her lips.
She shakes her head at me, like I’m crazy for daring to peek in her direction considering who the man on her left is. But to hell with it. I smirk back.
Because if I was intrigued before, I’m downright enthralled now. Even if I shouldn’t be.
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