Nodding, Jordyn began to walk away.
"And," he continued in his same, soft tenor, " … Mass is at the same time every Sunday."
She took note of that, but doubted she would be back in this church again.
Regardless of the unknown, gorgeous man with a voice still ringing in the back of her mind.
• • •
A little after six that evening, Jordyn walked through the front entrance of Legs and Leather, ignoring the blatant ogling of the two security guards. She was long accustomed to their staring. Legs, a strip club owned and operated by Ron, the Vice President of the Brooklyn chapter of The Sons of Hell, wasn't anything fancy or upscale. Most of the girls working the poles were either barely above age, or old enough to be her mother. They'd do anything for the right price, and that price wasn't a whole hell of a lot.
The one thing the older women and younger girls had in common?
A vice-drugs, usually.
Jordyn, while occasionally dabbling in something to take the edge off, was proud to say she didn't follow down that same addictive path as her mother once had. It was, after all, exactly what led her mother Sandra straight into the motorcycle club's seedy ways and eventually ended her life, too.
She wasn't a dancer, though. Jordyn was lucky enough to keep some morality in herself by waiting tables and keeping most of her clothes on. If you considered the heels, skimpy lace and leather panties and matching bra ensemble she was forced to wear decent. She sure didn't.
"Hey, sugar," one of the security guards drawled. "Heard you gotta special on tonight."
Jordyn nearly stumbled in her walk past the guys, but fixed it quickly. A special and her name were not two things that she ever thought would be said together in the same sentence. It meant she'd be working a pole and not the floor. "Excuse me?"
"Can't wait to see those pretty tits of yours without anything covering them. Not to mention that ass. Goddamn girl, we haven't seen all of that ink of yours in a long time."
A shiver crawled up her spine. Something awful welled in Jordyn's stomach, leaping straight up into her mouth and leaving a bad taste behind. It was their agreement, she thought desperately. Ron promised her. She wouldn't have to dance, not ever, if she didn't want to.
"What?" She turned sharply on four inch heels to glare at the meathead.
"You heard me. But I guess you'll find out soon enough. Meeting is in ten. Better hurry it up, chica."
When the idiot reached out as if he was going to stroke her cheek with two fingers, Jordyn snapped back from him. "I suggest if you want them to remained attached to your arms, you'll keep your hands off me, asshole."
"Oh, we'll see about that."
Jordyn made it through the club in record time. Instead of going back to the dressing rooms to change into her uniform-or lack thereof-she bypassed that altogether, weaving through the dirty pool tables and scratched up booths until she reached Ron's office. The door was shut, which often signaled there was business happening behind closed doors the workers weren't to be interrupting. She didn't give a shit.
Banging on the door, Jordyn yelled, "Open up!"
She continued to slam her fist on the door, though no one answered. Finally, after two minutes, the door swung open to reveal Ron in his usual jeans and T-shirt attire. He also wore the motorcycle club's leather vest as he always did, the VP patch sewed on the right side gave away his ranking. His glowering eyes bore into hers furiously.
"What in the fuck do you want?" he barked.
Jordyn should have been scared. Any one of the other girls in the strip joint certainly would have been. Probably would have scattered away like frightened little mice. That wasn't her.
"What's this about me and a special, Ron?" she asked, the rage curling around the edge of her voice. "What in the hell is that about, now?"
"Now's not the time, Jord."
Screw that.
"No, now is exactly the time, Ron. You promised me."
She was only twenty-one, but she'd been working in this goddamned club since she was sixteen. In fact, she was serving alcohol to men thirty years her senior before she was ever legal to do so. Jordyn cleaned up after the girls whether asked or not. Kept their space good, took care of them if something went wrong with the men, and on more than one occasion, had been the one to make the anonymous phone call to nine-one-one when she found a girl out back, overdosed.
Jordyn did her part.
They had a deal.
"Like I said, now's not the time," Ron repeated quieter.
"Is it Will?" she asked, a wariness and hesitance starting to seep in. "Is that it?"
Will Vetta was the President of the Brooklyn chapter of The Sons of Hell, and as far as Jordyn understood it, pulled a high rank in the club in its entirety. Jordyn wasn't entirely sure why, although she suspected it had something to do with her mother, but the man hated her guts. It seemed like he would even go out of his way to make a day particularly difficult on her if he could.
Jordyn didn't mind standing up to any member of The Sons of Hell. They didn't scare her-she was so much better than any of them. But, Will? Will Vetta scared the living shit out of her.
That kind of thing could happen to a girl when a man holds a gun to a thirteen-year-old who just found her mother dead not hours before and says, "You say nothing. You're ours, now. Do you understand me, kid?"
Oh, Jordyn understood.
"Is this about him?" she asked again.
Ron frowned, some of the anger disappearing from his gaze. Turning over his shoulder, he muttered something inside the room before opening the door wider. Raine, Ron's old lady and one of two bartenders for Legs, slipped out without a word or glance in Jordyn's direction.
"Inside, now," he ordered Jordyn.
With the door closed, Jordyn finally felt like she could breathe a little better. "You can't make me get on one of those stages and dance, Ron. I won't do it."
"Would you rather be working the streets like one of his regular fucking whores, then?"
Dread slipped through Jordyn's veins, swift and destructive. "What?"
"That's about what it's come to, you know. Will's a bastard. I know like any other Son does. It just happens to be he's an even worse one when it comes to you, kiddo. Sure would have helped you a great deal if that mother of yours had just given him what he wanted all those years ago."
"I still don't know what that is," she admitted.
Ron nodded. "Yeah, we know."
And they wouldn't tell her, Jordyn knew. It didn't matter how many times she asked.
"But I'm Gabe's-"
"Gabe's dead, Jord."
There was a painful quality in Ron's voice as he said those seemingly simple words. Jordyn knew they were anything but easy for him to say. His son Gabe had been the same age as Jordyn. He was the first person to take notice of the oddly cruel treatment Will gave to her.
They were just young, only teens, but it had been damn easy for them. It certainly wasn't love, but it worked. Gabe got a steady girl he felt like he was taking care of, and in a way he was, all the while he could do as he pleased with all the other females who hung around the club's joints and houses without her complaining. For her side of it, Jordyn had her protection, considering he was the VP of the club's son. Because of Will's inability to keep a woman long enough to have a kid, Gabe was looking good to be the next President, eventually.
"He's been dead for over a year," Ron continued, not noticing her wandering stare. "Being an old lady doesn't help when the one guy in the club who protects you is gone and the highest one up is gunnin' on you something awful. I can't even tell you to run, because it sure won't do you any good, but you can do this."
God, she knew running wouldn't get her anywhere but six feet under in a makeshift grave. That one thing had been made perfectly clear the entire time she spent inside the impenetrable walls of The Sons of Hell.
"This. You mean strip," she whispered. "Take my clothes off for them-those pigs. Him, too."
Ron shrugged as if it didn't make a difference. "Call it dancing if it makes you feel better."
"It doesn't. Will wants to humiliate me and see how far he can push before I break."
"At least you know what's coming," Ron replied dully. "Listen, my son cared a lot about you, kiddo. I know he did, and that's why I've done all that I could for you up until this point. I convinced him I'd get you dancing, so you'd be bringing in more cash. That's all I can do. I have to take a step back now, Jord. I'm sorry."
"What can I do?" she asked.
"Aside from finding another member to claim you as his old lady and marking your skin up like Gabe did, nada."
By marking her skin up, Ron meant the script tattoo along her hip bone of Gabe's name with Sons of Hell written underneath. She'd only been sixteen, but that tattoo saved her life and body on more than one occasion. No one was allowed to touch what was someone else's.
That someone else didn't exist anymore.
"Give me a week," Jordyn pleaded.
"That's just about all I can afford, maybe a little more, seeing as how he's in hiding because of that casino mess right now. You got a week."