Hardcore:Storm MC(2)

 



The way I figured it, Dom was my reward for time served. I should consider myself lucky that Joey Ronn let his biker-brute security force partake in the offerings of us dancers once per shift, and they had to pay or no-go; but if they wanted it, they could get it. It was good for business, all around. Dom got me through a shift better than any cocktail slipped my way from one of the bartenders. If not for him, my patience would have worn too thin, and I'd probably be either in jail or dead. I needed to play my cards right so I could get to Joey without his goon bikers hovering all about, ready to kill or be killed to save his sorry ass.



The irony was that Dom was one of them. FML, right? That the one man who made my day better was one of the brutes who was protecting the bane of my existence.



But that didn't matter so much. What mattered was that I was figuring out my plan, and I was getting close to having enough put away to live that dream-minus my goddamned stupid sister. I missed her like crazy, but she should have known better than to get messed up in Joey Ronn's porno scheme. She wasn't known for her great decision-making skills. But even if she wasn't the sharpest tack in the box, she was still my little sis, and she did not deserve what he did to her. And there was no way I was going to let him just get away with it.



As it was, I still needed more time and more money. So, I needed distraction, and Dom fit the bill perfectly. He was the regular that I was always looking for. The one that brightened the shift, when and if he'd show up. And I was pretty sure he knew it. But now it looked like everyone else knew it, too. This was not a good thing. Fuckity fuck.



"Yo, Sienna, come over here." Shit. Mr. Ronn called to me, his voice grating with nasal resonance.



He was sitting in a booth in his shiny suit with his hair slicked back, pompadour-style, as if he were the king of some bad '70s porno palace. Which, I guessed, he kinda was.



Across the table sat another regular who always got the VIP treatment, so he must have been someone important, but I had no idea really who or what he was. Well, I knew a few things: his name was apparently Jonathan Fielding (though I'd bet good money that was made up), and he insisted on us always calling him "Mr. F." He got some kind of sick kick out of it, but he was the only one in on the joke. He was tall, slim, attractive in that eastern Mediterranean American way, like Turkish or Greek or something, who knew? He had deep-set brown eyes, a shaved head, closely cropped goatee, and wore glasses for that very cool, intelligent, successful air. He definitely had style, and he radiated power and money. A lot of the girls acted like stupid butterflies around him, and he always seemed to bask in his own glory, accepting their attentions like he was a born prince. I could see their attraction to him, but I never felt it myself. There was something off, a shadiness that always made me uncomfortable. Not to mention the cold sneer that he threw around most of the time. My alarm bells rang off the hook every time he came around.



Accepting the inevitable, I left the average joe with his highball and sashayed my way over to Joey Ronn and Mr. F's table, wondering what new hell Ronn had in store for me. His face reflected a sick joy in what he was about to do, so I knew to be on my guard.



"Sienna. Don't get too close to the security. Dom is mine, just like you are. You better remember that."



"I don't know what you're talkin' about, Mr. Ronn," I replied soothingly, trying to adopt an easy manner for show. This man did not like a smart mouth, and he thought all dancers were dumb as bricks. I played it up. "I just gave him a little dance, workin' just like everyone else. You know I'm good. You got nothin' to worry about."



"Good." He smirked. "Now why don't you take Mr. F here back there to one of the rooms, give him a little taste of your sweet ass. He's been waiting for you long enough."



I glanced over at Mr. F, who was pursing his lips and drinking in my body with his eyes, clearly liking what he saw. His nostrils flared, and he glowered at me. I know I'm hot; I have a dancer's body with great curves in all the right places, and I'm not surgically enhanced, thank you very much. About the only thing I could ever thank my parents for. But in this case, I was pretty much wishing I was more wallflower material.



Mr. F slid to the edge of the booth and stood right in front of me, sliding his hands around my hips to cup my ass tightly, and jerked my body flush with his own, making sure I could feel his hard-on pushing against my belly. He was taller than me by several inches, but my four-inch stilettos brought me closer to even than not. Then he confidently twisted me at the waist in a practiced dance move, and with his arms wrapped around me, shoving his dick into my lower back, he palmed and squeezed one breast and grabbed my pussy with the other. None too gently. He leaned down to growl in my ear, "I'm looking forward to taking your ass, make no mistake about that. Let's go."



Before I could even process that statement or make a move, I felt a strong tug on my arm, pulling me out of Mr. F's grip, and I cycled sideward in my stilettos, trying to keep to my feet. As soon as I stabilized, I processed the craziest sight: Dom, personal security to the Boss, slug-festing it all over the Boss's rich and scary VIP. And the music kept pounding.





Chapter Two



Dom



Pound. Pound. Pound. Pound.



I couldn't tell if it was the baseline of the music or the movement of my arms, or the beat of the punches I was landing on the asshole down in front of me, who was looking less and less like a man and more and more like a bloody mess. Didn't matter. He had his hands on my girl, and that shit had to stop.



Pound. Pound. Pou …



Slowly I became aware of strong hands on my upper arms, restraining, pulling me back, until I lost my balance over the downed dude and landed on my ass next to him. He didn't look so good. He was still breathing, but his nose was rearranged, his face covered in blood, and he was coughing kinda roughly. I guessed I must have probably cracked a rib or two, too. Par for the course. He fucking deserved it.



Whoa …  wait a minute, sucker. Back the fuck up. What was that I had just been thinking? The girl. Sienna. Fuck. Rewind.



She's not my girl. She's not mine at all. Damnit. What the fuck was I doing? Beating up the Boss's VIP, just because he had his hands on the goods? Aw, fuck fuck shit. There I go again, my temper getting in my way again. Fuck. I did not need this shit, not now, not when I had to keep my head clear and in the game.



But man, I could tell Sienna wasn't comfortable with this dude-I could read her like a book now, after watching her for the past two months-and I had just reacted. Shit. I might have totally fucked myself right here. But this Mr. F dude was bad news. Rich, pompous, connected. Arrogant as fuck. Not that he cornered that market-hell, I was pretty damn arrogant, too, if I'm honest. But I backed mine with knowledge that I could damn well take care of myself and take care of business, whatever was necessary. This fucker? His arrogance was power-driven, which is the most annoying kind. He was a string-puller and an asshole. He probably had deserved a good beating for a long time. I was kinda glad it was me who gave it to him.



Not that I'd be telling the Boss that. The fucker. I hated him, too. Worse.



"Yo, dude, come back to us, man. Focus. Dom, dude, you fucked up. Fuck." Shredder, one of my brethren in our MC, Storm, was standing in front of me, hands on his hips, shaking his head and looking at the sniveling pile that was Mr. F.



"Aw, fuck. He had his hands all over her. It's against the rules. Fuck." I hoped that excuse would be enough. I didn't want to look too deeply into my real reason for flipping the fuck out over this asshole's hands being all over Sienna.



"Dominic. In my office. Now." Joey the Prick Ronn finally piped up, attempting an authoritarian tone through his nasal cavity.



Ronn gingerly raised himself out of the booth, in which he had cravenly sat throughout the beatdown, then straightened his silverized jacket and swaggered to the elevator bank near the lobby.



I dragged my ass off the floor, checked out my knuckles-bloody and a little sore, but not that bad, all things considered-and followed his lead.



We rode silently up to the second floor, neither of us looking at one another. Out the elevator, down the hall, and into his office, which was lined with a wall of windows overlooking the main room of the club. He seated himself importantly behind his huge walnut desk, which kinda dwarfed him and made him look a little ridiculous, though I bet no one ever told him that. He wasn't the biggest guy: kinda short, probably no taller than five seven, and a little on the paunchy side. He actually reminded me a little of Joe Pesci, but without the sense of humor or that awesome accent.



He looked at me standing there, towering over his desk, and clearly didn't like what he saw. He glanced at one of the chairs posed in front of the desk, then looked back up at me and said, "Sit."



I played the good dog and sat.



The chairs were rigged. They were made to sink your ass way below normal level, so even though I towered over Ronn under every normal circumstance, it was clear that his chair hiked him up and mine sunk me down, so his head was nearly level with mine. I almost laughed out loud; it was such an obvious trick to gain intimidation points, but it still failed 'cause I probably had a good seven or eight inches on him.