No. It’s okay. I got this. Just follow Sadie—um, Sassie’s—instructions to spray and wipe the pole with the cleaning solution they keep near the side of the stage. One thing at a time.
As I spritz the brass, I train my eyes on the floor, the walls, the lights, anywhere, avoiding the faces of the handful of people in the club. Luckily, it’s pretty dead at this hour. Aside from Lonnie, his bartender, and the three bouncers stationed around the perimeter, there’s only one table of guests. They’re the ones I avoid the most as I wipe the pole.
If I don’t look, they aren’t there.
Sadie—I mean, Sassie—says they’ll play a short song. Just a short one. I can do this.
Sweat breaks out on my forehead and upper lip. I stand with my fists at my hips, feet planted shoulder width apart, trying to swallow the sick feeling that’s climbed into my mouth and throat. This feeling isn’t too different from what I got that first day of boot camp, stepping off the bus, waiting to be yelled at by the drill instructors. It’s just another day.
“Everyone, please welcome Honey to the stage.” The announcement seems to thunder through my core.
The music begins. I close my eyes as I start to move.
Trudi and I sit with our backs three feet from the stage. She wasn’t really excited when I told the crew about this place. But it serves her ass right after the house and the way she suggested we go have fun. As if I feel like doing anything. Much less something fun.
Her lips form a tight line.
I lean to her. “Fun, right?”
She glares.
I lean back in my chair and fold my hands over my chest. I dig my phone from my pocket. Six voice messages. All from Arianne.
Fuck me. Can the woman not take a hint? I clear the messages without listening. Screw that. I’m done with this.
The next message is from Bob. “Buck, listen. Not sure what your deal is with Arianne, but I just got a call from McDowell’s assistant at Razor Wire. He’s apparently not sure why you’d ignore his daughter. Fucking call her. You don’t want to lose a chance at that part because you fucked the wrong girl.”
I text him.
His reply comes almost immediately.
Maybe. I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it when I’m not half drunk.
The crew sits around the three small tables we’ve pushed together, eyes rapt on the stage. The lights flash and the music cranks up. Whoever Honey is, she must be doing a good job.
Hell, even Thugs One and Two gape, and those two are about as serious as I’ve ever seen bodyguards. I hired them six months ago, when I started having issues with paparazzi showing up everywhere, even the fucking pool at a hotel where I was staying under an assumed name.
My attorney advised me to get someone to do my camera breaking, nose smashing, and ass kicking for me, to keep me out of jail, and to circumvent losing my hard earned money to some sue-happy lunatic. It was just two cameras—and one nose—though several asses, but those were without serious injuries. I really don’t see the big deal.
When Thug Two’s perpetual frown twitches into a grin, I turn to see what’s got him going.
My fucking gut lurches and a rush of adrenaline pours into my veins. “Holy shit. That’s no fucking Honey!”
In the span of a heart beat I’m out of my chair, ripping my T-shirt down the front and pulling it off. I bound onto the stage, arms out to catch her.
She dances topless with her eyes half closed. Lou dodges me, falling to her knees as her ankle twists under her.
I manage to toss the remnants of my shirt over her shoulders. Her hands push at me until we come face to face. She stills. Her eyes go wide, her mouth falling open.
I yell over the music, “What the fu—”
Two pairs of hands pull me away from her. I shake off one, my fist flying to connect with the other’s jaw. I spin to block a blow to my kidney from a third burly motherfucker.
Thug One and Thug Two each grab a bouncer, pulling them off me. But the oversized guy with the dull eyes is enough for me to deal with. He dodges my left hook, but fails to guard his gut as my fist connects. He grabs his torso as he staggers back.
Lou rolls to her hands and knees as I reach for her. Her camo Daisy Dukes reveal her tight ass.
“What the fuck, Lou?”
Strong hands grasp at my arms again. I twist and duck, using the momentum to break free. The music goes silent, but the pops and smacks coming from the Thugs and their opponents, along with the grunts and shuffling of feet, echo through the room.
Someone shouts. “Call the cops!”
Another answers, “Fuck the cops.”
The unmistakable sound of the pump action of a shotgun stops all movement. Hands grip my forearms, pulling them behind me.