Nocturnes (9 page)

“Indianapolis. I’m here for the week.” Face coated in a thin sheen of sweat, he loosens his tie.

I lay a hand on his arm and squeeze. “You a Colts fan?”

“Colts?” He looks puzzled.

“Football?” I breathe in his ear, graze his wrist with my French manicured nails, and pull away with a suggestive smile. Expensive cufflinks. This guy’s loaded.

“Oh, no. I don’t, uh, watch sports much.” He takes another sip of his drink.

“Lola?” A voice says. “I’ve been looking
everywhere
for you.”

Camera guy! Maybe my luck is finally changing. And double damn, he’s looking mighty fine. Decked out in a plain white T-shirt under a leather jacket and a pair of loose-but-not-too-loose jeans scrambling for a foothold on his trim hips, he reminds me a little of Gavin Rossdale, circa 1995. Except darker. Sexier, if that’s even possible. What was the guy’s name again?

He stands before us, tames some loose waves from his mane with a swipe of his hand, and grins. “I’m here to rescue you.” The words slur, and the hotness chokes, burps, and fizzles out. Smashed as he is, tepid is the best he can pull off, and that’s me being generous.

Strike one.

I fire back a taut smile. “Excuse me for a moment,” I say to the customer as I wriggle out of the booth.

I hook camera guy by the elbow and escort him away. “I’m not Princess Leia. I don’t need rescuing. I’m
working
. Do you have my ring?”

He stumbles over his own feet and pats his pockets, a confused expression on his face. “No. Did I buy you a ring?”

Shaking my head, I grip his arms. “I took it off when you videoed, remember? The wedding band? I asked you to hold it for me. It’s important I get it back.”

“Wait, you’re married?” His glazed eyes sharpen with a slice of anger.

“No, you idiot. Not
my
wedding ring, but it belongs to me.” My patience for this lush wears thin. “You put it in your back pocket.”

He slaps his ass again, looking for it. Clearly, he’s too shit-faced to recall. He shrugs.

Great. It’s probably lost in a washing machine somewhere. Or worse.

“Say my name. I know you remember me. I’ll bet you’ve had insomnia every night we’ve been apart.”

I laugh. I can’t help it. He’s so drunk, his breath is giving me a contact buzz. “Hardly. And I’m sorry, but I don’t remember your name. I really need that ring. Any chance you could look for it at home and bring it back to me?”

“My name’s Rax. Here’s the facts. I play the ax. I got some big sacs. I be layin’ tracks. You want me to the max.” He does a ridiculous dance move that looks like a cross between Michael Jackson moonwalking with a bum leg and George Washington riding a miniature pony into battle and twirling a baton.

In my peripheral vision, bouncer Duane lifts his head from across the room.

“Hey.” I snap my fingers in front of Rex’s face and then shoot my gaze Duane’s way. “You’re upsetting the Powers That Be.”

“What, me? No, I didn’t start any trouble, Lo-lo-lo-lo-Lola.” He holds up his right hand and palms his nuts with his left. “I swear on my big, juicy testicles.”

Duane meanders through the club toward us, eyes ever watchful and focused on me.

“You’re about to be kicked out of here, Rex.”

“I’m willing to pay five hundred bucks for a night alone with you.” He pulls a wad of cash from his pocket and fans it between us.

I push it down and look around to see if anyone noticed. A few customers did. “Are you fucking high? Put that money away.”

He stuffs it down the front of his pants and shakes his leg. A few bills tumble out the ragged hem of his faded jeans. He laughs.

I grasp his shoulders. “Rex—”

“It’s Rax.” His eyes seem to be having trouble focusing on my face.

“Whatever. You need to pick up your money and get out of here. Duane’s making his way toward us. Trust me, you don’t want to get involved with him. Or any of the other bouncers, for that matter.”

“Fuck Lame Duane.” He twists his arm away from me and bends down to pick up the bills, which he unceremoniously stuffs in his back pocket. “I’m not leaving without you. How about I break you out of this prison cell, and we go down by the river and fuck like bunnies until the cops bust us. I know you’ve got it in you. I saw how well you handled those three guys downstairs. And the lube. Wow, that shit was cray-zee.”

Thanks for the reminder, dipshit. Strike two. “You’ve had a lot to drink—”

“Only two.” He holds up three fingers.

“You mean two forties?”

He laughs, and those loose, black curls tumble around his face. He has nice teeth—another point in his favor. Too bad he’s such a fucking lush.

Leaning close but not touching, he mumbles, “Did you hear me? I said I ain’t leaving without you.” He may be plastered, but his intent eyes targeted on mine assure me he means it. Those simple words shift my unshakeable foundation, zigzagging a fault line up, up, up to the surface but not quite breaking through.

Where’d that come from?

Thoughts of Rico gazing down at me, tightly gripping my hair and using it as a rein to guide my mouth up and down his nasty cock, resurface. Swallowing hard, I rethink my need to be rescued.

And Rex
might
still have my ring. Somewhere.

I cut my gaze to Duane, who should arrive to crash our party in about seventeen seconds, if my calculations are correct. Oh, wait. A waitress stops him, points at a customer, and tells him something. She just bought me some time.

When I return to Rex’s sincere, determined face, I cave and say something really, really, unbelievably stupid. “If you promise to split now and go look for my ring, I’ll meet you when my shift ends at midnight.” I jab a pointed finger near his nose. His eyes cross as he focuses on it, and he loses another ten hotness points. “But I’m not having sex with you. Coffee is the only action you’re getting out of me. You look like you could use some.”

His face cracks into a goofy grin. “No shit?”

I blink long and slow. I’m such an idiot. Why the hell did I break the first rule of stripping? You
never
meet a client outside of work. Ever. Unless you want to end up in bite-sized pieces stuffed inside a garbage bag under a bridge.

I study Rex and factor out my opinions about his looks and the business with Mama’s ring. Aside from being an alcoholic, he seems like a mostly okay guy. He did help me in Hell, but if he keeps hounding me here, Duane will have no problem breaking a bone or twelve and kicking his ass to the curb for the sanitation workers to collect in the morning. The very least I can do is warn him more forcefully to stay away from Nocturnes. The trick is letting him down gently but firmly if he makes any further moves.

I huff. “No shit. Meet me at Café du Monde at 12:30. Don’t be late.”

“I won’t.” The air around Rex brims with bouncy energy. Slap some fur on him, and he’d make a cute little puppy with that tongue panting so hard.

“Hey, you’re not driving, are you?” I ask as he turns away.

He tugs out the white lining from the front pockets of his jeans. “Got no car.”

Laying my hands on my hips, I tick my head toward the door. “Good. Now go find my ring.”

He smugly salutes me. His half grin flares off a round of fireworks in my gut. As he staggers out of sight through the rolling throng of clubbers, I rub my stomach and suddenly feel self-conscious. This guy has seen me in all my glory. He’s seen me do things I wouldn’t want anyone else to know about. He’s seen me at my lowest.

And he wants a date.

What kind of person does that make him?

“That dude is a sick and twisted individual.” The scent of Calvin Klein’s Eternity for Men collides with my olfactory nerve as Duane appears beside me. He narrows his harsh gaze on Rex’s retreating form.

I startle and face him, rubbing the naked spot on my finger where Mama’s silver used to rest. “He’s not so bad.”

Duane arches a brow. “Rico says he is. Might wanna tell your secret admirer to find another club to dip his wick in. I got strict orders to use any force necessary to remove his ass after last night. I was just on my way to pick up the trash when he got smart and left.”

A lump forms in my throat. “What happened last night?”

“Apparently, your boyfriend harassed some of Heaven’s flock on the floor.”

Shit. “No way. Who?”

“Ask Kristina. I’m sure she knows all about it.” Duane cracks his knuckles and shuffles away with an “I told you so” look painted across his face.

Great. So, I just made a date with an alcoholic stalker who’s seen me fuck three guys at once but now shows interest in other dancers?

I glance down at the twitchy hand on my stomach. Why do I feel so…betrayed?

Fuck. I shake my head and turn back to the Indianapolis guy’s table. Another dancer has staked her claim by accidentally landing in his lap. Just as well. I’ve lost my appetite for scared bunny.

On my way to scope out some possible action in the far corner, I spot Kristina heading for the dressing room and change course.

“Hey, girl. Got time to talk?” I have to shout to be heard over My Life with the Thrill Kill Cult.

Kristina nods and motions me toward the door. Once the metal clangs shut behind us, she says, “I heard Rico chewed you out after your last trip to Hell. I worried you weren’t coming back. You okay?”

I nod. “Fine. I did something I shouldn’t have. I fixed it. All good now.” Rico’s smug eyes looking down on me as he came in my mouth commandeer my plane of vision again. I shake him away with a blink.

Kristina surprises me with a hug. I stiffen. I don’t like being touched outside of my job. It makes me uncomfortable. Kristina doesn’t seem to notice.

“I won’t ask what you had to do. Been there and done that myself,” she says.

Time for a change of subject. “What happened last night? I heard that Rex guy started shit with some dancers.”

“You mean Rax? Are you kidding?” Her face lights up and she falls onto a cushioned, short stool before the makeup counter, legs kicking with giddy glee. “No. He was a perfect gentleman. His only crime is being a totally gorgeous rock star with a healthy interest in my cleavage.” Studying herself in the mirror, she reaches into her bra, scoops a handful of flesh, and plumps her boobs.

My lip twitches. “What do you mean, rock star?”

She pops an electronic cigarette between her lips and pulls a drag. The fake cherry on the end flares. “His band is recording here right now. Killer Buzz Float. You heard of them?”

“No.” It bugs me how star-struck Kristina’s acting. And how much she knows about this guy. Did she give him a private lap dance?

Ah, hell. What do I care? He’s just a stupid, drunk client. Who also happens to be a gorgeous rock star.

I’m not jealous.

Not at all.

“Duane said he was involved in some altercation. Did you see what happened?”

She blows out a stream of smoke. “Only altercation I was privy to was me fighting with my swiveling hips to get at the big bulge in the guy’s pants when I sat on his lap.”

So, she did give him a lap dance. I shake my head to evict the naggy bitch who took up residence there without my permission.

Wait a minute. Why would Duane lie?

He wouldn’t have any reason to. But Rico would. Thinking back to my conversation with Duane moments ago, it sounded like he didn’t actually see what went down. Rico must’ve made it up to protect Hell by painting Rex as a bad guy. Apply pressure to discourage him from coming back to Nocturnes, and the whole incident is swept under the rug if anybody asks. Rico didn’t count on Kristina giving up the truth.

If Rico’s willing to go to these lengths to keep Rex away, he might pressure Rex even further. I know from experience Rico has no moral compass. Would he go so far as to
hurt
Rex for
my
mistake?

I wouldn’t put it past him. People have done far worse for far less money. In this particular situation, millions are at stake.

Shit, now I really do need to meet Rex. If for no other reason than to warn him his goddamn
life
could be in danger.

Side A: “Fool in the Rain”

I’ve
got
to sober up before she gets here.

I scan the café, wondering why the hell Lola would choose a music park to meet for coffee, but whatever. She lives here. She must know good places.

Tourists wander around the courtyard, posing for pictures with bronze statues. Guys wearing felt fedoras play jazz, creating a smooth, laid-back atmosphere with muted trumpet runs, trombone slides, and bass plucks.

Perfect for drinking.

I snag the waitress’s arm as she passes. Tray heaved up on her shoulder, she stops. “Whatcha need, hon?”

“Shot of vodka.” I pause and drum my knuckles on the table.

“Anything else?”

“Another shot of vodka.”

She nods and carries on.

What was I supposed to be doing? Oh right. Sobering up. The vodka will help with that. I check the time on my phone. Goddamn it, she’s five minutes late.

“What’s a guy gotta do to get laid around here?” I mumble. I spent the last week faking sobriety to please my bandmates and manager in the studio and dashing out the second the last cymbal crashed so I could hit Nocturnes in hopes of seeing Lola again. Seven days of pure hell, watching Toombs and Jinx pretending not to stare at each other like lovesick teenagers. Seven nights of reliving (and fantasizing about) my sins as the cameraman in Lola’s fucked-up alternate reality sex show. Seven sleeps invaded by dreams of Toombs turning his back on me while Lola beckons me deeper into her web of fuckery.

Black and white. Night and day. Dark and light.

Each morning, I try to talk myself out of both the liquor and the unsafe desires pounding me with promises of her naked pussy sucking the life out of my naked cock. And naked bodily fluids. Lots of those.

A switch inside my twisted brain must’ve broken somewhere between who I am now and who I was a couple weeks ago.

I no longer feel compelled to reel in my desires. This isn’t exactly surprising. I’ve never been big on restraint. Well, unless it involved a couple of groupies, handcuffs, and Toombs on occasion.