Authors: Tina Wainscott
“Who’s asking?”
“Tell him it’s the girl who crashed the stage last night.”
He spoke into a microphone pinned to his shirt. She couldn’t hear what he said.
Damon’s expression as he came through those curtains was a mixture of impatience and curiosity. “It’s not amateur night, Miss …”
“Call me Mira. I know.” She gave him a contrite smile. “I wanted to apologize for breaking the rules.”
She thought he might be eager to brush her off, but he settled against the curve of the bar as though he had all the time in the world. “It’s all right. You did seem to enjoy yourself up there. The patrons enjoyed you, too.”
“That’s why I came in. I’d like to audition for a job.”
His gaze shifted behind her. “Where’s your boyfriend?”
“He’s not my boyfriend anymore. We broke up when I told him about my ambitions. But heck, I’ve been working at a diner, trying to make ends meet, and I don’t have any family to ask for help. I understand dancing brings in decent money.”
He seemed to weigh her words. Didn’t he believe her? “All right, come on back. We could use some extra girls.”
For the Ball. Hope and fear twisted inside her. She followed him through the part in the black curtains, passing the doorway of the room she’d been in last night.
Crystal scowled. “What’s she doing back?”
“She’s going to audition for an official job.”
“You trust her?” Crystal said, following them to an office. “I figured her for a reporter or something. Didn’t find a wire on her though.”
“Good thinking, sweetheart.” Damon turned to her. He was as tall as Julian but bulkier. “You a reporter?”
“No,” Mollie said, throwing a surprised laugh into her voice.
“Crystal, find her an outfit.” Damon drew his gaze down her. “Where’s your purse?”
“I don’t have one. They’re too bulky.”
“How about a cell phone? Wallet? I’ll need your ID to process your work papers.” She reached back and extracted her wallet, hoping he’d forget about the phone. He narrowed his eyes as he studied it. “Thought your name was Mira.”
“That’s my stage name.” Mollie forced a smile. “I had to come up with one, right?”
He grunted, keeping the ID in hand. “Phone? We don’t allow phones in the back room. Privacy reasons.”
She dutifully handed it to him. He scrolled through different screens, looking for what, she didn’t know. A phone number for a newspaper? “For security purposes, yours and ours, we’re keeping your things in a locker.” He gestured for her to hand over her wallet, too.
She still had the patch, but losing the phone link poured more fear into her chest. She gave him her wallet as Crystal returned bearing a gold outfit with space-age overtones.
“Put it on,” Damon ordered.
Right here? In front of you?
Mollie held back the words. If she were auditioning as an exotic dancer, getting undressed in front of the club’s owner shouldn’t be a problem. She pulled off her top and folded it, then searched for a place to put it. She placed it on a cabinet and turned to find Damon directly in front of her. He reached for the clasp in front of her bra and unclipped it, then shoved the cups back. She fought the urge to cover her exposed breasts, remaining calm under his assessment. His expression remained passive, not leering. Still, she detested that he was doing this.
“Take off your pants,” he said. “Now,” he added when she hesitated. “If you want to work here, you do as I tell you.”
Did he do this to all the women who auditioned? Or only to her because he was suspicious? She wanted to reach for the bra that Crystal held, but the woman stood a distance away, not offering any of the clothing yet. Mollie pushed out of her jeans and set them on top of her shirt. Suddenly, she felt the back of her panties tear away from her. With a gasp, she turned to find Damon holding the torn scrap.
“You’re too slow. I know you weren’t afraid to show your body out there last night. What’s your problem?”
“I’m just nervous. Last night was for fun.” Tonight, she could get raped. And she doubted Crystal would do a thing to stop it. Mollie tried to tamp down the cold dread shivering through her body.
“You need to get over that.” He plastered a hand over her bare breast and squeezed hard. “Yours? Not a boob job?”
She tried not to grimace in pain and disgust at his rough touch. “Mine.”
He cupped her bare pubic area with his other hand. “Already shaved. Nice.” He rubbed back and forth, and the violation washed like ice over her. “You’re way too tense. I can loosen you up.”
“I’m fine,” she said, though it came out as a whisper. Stripping was one thing. Having sex with a man who repulsed her, a whole different thing.
“No, baby, you’re not. Your legs are pinched together and your mouth’s so rigid, it would crack if you spoke above a whisper. You can’t go out there all tensed up like that. The men will pick up on it. You have two choices.” He tried to jam his hand between her thighs, yes, pinched together. “You let me loosen you up or do something to help.”
“I could have a beer.”
Crystal laughed. “A beer ain’t gonna help you, sugar. I got some snort. You do that, you can be a contender.”
Sex or snort? Both pounded fear into her. But wait. Katie had confessed to pretending to snort. How had she done it? “I’ve got my period,” Mollie said, hoping that would turn him off to the sex idea. “So I’ll do the coke.”
Now he jammed his hand between her thighs, his nails scratching her skin. “You can’t have a string hanging out while you’re dancing.” He jabbed at her, searching her folds. Was he going to stick his finger inside to verify? And catch her in a lie?
“Ouch!” She stepped away. “Of course not. I tucked it in.” He’d touched her intimately.
Don’t shudder
.
He regarded her with cold eyes. “Set her up. I’ve got to check on something. I’ll be right in.”
* * *
Scotch waited in the claustrophobic cubby. It reminded him of his military days, hunkering down and waiting for the enemy. What the hell, were people smaller in the 1920s? He leaned against the wall and peered out the peephole that gave him a wide-angle view of the side and corner of Hidden Assets. He could only imagine some hot chick writhing to the rock song that pounded through the walls.
He could be home in his trailer right now, sucking down his sixth brew and
watching the game. Trading Birdy to the St. Louis chapter for a sweet Harley they’d just stolen had sounded like a good idea at the time. Get rid of Brick’s weepy ol’ lady
and
nab a scooter in the process. Now all this shit was coming down on him.
Edge was in the hidey-hole up on the roof that looked like a chimney, keeping an eye on things from two stories up. It wasn’t much roomier, but it had monitors for the cameras Damon had installed. Scotch had opted for the ground-level position where he’d get to rip these bastards personally. He gripped his hunting knife, hungry for revenge. No guns tonight. Couldn’t take a chance of bringing in the cops like the last time the guy had shot up their bar. Margie was still in custody on bogus charges, and he was afraid she was going to break down and spill.
He pressed closer to the peephole and searched the darkness. He almost missed the shift of shadows over by the bikes. Or was it a trick of the dark? The shadow moved closer so slowly that if Scotch hadn’t been staring right at it he would have missed it. That smoky shadow had to be one of Mollie’s friends. He texted Edge:
Got one in sight down here
.
One just climbed up on the roof
, Edge texted back.
Time to rock ’n’ roll
.
Surprise would be their ally. His phone vibrated, and he checked his text.
The bird has landed. Alone. Wants a job
.
Scotch rolled his eyes. Damon obviously watched too many espionage movies. Scotch texted,
Her friends are out here. Moving in now
. He waited until the shadow passed in front of the exit door around the back of the building. Then he shoved it open, sending the guy staggering back. Before he could regain his balance, Scotch lunged, feeling the knife hit something soft. But the guy was quick, turning and shoving him back against the big metal bin before Scotch could fully sink the blade in. His head banged against the hard metal. Something hit the ground. A gun, Scotch guessed.
The guy reached for it, and Scotch kicked him. His opponent rammed him in the gut with his head. They struggled, and he felt sticky blood pouring down his hands. He’d stuck the guy good, maybe in his gun-holding arm. An elbow from a decidedly good arm popped him in the face, barely missing his nose. He felt a sharp pain at his cheekbone,
though, and then his knife was wrenched from his grip. They fought for control of it, and his opponent twisted his wrist so hard, he had to either let go or risk it breaking. Scotch threw his weight into him, and the knife fell to the ground and into the shadows.
Somewhere in the near distance, in the lull between songs, he heard shoes scraping over the pebbles on the roof, probably Edge and the other guy fighting it out. So much for their element of surprise. But Scotch had gotten in that first slice, and as far as he could tell, his opponent was fighting one-armed. And he was still kicking Scotch’s ass. Who the hell were these guys?
Dead men, that’s who. They were going to pay for the lives they’d taken. His brothers. Scotch bowed, and, like a bull, rammed the guy back several feet into the brick wall. Taking advantage of his stunned state, Scotch pummeled him. With only one arm, the guy could only either deflect or fight. Scotch outweighed him by maybe twenty or thirty pounds as far as he could tell.
He wasn’t expecting the knee that shot out and nailed him in the gut. He should have had this. Guy should be dead by now. Sucking in a deep breath, Scotch barely saw the foot kicking out at him. It connected with his stomach, but Scotch grabbed it and shoved the guy back again.
Time to pull in his other weapon. He tore the brass knuckles from the cord around his neck and pushed them on as he fended off another kick with one of his own. Then he threw a punch at the guy’s head, metal on flesh. He staggered back, sliding against the wall. Scotch punched him again, feeling the weight of the knuckles smash the guy’s face.
And still, the son of a bitch jumped up and bashed him in the head. Something moved just behind the man, and Scotch saw a bat come around and slam into the back of the guy’s head. Finally, the guy dropped. Damon’s face materialized in the darkness. He patted the bat. “Thought I’d better come out and help your sorry ass.”
Scotch grunted, his whole body aching. “Help me toss him in.”
They picked him up and hoisted him over the edge of the bin. The moment the body hit the garbage, Scotch searched for both his knife and the gun. He found them, and went to the side of the bin to finish the bastard.
As he aimed into the mass of bags and shadows inside, a sound had him turning. Looking up. Two men fought at the edge of the roof. Scotch aimed upward, but he couldn’t tell who was who. The two were about the same build, and he couldn’t see his brother’s vest in the dark.
Hell, they were awfully damned close to the edge. One slugged the other hard. He wheeled his arms as he lost his balance. Scotch moved off to the side as he fell, a sick feeling in his gut. But no, the guy falling didn’t have a vest. He landed on the opened lid of the bin with a sickening thud, then slid inside.
Scotch looked up at the silhouette. “That you, Edge?”
“Yeah,” the guy said, his voice hoarse. “Son of a bitch tried to strangle me.”
“Where’s your colors?”
“He tore off my vest.” The guy swiped it up and held it out, then shrugged into it.
“You okay?”
Scotch breathed out in relief. His brother would ask that. “Yeah. But it was close.” He felt along the length of the other guy’s gun, coming up on what felt like a suppressor. “They’re both in the bin. Perfect, huh?” He aimed the gun over the edge and let off some shots. The bullets hit with satisfying
whump
s. “Nice piece, with a can and everything. Call for someone to get rid of their bodies. I’m heading inside.”
* * *
Mollie swallowed back panic and reached for the outfit Crystal held. Even if it covered barely nothing, it was better than being naked. She wrangled her way into it and followed Crystal to the room she’d been in last night. She searched the two women who were getting ready. “Is Katie working tonight? Lilliana?” she asked Crystal, hoping to make conversation and get information.
“Nope.”
“Were they selected for this ball I heard about?”
“You ask a lot of questions, you know that?”
“Sorry, I just felt a connection with them. I was hoping they’d be here.”
“They’re not.” Crystal led her into the back room where Lilliana had been sprawled on the couch. She opened one of the drawers and proceeded to pour a line of white powder onto a mirror.
Mollie’s insides clenched. Besides that last time, she had seen her mother snort coke only once, when she’d walked into her bathroom and startled her. Powder had flown everywhere, and her mother had been furious. Over being caught or wasting the drug, Mollie didn’t know. Her mother had given her some lame story about sinus infections and put the mirror and razor blade away. Only later did Mollie discover what she’d really been doing, though she’d instinctively known it was something wrong by her mother’s reaction.
Crystal set the mirror on the coffee table and shoved a short straw at her. “Go ahead. You’ll feel better.”
Mollie had a feeling this wasn’t just cocaine. She’d heard stories about meth, people getting addicted after one use. She knelt down, mindful of the angle that would block the view of what she was really going to do. Her hair fell over her shoulder, and she made a sniffing sound before blowing the powder into a skewed line. It wasn’t flying away. She started coughing, as Katie had, completing the mission.
Something tugged at her hair, and her head was wrenched up, forcing her body to awkwardly follow. She came face-to-face with Scotch, a triumphant smile on his face. He had one hand in her hair; the other came up to her throat. “Yeah, this is her, all right.”