Chapter Forty-Seven
Rooster
Now that we’re alone, I feel free to lay into Digger.
“Brother, you’ve got a serious problem here. If the credit card companies are already onto this, it’s only a matter of time before the FBI is knocking on your door. And you know how Priest’s gonna react to that.”
“I need to get ahead of it.”
“No shit. This Josh, how much does he know about stuff that goes on here?”
“Rooster,” he says in a mildly impatient tone. “I realize this fiasco might give the impression that I’m sloppy, but I don’t share club business with civilians. Ever.”
“Easy, I wasn’t saying you did.” Not quite, anyway. “Listen, I think if you want to keep the club out of it, you’re gonna have to turn one of them over and let them hang for the theft charges. Whoever you think won’t have anything to rat to the cops about.”
“Skyler. She hasn’t worked here that long.”
Neither of us say it, but Josh and Michelle probably have dirt naps in their future. But that’s Digger’s problem, not mine.
“Now, I gotta deal with this fuckin’ mess and hope my old lady doesn’t get kicked off her tour.” I pin him with a hard stare. “I brought my friends here thinking since my club owned the place, they’d be safe.”
“Fuck, brother. I’m sorry. You know I’d never disrespect you like that. I don’t know what to say. What can I do?”
“Nothing more than you’ve already done. Just make sure whatever got charged to his card tonight is reversed. Wipe their phones for any photos they might’ve taken too.” Fuck, why didn’t I think of that before?
“They’re not allowed to have phones with ‘em on the floor.”
I stare at him.
“Yeah, yeah. I see your point.”
“Look, Jenny mentioned she had some guy stalking her. You might want to see if she’s in on this little drug and steal operation. Maybe the guy was after her because they drained his bank account. And if he’s just a run-of-the-mill stalker, then you need better protection for your girls.”
A flash of annoyance wrinkles his forehead. Maybe he doesn’t like having a younger, lesser patch from a different charter telling him what to do. But too fucking bad. “I’ll see what I can find out.”
I slap his shoulder and dial down my anger. “You got a lot on your plate, brother.”
“After all this, I hate asking, but you’re traveling with a few brothers. You think any of them would mind sticking around for a couple of days to help me sort this?”
When we left Virginia after the kidnapping, the large entourage made sense. Now, it’s a bit much. And I’m getting the sense some of the guys are bored. Wrath and Hustler were planning to head back to New York from here. Pants and Dex had been talking about visiting another club we’re friendly with in Arizona. Honestly, Dex would be the best one to leave here since he has experience running a strip club and is frankly far better at it than Digger.
“I might be able to spare a few guys. Let me talk to them.”
“I’d appreciate that.” He hesitates again. “Where y’all staying tonight?”
“Hadn’t decided yet.”
“Let me call in a favor at a local place. I’ll cover the rooms to make it up to you.”
It’s gonna take more than a night at some cheap motel to make up for this fuckery but I’m not about to spit in his face when he’s doing what he can to make this right.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Shelby
Someone’s beatin’ on a bass drum inside my skull.
My mouth tastes like cotton balls and sweaty socks.
Heavy. My body’s too heavy to turn over.
“You okay?” Rooster’s low rumbling voice reassures me I’m still alive.
“Blargh,” I mumble.
Something cool and smooth presses against my hand. “Here, drink this.”
I peel my eyes open and stare at the short, stubby glass of water Rooster’s holding out to me. “Where are we?” I whisper.
“Hotel. Come on. Drink.”
I take the cool glass and sip the water slowly. Flashes from last night return. Did I try to pole dance?
When I’m finished, I hand him the glass and he sits on the bed next to me. “Better?”
“A little,” I whisper.
My phone’s on the nightstand and I reach for it, turning it on. About a dozen messages pop up one after the other.
Miranda: You need to call me.
Greg: Where are you?
Miranda: Call me right now!
Trent: Shit! What did U do last night?
I blink and stare at the screen.
“What’s wrong?” Rooster asks, reaching for my phone.
“I don’t know.” I show him the messages.
Since Greg and Miranda seem in a yellin’ mood and my head’s pounding, I ask Trent what’s up.
Trent: How’d I miss this last night?
There’s a link attached.
Shelby Morgan off the rails!
Exclusive footage of her stripper pole escapades.
Has Shelby Morgan gone from country music’s sweetheart to bad girl? Shelby seems to have gone off the rails since her kidnapping ordeal. Keen-eyed readers spotted her at the Royal Dolls Saloon, an upscale gentlemen’s club rumored to be owned by associates of the new cowboy in her life.
In the one performance she probably hoped no one would ever see, Sippin’ on Secrets has obtained an eye-popping video of the country music darling taking lessons on how to ride a stripper pole from scantily-clad dancers and more!
While the night started off as a fun time off from a rigorous touring schedule, it was Shelby’s sultry performance that left tongues wagging.
According to insiders, Shelby arrived at the club around 11 p.m. surrounded by four men, an unidentified woman, and members of her band. Dawson Roads, accompanied by his bodyguard and his band, arrived shortly after.
The group was there to let loose, ordering expensive drinks and getting rowdy.
The Royal Dolls Saloon is no stranger to X-rated romps. Their advertising claims customers are given the royal treatment and a sensual experience from the most beautiful women in the country. Private dances start at $100, according to regulars, making Shelby’s freebie performance a bargain.
Was this a once-in-a-lifetime lapse in judgment or has Shelby Morgan found a new career gyrating on a stripper pole and collecting dollar bills?
Oh, it’s all coming back to me now. I rub my forehead and scan the article again.
“Are you fucking kiddin’ me?” I toss the phone on the bed and fall back against my pillows.
My head throbs. This is why I don’t drink often.
Rooster sucks in a sharp breath.
I open my eyes and find him holding my phone in a white-knuckled grip. His jaw’s set in a tight line as he reads the article.
“Don’t bother,” I mutter.
After a few tense minutes of silence, he sets the phone down. “I’m sorry. I never would’ve taken you there if I thought that would happen. It shouldn’t have. They usually keep things under wraps. But last night was nothing but nonstop fuckery. I’m really sorry.”