He glares back at me, removes his thick arms from their crossed position, and balls his hands into fists. “Wouldn’t know. Masked dancers don’t have names.”
I curse at myself for my slipup. “Right. Uh… the woman in the bunny mask. Is she here tonight?” I realize halfway through my sentence that the man will wonder why I’m so insistent on finding one of his dancers. I hold up the black card. “She gave me a dance at the last party. I was hoping for another.”
The man smirks, his understanding clear. “Yeah, she’s here. Doesn’t do VIPs though. You want another dance from her, you’ll have to find her out on the main floor when she gets there.”
The door to the room he’s blocking bursts open, and a woman stomps out, pointing back inside the room. She’s completely naked, save for her heels. “Get him out of here. Motherfucker was getting a little too handsy.”
The guard storms into the room to take care of business, and my gaze catches on the open door at the end of the hall. It’s the same room with the floor-length mirror that I saw Violet staring into the last time we were here. If Violet isn’t on the main dance floor and not in any of these VIP rooms, then she’s got to be in there.
Without thinking twice about it, I enter the room and shut the door behind me. There’s a gasp before I finally see her. She’s sitting at a vanity mirror, a tube of pink lipstick aimed at her lips and her bunny mask already pulled over her eyes.
“Jesus, Jami. What are you doing here?”
“It’s my client’s party. It couldn’t be helped.” Maybe I should feel guilty for my partial lie, but I don’t.
Her chest heaves like she’s breathing hard, and she sets the lipstick on the counter. “You shouldn’t be back here. If anyone finds you, they’ll kick you out. Or worse.”
She stands, drawing my eyes down to the rest of her. She’s wearing an oversized white blouse with the sleeves rolled up to her forearms, closed by a single black button. Knee-high stockings rise up her sexy thighs, and tall stilettos lift her five-foot-five-inch frame several inches. Fuck, she’s sexy.
“I think I’ll take my chances.”
She takes a timid step forward then another until her pace begins to even out. Relief seeps through me at the fact that I found her. To think that I almost dismissed Jared’s invite causes a squeezing in my chest. Violet and I might have a dark past, riddled with tragedy, miscommunications, and bad timing, but that doesn’t mean that has to be our future.
“My offer stands. If this”—I look around the room while I sort through my brain for the right words—“gig doesn’t work out, then you should come to Camp Bexley and work with me. Even if you just need some extra cash and want to stop by. Please just consider it.”
Her head is shaking before my words are even out. I know what I’m offering her is too much, but I’d offer her the moon if it meant I was protecting her.
“My answer hasn’t changed. I can’t go back there, Jami. I’m sorry.” We share a lingering stare before she finally breaks the silence. “Is that the only reason you’re here?”
She wants me to leave, which is exactly what I should do. My gaze slips back down to her attire, and a fire roars in my gut. There’s no way I can let her go. Not now, not ever. That’s when I remember the VIP card. I hold up the black card in my hand, causing her gaze to travel to it. “It would be rude of me not to use this, but there’s only one woman here I want to see dance.”
She swallows, the visible bob of her throat revealing her nervousness. I’m not sure it’s because I’m in her dressing room, where I’m clearly not allowed to be, or because I’m here at all. “I don’t do VIPs.”
I narrow my gaze. “So I’ve been told. How about you reconsider, just this once? You don’t even have to take off your clothes if you don’t want to.”
Her gaze hardens. “How very kind of you.”
“I’m not trying to be a dick. I’m serious.” I step forward so she’s only a few inches away. “We can just talk.”
“I thought we said our goodbyes last week.”
Frustration brews in my chest. “We did. Clearly, the universe wasn’t ready for our closure. Perhaps we should listen.”
Her palms move to my chest. “Seriously, Jami. The guards don’t fuck around. I don’t want to see you hurt.”
“It’s good to know you still care about me.”
She pushes against me. “I never stopped, but that doesn’t change our situation. You need to leave.”
The door behind us bursts open, revealing an enraged guard. The same guard who stopped me from coming into this same room months ago. Fuck.
The man is a giant, and he’s charging after me with an angry snarl. Before I have a chance to move, he’s grabbing me by my collar and throwing me against the wall. My head slams back, sending a searing pain through my head.
“Put him down, Bruiser. I invited him in here.”
Of course his name is Bruiser. He doesn’t put me down like she asks, but his head whips toward hers. “No one’s allowed back here.”
Violet looks so panicked that guilt finally starts to work its way through me. I’ve caused her enough trouble as it is.
“I know,” she says. “But he’s a VIP, and he picked me. So I invited him in.”
“Bullshit. You don’t do VIPs.”
Violet steps closer to Bruiser and glares. “I do tonight.”
Bruiser is still staring back at her with a fiery challenge in his eyes as I start to slide back down the wall. “Then you’ll go to a monitored room.” The man’s eyes snap back on mine. With a tilt of his head, he brings himself closer. “And if I catch you back here again, you’re a dead man.”
Violet reaches for my hand and pulls me toward the door, relieving me from the wrath of Bruiser. “Come with me.”
Chapter Nine
VIOLET
It takes everything in me to remain calm as I steer Jami down the hall to the first open room. I nod to a guard who eyes me suspiciously to let him know that I’m okay with this. Everyone knows I’m strictly a dancer. And while I might give tame lap dances and remove my top, I don’t offer VIP services—or extras, as my fellow dancers like to call them.
The VIP rooms here are far nicer than anything found at the club. They have a sense of privacy, thanks to the totally closed-in space. And with the proper distractions, clients seem to forget all about the cameras that are set up, exposing every angle of the room.
For ambiance, soft music streams from the speakers, layering over the thumping bass coming from the main party, effectively ruling out any chance of the cameras picking up anything Jami and I speak about. And there are large mirrors on each wall, a small leather couch, and a side table with an iced bottle of champagne and two empty glasses.
I push the door closed, refusing to look at Jami as I lead him to the couch and push him down. “Stay there,” I hiss.
My anger is only growing by the moment, but I can’t show it the way I want to. If security catches one glimpse of me reacting any differently to Jami than I would another customer, they won’t hesitate to bust down the door and beat the shit out of him based on assumptions alone.