“Excuse me,” he says without throwing us a glance. He storms over to the guy, wrapping one big meaty hand around the man’s wrist. With the pulsing music, I can’t make out the conversation.
“We’re supposed to be here to control the crowd,” I say to Rav. “Stop eye-fucking the dancers.”
He jerks his head toward the stage. “She can’t even see me all the way back here.”
“Thank fuck for small favors.” I shift my gaze to Malik, confirming he has his situation handled. Should I go back him up? Or will he be insulted?
“Stand here and look scary” isn’t always the most helpful job description.
While Malik twists the guy’s arm behind his back and frog-marches him to the exit, I catch another customer grabbing a girl’s ass cheek as she walks by him.
“Motherfucker,” I grumble, pushing toward the handsy asshole.
“Let’s fuck him up,” Rav shouts behind me.
The music drowns out most of what he said but a few customers scramble to get out of our way.
I catch up to the girl. Even in her stripper heels, she barely reaches my chest. “You all right?”
She nods quickly then scowls. “He almost knocked me on my ass.”
“Go on. I’ll take care of him.”
“Thanks.” She saunters to the next table. The suited man eyes me before acknowledging her presence with a polite nod.
Good. Keep your fuckin’ hands to yourself.
Now to deliver that message to the groper.
Guy must be dense as fuck or just not paying attention. He reaches for another girl. His stubby little fingers graze her thigh as she passes.
I shackle my hand around his wrist, snapping his arm up in the air, lifting him out of his chair.
“What part of no touching is confusing?” I shout in his face.
“Huh?” His blank expression take a few seconds to catch up to what’s happening. Crystal Ball can’t legally serve alcohol but that doesn’t stop patrons from getting wasted before they come into the club. If they’re obviously intoxicated, whoever’s manning the door should turn them away, but some slip through.
I squeeze his wrist harder.
“Okay, okay. Sorry.”
I throw his ass back into his chair. “The only thing I want to see that hand doing is waving dollar bills.”
He pulls a wad of cash out of his pocket. “Okay. Okay, I got money. See?” He shoves the stack of ones toward my face.
“Good.” I lean down so we’re almost nose to nose. He rears away, but runs into Ravage, who’s leaning over the back of the chair. “I will break whatever part of you I see touch another girl, are we clear?”
He swallows hard. A bead of sweat rolls down the side of his face. His gaze drops to my cut, quickly scanning my flash. People like him pretend outlaw bikers are a cute fairy tale—until they actually cross paths with one.
“I hear you, bro.” He nods to my cut. “I ride too.”
I bend his wrist to an awkward, painful angle. “I ain’t your bro.” I release him so fast, he rocks sideways.
Ravage squeezes the guy’s shoulder—hard. “You don’t want to go home to your wife and explain how your fingers got broken, right?”
“R-right.”
“Good.” Rav pats his shoulder.
Now that he’s been sufficiently warned, the girls working the floor feel safe enough to swarm over to him.
Rav and I step back, leaning against the wall that runs to the hallway backstage. Someone propped open the exit door and a crowd of nervous young women are milling around, while Lexi talks to each one, marking down information on her clipboard.
“Amateur night is the best.” Rav cackles with evil glee. “Girls are like timid deer. And someone always wears something without Velcro and gets stuck in their clothes on stage.”
“You’re a psycho.”
“What? It’s cute.”
“Bullshit,” I snort. “Half the time we don’t even get amateurs. It’s pros from other clubs trying to scope us out.” At least that’s how it was ten or twelve years ago.
“Bro, there are no other clubs around. We’re the last one standing for like a hundred miles.”
“Whatever.” My strip club days are so far behind me, I couldn’t care less.
I sweep my gaze over the customers again. Handsy seems to be taking our threats seriously.
Loud chatter from the hallway draws my eyes that way again. Just more wannabe strippers crowding inside.
There’s something familiar about one short, extra-curvy girl with long black hair so dark it has to be dyed. Chunks of hair dyed pink and red match her pink panties and red lace dress.
“Oh,” Rav groans. “Now those are some amazing pillow thighs.”
“Pillow what?” I mutter, studying the girl.
Hell the fuck no. I push through the crowd, frowning at the girl. Praying it’s not who I think it is.
I touch her shoulder and she turns. Her mouth drops open in surprise.
“Bianca, what the fuck are you doing here?” Carter’s little friend doesn’t belong anywhere near this place.
“What are you doing here?” she sasses back.
“Working.”
“You work here?”
“None of your fucking business. Now why are you here?” Why do I even care? She’s Carter’s friend. She’s close to his age, so more than legal. Not my responsibility.
She gestures toward the stage. “I want to try out.”
“Welcome, Bianca.” Ravage slides next to me, oozing sleaze. Of course he remembers her name. “Girls line up in there.” He points to the dressing room. “Did you give Lexi all your info? DJ will announce you one by one.”
Suddenly Rav’s a professional.
Bianca ignores him and fixes her inquisitive eyes on me. As if I’ll dash her dreams of stripper-stardom with one word.
I shrug. “You don’t need my permission.”
She turns but I tap her shoulder, stopping her. “Does Carter know you’re here?”
She jerks away from me. “Carter’s busy.”
That doesn’t answer my question. But it’s not my problem, so I shrug and let her go.
Ravage rubs his hands together like a pervy little bridge troll. “Line up. Get a number. Take your turn on the pole, darlin’,” he encourages.
She flashes a quick smile. “Thanks, Ravage.”
“She remembers my name,” Rav says.
“You’re hard to forget. And not for good reasons.”
“You gonna tell Charlotte?” Rav asks, lifting his chin toward the dressing room.
“I’m sure it’ll come up at some point.”
Rav’s predictions about amateur night come true. A girl gets stuck in her see-through dress thirty seconds into her first song and runs off the stage crying.
A fight breaks out in the dressing room between one of our regular dancers and one of the amateurs.
I need to get things up and running at the funeral home so I have a good excuse to never come here again. The thought makes me snort with laughter.
“What’s so funny?” Rav asks.
“Nothing.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE