Seduction (8 page)

All I want to do is go home, get my bike, and go for a fast ride. No Craig. No Robyn. No Macey. That path of destruction I always leave in my wake is getting longer. Now it stretches from Waco to Austin to Corpus. I go back to the fitting room and take off the dress Macey encouraged me to try on. I put on my shorts and shirt.

“Marisela?”

I open the half door and peek out into the hallway. Macey is standing nearby. “I’m okay.”

“Doesn’t look that way to me.”

I shrug. What does she want me to say? That I’m overjoyed the guy I like, the one I’ve wanted to hook up with since I was seventeen, turned out to be more of a dog than I ever imagined? Or the guy I just had hot, nasty sex with broke my heart in less than twenty-four hours? “I can’t turn my feelings off and on like a light switch.” She must think I’m a fool.

She gives me that big-sister look. Maybe that’s where Robyn learned it. “We all think with our little heads sometimes,” she says. “If we didn’t, we wouldn’t be human.”

“But I really like him.”

She sighs. “I know. I’m sorry. Let’s go to the register, buy these clothes, and I’ll take you to my house. I can fix those eyebrows.” She smiles.

I can’t help but laugh. I grab the clothes I like off the rack. Three pairs of jeans, two pairs of black slacks, five blouses, and two dresses. Thank God for sales. Macey is one of the best-dressed women I’ve ever known. She’s going to rub off on me. No wonder she works five nights a week. She has a clothing habit to support. “Like everything?” I ask as we head to the register.

“It’s a great start,” she says.

Twenty minutes later, we’re in the parking lot. Macey’s black Jeep is located in the nosebleed section. I see Craig’s red Mustang. Music blares from his open windows. He’s leaning against the side of his car.

“No way,” Macey says and starts to walk ahead of me.

“Please…” I call. She stops and faces me. “Let
me
do this.”

She studies me for a long moment, then looks at her watch. “Five minutes. I’m going to Chick-fil-A to get a soda. When I return, make sure he’s gone.” She hands me the keys to her car. “In case you need to take cover.”

Macey has a very distinct strut. I can’t help but watch her stride away. Once she’s out of earshot, I turn around. Craig is standing a couple of feet away. I head to the Jeep and unlock the passenger-side door. I stash my bags, then look at him. “Why are you here?”

“To make sure you hear the truth.”

I close my eyes. The late summer breeze feels so good on my face. “I already know.” I open my eyes halfway.

“Bullshit.” He grabs my arm. “Look at me, Marisela.”

I don’t. He gives me a good shake. “I never promised you
anything,
did I? We both rushed into it—I admit it. I don’t regret it. In fact…” He cups my face. “I want more.”

I feel his hot breath on my neck. Goose bumps. I glance at him. “I never want to be subjugated by a man again. Cheap, emotionless sex doesn’t do it for me. And I don’t like sloppy seconds. Even if it comes in a pretty wrapper.”

He concentrates on my eyes, then wets his lips. “What we shared wasn’t cheap. I already told you—confessed—there’s something between us. What more do you want? I’m here. Isn’t that proof enough?”

I snicker, unimpressed. “You think waiting for me in a parking lot is proof you care? Really? You’re so narcissistic. Even Estevan can do better than that.”

He roars, shakes me again, and leans in threateningly. “Fuck Estevan. Want me to smack you around a little so you feel right at home? Is that what you need? Want? God,” he huffs. “You haven’t even started work at the Den and you already think like a stripper.” He lets go.

“We argue about everything. That’s not normal!”

He rubs the back of his neck. “I’m trying to be nice to you. Can’t you see that? We argue because you refuse to listen to reason—any reason but your own. God, you piss me off.” He blows out a frustrated breath.

I stand back and regard him critically. “That’s precisely why we should forget everything that happened between us.” I’m lying. How could I ever forget? I shiver and it’s 80 degrees outside. “I have to go.” Macey is back.

He gives me a conflicted look. “Are you showing up for work Wednesday?”

“I’ll be there.”

I look at my watch. It’s seven and Marisela hasn’t arrived for her first shift yet. I check the parking lot, not sure if she’s riding her bike or catching a ride with Macey. I haven’t seen or talked to her since Sunday. I’m going out of my mind. I’ve spent the last three days alone, thinking about what I should say when I see her again. Nothing works. She’ll never accept my explanation about Desire or the other women in my life. But I want to make peace with her, even if we can’t be together again. Ten minutes later, her motorcycle appears. I slip inside unnoticed.

I wait in the hostess booth. She opens the front door. “Marisela…”

She looks at me. “Craig.”

“You’re fifteen minutes late,” I say.

“Sorry—traffic. It won’t happen again.”

“Go get ready,” I say, and check her name off the dance list. We don’t allow more than thirty-five dancers a night on the floor. And there’s always a waiting list, girls who want to pick up an extra shift. Unless a dancer calls in, if she’s over a half hour late, she loses her spot for the night.

Twenty minutes later, Marisela emerges from the dressing room wearing a red minidress that zips up the front and black heels. Her hair is in pigtails. I’m standing behind the bar with Glenda as Marisela walks by on her way to the DJ booth.

“You’ve got it bad,” Glenda observes.

I shake my head. “What makes you say that?”

“Need a mirror?” She crosses her arms over her chest. “You should see your face, not to mention the fact you can’t keep your eyes off her.”

“Shut up.”

She laughs. “Why don’t you go to the DJ booth, get down on your knees, and swear off women for the rest of your pathetic life?”

Heat rises in my face. Sometimes I want to smack Glenda. “I’m not in love with her.”

“Then what consequences are you so worried about?” She peers at my face. “You still love Robyn?”

I give her a tight smile. Loving Robyn was easy. Getting over her was hard. But for over a year I’ve considered her nothing more than a little sister. I force those dark thoughts away. They call it the past for a reason. Marisela is all I can think about now. Her smile. Those eyes. Her tats. That little body. Her goddamn temper. “No,” I say firmly. “Why do you ask?”

“Because I keep hoping you’ll find someone to love.”

That’s a tall order, considering I’ve never dated someone for longer than four months. I glance over my shoulder at the main stage. Two cowboys are squaring off. “Be back,” I say and head for the commotion.

I immediately insert myself between them. “What’s going on, guys?”

The larger of the two is easily three hundred pounds plus. He tips his head back and stares at me. “He swiped my money off the stage.”

I turn to the scrawny customer. “Did you?”

“No.” He’s a defiant little fucker. His eyes are glossy and bloodshot. He’s drunk.

Meredith is onstage. I signal for her to come over. “Did you see anything, darlin’?” I ask.

She nods. “That little asshole keeps switching seats and stealing tips.”

I look at the big cowboy. “How much did he take?”

“Twenty dollars.”

I believe him. I turn to the thief. “Empty your pockets.” He leans forward and raises his hand. I grab it and twist it behind his back. I bend him over the edge of the stage. “Are you going to cooperate or do you want me to turn you upside down and shake your pockets empty?” He kicks his feet and I bend his wrist back a little. A basic pressure-point control tactic. His body goes slack. “Ready to listen?”

He nods vigorously and I let go. He staggers, but doesn’t fall.

“Turn your pockets inside out,” I command.

He does the left first. Empty. There’s a wad of ones and fives in his other pocket. And a twenty. There’s over a hundred dollars. I grab fifty. I offer the twenty to the big guy and give thirty dollars to Meredith. She smiles and starts to dance again.

“Let’s go.” I motion for him to follow me. Surprisingly, he takes a swing. I duck. I grab his earlobe and give it a twist. He howls. I don’t care if he screams. I drag him to the front door, kick it open, and pull him outside. I release him and he drops on his ass. “Don’t let me see you back here for a while, understand? Stay here—I’ll call you a cab.” He’s too drunk to move.
Asshole.
I go back inside. Mama Beth is at the hostess booth. “Call Yellow Cab.” She nods. When I turn, Marisela is standing next to me.

“Are you okay?” She appears genuinely concerned.

I straighten my collar. “Yeah. Nothing I can’t handle.”

She stares at me, unblinking. I’m not sure what’s going on inside her head, but I’d give a small fortune to find out. “Is it like this all the time?”

Should I tell the truth? There are half a dozen altercations a night. At least two serious fights a week. That’s what you get when you mix alcohol, testosterone, and tits together. Not to mention fights in the dressing room. “Not really,” I lie. I wait to see the relief on her face, but she just stands there.

“Marisela, stand by…” The DJ breaks the spell.

“Ready?” I ask.

She folds her hands on her stomach. “Sure.”

Two minutes later, “Love & Meth” by Korn comes on. Marisela gets onstage. The DJ turns on the strobe lights and taps the smoke machine. As the mist clears, I’m shocked to see her emerge with a long bullwhip. She cracks it. The customers applaud. She cracks it again. I’m beyond intrigued. A tipper stands and she kneels in front of him, looping the lash around his neck. She uses it for leverage to arch back. Her hips pump air. She surges up, lets go of the whip, and unzips her dress halfway. Her breasts pop out. She squeezes them together and bites one of her barbells. Where in the hell did that little girl learn to do that?

I walk farther inside so I can get a better view. She retrieves her strap and moves downstage to another waiting customer. She folds her whip in half, bends him over the stage, and whacks his ass three times. The customers sitting nearby scream and clap. She lets the guy up and I watch, amused, as he digs inside his pocket and pulls out more money. This time he voluntarily hunches. She strikes again. Over and over.

The second song begins. It’s a classic—“This Love” by Pantera. Angry fuck-you music. I know the lyrics all too well. Just like I know the intended target of the song: me. The stage lights dim. She drops her prop, faces me, and rips her dress off. She swings her long hair wildly, then gives me a sultry look before she turns around to entertain her fans.
Wow.
Now I know for certain she’s nowhere near over me. I smile. A little disturbed by her violence, and equally turned on. I have a perfect outlet for that angst. In my bedroom.

I walk to the bar. Glenda throws me a look.

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“Why not?” she asks. “That girl is screaming at you and you don’t even know it.”

“Just give me my first drink of the night.” Bartenders, waitresses, bouncers, and managers get three comp drinks. Dancers and DJs are free to drink as long as they don’t get sloppy drunk. Glenda gives me a shot of tequila instead of my regular rum and Coke. I raise an eyebrow. “This isn’t what I like.”

“I think you need a little hair of the dog.”

“I’m not hungover.”

“Oh, yes you are.”

I look back at the stage. Maybe I am. That’s the best description yet. The front door opens and Elias, our lot attendant, waves at the DJ booth.
Shit. Cops.
I run for the booth. Dave flips the blue light on.

“The blue coats are here,” he announces as he turns down the music.

I get to the front stage and warn Marisela to mellow out. She heads for the pole. As I get to the bar, the front door swings open and five Texas Alcoholic Beverage Commission officers stalk inside. They wear their department windbreakers like war medals. I know several of them personally from my days on the Corpus Christi police force. Alexander Dubose is the senior agent on duty tonight. He heads straight for me.

“Alex.”

“Craig.”

We shake hands for appearances only. Once a cop, always a cop. That’s the general idea. Even if you’re caught getting a blow job in your squad car. “What’s up tonight?” I ask.

“Making rounds.” He motions to his team.

I watch as they invade the club, moving table to table with their flashlights on, shining them in people’s eyes.

“Not very constitutional,” I comment.

“Got any better ideas to keep drunks off the road?”

“Yeah,” I laugh. “Try field sobriety tests outside.”

He slants his head. “Changed sides already? Why don’t you reapply to the academy? I’ll put in a good word for you. It’s been long enough. We all make mistakes.”

I’ve considered it before, but facing the scrutiny of the oral review board again doesn’t appeal to me. Or being forced to explain my departmental violation of moral turpitude. Although getting my badge back does interest me. I was a good cop. “I’ll think about it.” I scan the main floor. Two TABC officers have six of my dancers lined up near the catwalk, Marisela included. “Come on, Alex, that’s bullshit. It’s not even legal.” I leave him standing alone and head for the stage.

“Social security number?” the female officer asks Cinnamon.

Marisela’s eyes are as big as saucers. I give her a reassuring look. “Listen,” I address the agent. “At least take it to the dressing room.”

She stares at me. “Officer Hanson—remember me?”

I don’t. Blond hair—brown eyes—big hips. Fairly attractive for an agent.
Holy shit.
Anastasia Bullock. We went through academy together four years ago. We also fucked a few times in the women’s locker room. “Ana?”

“Yeah,” she says dryly. “Why should I do anything for you?”

I smile. “Don’t do it for me, baby,” I answer sardonically. “Do it for you.”

Her eyebrows arch. “What?”

“This isn’t departmental procedure—it’s harassment. One phone call will get you a one-on-one with your sergeant. Elections for the city council are right around the corner—trying to make a point?”