Pepper

Hugh shows up at my door, Anton standing behind him. “Where the hell did you disappear to?”

Jesus. The man has become my fucking keeper.

I stick up my chin. “I went to tell Tony Brando where he could shove his champagne.”

Hugh’s eyes bug out of his face. “You what?” He pushes his way into my room and Anton follows. So much for me resting before the show. “Seriously, Pepper, I don’t think you understand who these guys are.”

“Oh, I understand.” My voice warbles and Hugh fishes a throat lozenge out of his pocket and shoves it at me. “I understand we’re all going to get our fingernails pulled out with a pair of pliers if I don’t earn the Tacones back their money. No pressure at all, considering my voice is completely shot.” To make my point, my voice gives out on every other word, making me sound like a dying frog.

“All you have to do is keep your throat lubricated enough to speak between tracks. I’ll take care of the rest,” Hugh promises. He reaches out like he’s going to cup my face and I jerk away.

Ew. We’re long past him playing daddy to me.

I close my eyes in frustration. This is the lowest I could possibly sink as an artist—lip synching my own songs for an auditorium filled with people who paid one hundred bucks a pop for tickets and the promise of an intimate show.

“And if someone figures it out?” I demand.

“You make damn sure they don’t.” He gives me a hard stare. Hugh’s been my manager since I was sixteen. Since back when I used to believe every word he said—trust he knew best, because my dad believed in him.

Not so much anymore.

“They’ve already threatened to go after your parents. They’re not going to hurt you, because you’re the cash cow, but believe me, they know exactly how to apply pressure. These men are violent and dangerous. They won’t hesitate to poke you where it hurts. Do not, I repeat, do not piss them off. That includes getting mouthy with their enforcer. Tony Brando is gonna be the guy who gives the order to take possession of your parents’ house, or worse yet, rough them up. Is that what you want?”

Cold slithers up my spine. I turn and walk to the window, look down at the third floor rooftop pool deck.

“Pull it together, Pepper. I know you’re not feeling your best, but there’s a lot more riding on this gig than whether you get decent press or your fans are satisfied. And don’t ever go anywhere in this casino without Anton. Understood?”

“Go to hell,” I mutter, but I sound like a surly teen, rather than an adult who has the reins of her own career. That’s because with Hugh, I still am a surly teen.

And I’ve just about had it with him running my life.

Pepper

One thousand seats—all full. Under different circumstances, I might have enjoyed the hell out of performing at the Bellissimo. I like the intimate setting, the swanky, well-equipped theater, and the mix of old and young filling the seats. Under different circumstances, I would’ve given tonight’s performance one hundred and thirty percent. I would’ve joked and cajoled, told private stories, sang my little bird heart out.

But I’ll be lucky if my voice will make it through the end of the show, and that’s just for shouting to the audience between songs. I’m not lip synching to my last album--that would be way too obvious. Instead, Hugh pulled a recording he’d made for critique purposes from one of my early performances on tour. That way, it sounds more authentic. The hard part is remembering the little fumbles I made, trying to get the timing perfectly synched up. And my band members have to pretend to play, too. None of them are happy about that.

I do my best. The audience is warm, but we don’t really connect—probably because I’m all wound up about lip synching. Every time I do this, I literally puke before I go on. Still, I dance, I move my lips, I try to chat them up. I change costumes four times. I have a couple small glitches—dropping my head and the mic a moment too soon at the end of a song, forgetting that I’d dragged out a word, but I don’t think anyone would notice unless they’re really looking for it.

I head off-stage after the encore. Sweat drips in my eyes, and I can’t see because I’ve been staring into stage lights. As I fumble through the curtain, Izzy grabs my arm and yanks me into the shadows.

“He knows,” she whisper-shouts in my ear over the applause.

I think she means Hugh, because he’s the asshole we usually commiserate over, but as she throws a towel around my neck, she spins me to face the figure standing in front of my dressing room door.

The huge, hulking form of Tony Brando. And he radiates pure fury.

“Oh shit,” I attempt to croak, but my voice is so shot, no sound comes out but a wheeze.

“Where the fuck is Hugh?” Izzy’s nails dig into my hand. “The jackass is probably hiding and letting you take the fall on this.”

Fucking Hugh.

Well, there’s nothing to be done for it. If it’s time to face the music, I’ll have to do it. I lift my chin and march to my dressing room door, giving Tony my haughtiest stare.

“What. The Fuck. Was that?”

I feel each syllable in my chest. Wow. He’s quite practiced at delivering menace with every word.

He blocks my entrance, but I dodge right and left, and get my hand past him to turn the knob and push the door open. Since I don’t want to have this conversation in front of the whole band and crew, I extend my hand like an invitation to my dressing room.

He turns his body to the side, allowing me to pass—still a gentleman, even when he’s about to break kneecaps, I see—and follows me in. The door shuts automatically behind him.

“Fucking lip synching? Seriously? What are you—Milli Vanilli?”

Even if my voice worked to defend myself, there’s nothing I can say. It’s horrible and wrong, but he’s the asshole who’s making me do this. My tour should be over now. I should be home recuperating. Figuring out who I am and when I became this hollow shell of an artist.

So I go for completely ignoring him. I give him my back, pull my sweaty tank top over my head and pop off my bra, dragging the towel between my breasts.

“You owe the Tacone family nine hundred thousand dollars. That’s a lot of dough, sweetheart. Look at me when I’m talking to you.”

I straighten and turn, letting him see my bare breasts, like they’re the only weapons I have. Maybe he was right. The idea of him taking me as tribute has some taboo appeal to me. My nipples pebble up for him. I’m slightly disappointed, but not surprised when his gaze merely flicks over them before it travels to the butterfly tattoo on my shoulder and returns to my eyes.

He stalks closer to me, crowding me up against the counter. “To sell enough seats to get you out of here by July, I need a real fucking show. Not some lip synching bullshit crap—”

He stops when I hook my thumbs in my silver dance shorts and start sliding them down my hips. “Okay, you wanna play games?” he snaps. “Let’s play games.” He spins me around and pulls my wrists behind my back.

My heart jams in my throat. His hand crashes down on my ass.

Ouch! He continues to spank me fast and hard. Holy shit!

I fight him, but he holds me easily, forcing my torso down onto the counter, ignoring my attempts to claw free of his hold. He packs a wallop behind that huge palm and my ass starts to burn. I dance beneath the onslaught, my pussy turning molten as my body gets mixed up about what’s happening.

I dimly realize he’s still going on about ticket sales and the debt, but I can’t focus on his words because my ass is on fire. “Whose idea was this?” he demands. “Answer me!”

“I lost my voice!” I shout, but, of course, nothing comes out except wheezing scratches.

He stops spanking. “What?” His tone is incredulous.

“I lost my fucking voice!” I noiselessly shout again. There are a few cracks and squeaks around the edges to punctuate the words.

His palm comes to rest on my burning ass, hot and large and… delicious. “You have got to be kidding me.” He sounds disgusted. He rubs my ass. “How long ago?”

“Three weeks.” I meet his gaze in the mirror as he leans forward to decipher my words, his brows scrunched down.

He growls and smacks my left buttcheek again, three times. Hard. “Then I should have had a call three fucking weeks ago.”

More rubbing. My pussy is wet, and so, so randy. I want his fingers between my legs, giving me some relief.

“I have this place sold out for the next six days. If I’d had a little more notice, I might have been able to reschedule, but now? No way in hell I’m going to shut down this show.” He slaps again, a sharp, quick smack between my legs. I gasp at the contact with my needy lady parts. It doesn’t hurt—it’s amazing. Exactly what I need. I spread my legs to give him better access.

More, please.

“You want to get out of your pickle with the Tacones, you need to fucking work with me. You sure as hell don’t try to trick me, because, sweetheart, it will not go well for you.” Two more perfectly placed slaps, right over my clit. My pussy squeezes on air and I hold my breath, desperate for a little more. Desperate to reach my peak.

“Fuck.” He slaps my ass again, then releases my hands. He spins me around, picks me up by the waist and plunks my burning butt down on the counter.

I’m dazed. Desperate. Disappointed. I stare up at him, my disheveled hair falling in my face.

He reaches for a bottle of water, cracks it open and hands it to me. “Drink this. Go upstairs to your suite. Go to bed.” His hands drop to my thighs. Slide up a couple inches. Stop. He rubs light circles over my inner thighs with his thumbs.

I bite my lips to keep in a whimper.

Please?

“And don’t touch yourself.” His voice is suddenly gravelly, the authority still present, but the harshness gone. “That spanking was for my pleasure, not yours.”

Flutters spin and twist in my belly, heat swirls through my pelvis.

He’s just going to leave me like this? And walk away?

I lean forward. “I’m sorry.” The words are nothing more than a squeak.

“Don’t.” He puts his thumb over my lips. “No talking, songbird.” He traces my lower lip.

I suck his digit into my mouth and watch his pupils blow, the snap of his hips between my legs.

A low growl issues from his throat. “Go straight to bed,” he warns. He drags his wet thumb down my throat, between my bare breasts, and over my fluttering belly. When he rotates his hand and hooks his thumb between my legs, I jerk and thrust into the touch. He holds my gaze as he strokes once, twice. A third time. “No touching,” he warns, raising a brow.

I’m trembling, ripe. Ready.

But he just backs away, adjusting his bulging cock in his finely tailored trousers.

He walks to the door, then turns and points to me. “You’ll hear from me tomorrow.”

I let out a shaky moan, nearly ready to cry with need.

He steps through the door, only opening it as much as his body requires, like he’s making sure to block any view of me from beyond.

As soon as the door shuts, I cup my mons with my hand. I don’t usually masturbate. In fact, my limited sexual experience made me think I might be asexual, at best. But I’m dying to get off right now.

Except as I stroke between my legs, Tony Brando’s face rises up before me.

No touching.

Fuck if I don’t want to obey him. He wanted me to suffer this way; he knew exactly what he was doing.

I stop the undulation of my fingers between my legs.

Okay, fine. I’ll try it his way. Only because I have a feeling he understands something I haven’t quite grasped.

Something about me and what turns me on.

Something I didn’t know existed.

Tony

I need a cold shower. And three shots of Gray Goose.

Pepper Heart is killing me. I didn’t mean to go in there and spank her ass red. I make a point of not manhandling women. I’ve never mistreated one in my life.

But I just can’t stomach actually intimidating her—employing the kinds of threats that will get a quick and terrified response. Her asshole manager, that’s different case. He’s going to suffer my wrath.

He’s the one I should’ve taken this cluster fuck up with from the beginning.

Trouble is, I can’t seem to stay away from Pepper Heart.

And I have to say, she gave a good show despite it all. I probably wouldn’t have noticed if I weren’t already so fascinated by her. Hell, yesterday I hadn’t even planned on attending the concert. But once I met Pepper, all bets were off.

And that spanking? It was the fucking hottest thing in the history of sex. Too bad I couldn’t let myself enjoy it in the moment. But the sight of Pepper Heart’s perky little breasts, her slender body bent over for my punishment? That’s gonna stay in my spank bank forever.

In fact, I can’t wait to rub one out tonight thinking about how much she liked it. The way she spread her legs for me to slap her pussy. The flush on her cheeks, her parted lips.

Fuck.

I need to get my head out from between her thighs and back in this game. I had figured on Pepper earning fifty grand a night to pay off her debt, which would give her about a month at the Bellissimo, if all the shows are full—which they’re not. I was hoping publicity from these first sold out shows would translate into selling out the rest of the tickets, but if the press gets wind of her little ventriloquist act, we’re all fucked. Myself included. Because if push comes to shove, and Junior Tacone calls me to the mat for this, I’m not sure I’d be able to do what needs to be done.

Yeah, violence is in my nature. It’s in my genes. It was woven into my childhood and became the steel in my backbone the night I begged Don Tacone to take me into La Famiglia. Doing their dirty work hasn’t wrecked my soul because I lost it long before I was made. But it’s been easier this last decade in Vegas. We don’t break the law—much. Nico runs a legit operation here. I haven’t shot a gun in years, except at the range to practice. I’m able to make my threats real through the power of my size, the way I speak, and the reputation of the family I stand with.

But this situation calls for follow-through. Hugh deserves a beat-down for pulling this shit on me, for sure. The trouble is, when I think about bloodying his face, all I see is Pepper Heart’s fury. Her anger with me. Her indignation.

Shit! Am I really considering going easy on a guy who deserves all the shit I can give him because I want a girl to like me?

That’s asinine.

Since when do I care about women, other than protecting the ones who work here and satisfying the sexual itch now and then?

I don’t do relationships.

I can’t.

Not with my history. Not with my childhood. All I have to do is remember the way my mom looked at me the night everything changed, and I know no woman could ever accept me. No woman should ever accept me.

I’m a monster without a soul.

No one close to me would ever be safe.