Read more from Rachel Blaufeld in Electrified, Book One in the Electric Tunnel Series.
CARSON GRAHAM shifted into fourth gear as he hightailed it away from the club toward his hotel. Why did he keep coming back to Vegas? Who the hell knew. If there was one thing he didn’t have any trouble finding or getting, it was willing women.
He knew women weren’t really “things.” They were interesting, often complicated creatures, and he both appreciated and respected them. He just happened to like women in his bed who came with no strings. It was the twenty-first century, after all, and there were plenty of women who liked that kind of deal.
He had never settled down, and he sure as hell wasn’t about to start now. At closer to forty years old than thirty-five, he felt the bachelor life suited him just fine. Or maybe it was that he only deserved the single life. His particular circumstances hadn’t exactly set him up for success in the relationship department.
Picking up a little speed, he changed course and steered toward the mountains, needing more time to clear his head.
It would be great to be on his motorcycle right now, to be able to lean into the steep and winding curves, but it was back in his garage on the East Coast, grounded—just like his life at the moment. The sports car he’d rented here in Vegas would have to do.
As he shifted the engine into fifth gear the car jetted forward, allowing the tension to bleed from him with the increased RPMs. He was trying to drive away from the pull as fast as he could; the pull coming from an insanely gorgeous stripper he was lusting after in a big way.
There was something magnetic about Sienna Flower, dragging him in deeper and deeper. More than her sleek, toned body and her sensual moves when she wrapped herself around the pole, there was a draw deeper than the physical. Carson wasn’t a hard-up kind of guy. He never got like this over a woman. Ever.
Growing up without a mom, he was fairly certain there was nothing lasting about “love.” If a mother could actually up and leave her child without any notice, like his did, there was no such thing as forever. His dad had done the best he could to be everything to Carson, but the fact remained: When a six-year-old’s mother left and never came back, that fucked with a kid.
It fucked with a grown man too. As a result, Carson never considered love an option.
Lust, a few cocktails, dinner out, and then a good roll in Egyptian cotton sheets—that was Carson’s modus operandi. He definitely didn’t have any delusions of long-term love.
In reality, his thoughts on the subject of love didn’t really matter. His lifestyle and career didn’t allow for love; at least, that was what he told himself. After joining the FBI, he traveled all the time, leaving at a moment’s notice on any number of classified assignments. He was wise enough to know the FBI lifestyle didn’t lend itself to successful relationships, so he never pursued them. If he were honest with himself, he might admit maybe that was why he originally chose to take the FBI job, but who wanted to look that closely at their own motives?
He certainly couldn’t be hunting down a suspect in a different time zone while pretending to be at a sales conference in Orlando when he called home in the wee hours of the night . . . or morning, depending on where he was.
Eventually all the lies, fibs, or whatever you wanted to call them caught up in a field agent’s relationship. As a man who avoided conflict in his personal life for fear of being deserted, he knew the lying would eat away at him.
After cracking a high-profile missing person’s case at the FBI a few years ago, Carson had struck out on his own. Going solo, he built his own firm, still traveling and having a grand fucking time doing what he did best, which was remaining uninterested in a long-term relationship. Now he was an independent private investigator, making his own rules, and it suited him just fine. His reputation followed him and he took the cases he wanted—except for this current bitch of a case—which allowed him to have a good time living life.
To most people, he introduced himself as a bounty hunter or some shit like that. No need to have every Tom, Dick, and Harry asking him to take this or that heartbreaking case. Carson worked, traveled, and enjoyed the finer things life offered. He liked getting paid too much to take on pro-bono cases.
Although his recent case was starting to feel like one . . . that and a big, annoying crock of shit.
A vibration in his pocket partially dragged him out of his funk. Holding the wheel steady with his knee, Carson pulled the phone out of his pocket and hit IGNORE. Speak of the devil who got him involved in this crap. His best friend, Alex. He should have answered; the guy’s family had practically raised him. He owed him that but he wasn’t in the mood, since it was Alex’s fault that he’d taken this damned case.
Guilt overtook him as he traveled the long, dark desert road, and Carson dialed his friend back.
“Hey man, what’s up?” He focused on the open road ahead of him, the mountains bleeding into the skyline, the moon lighting his way.
“Not much. Just checking in. Making sure my oldest friend is still alive and causing trouble wherever he may be at the moment.”
“Yeah, yeah. All good here. Kicking around out west, trying to solve that shit case you sent me. Taking a much-needed break in Vegas as we speak.” He pushed his speed a little more, feeling the car purr.
“Way to make me jealous. I’m stuck at home watching the baby while my wife is out on a girls’ night out, and you’re probably on your way to getting laid. What’s wrong with this picture?”
“Nah, Alex. You go be with your baby and let your wife have a good time. You’re not missing anything. Except for a few strippers.” He laughed out loud.
A small chuckle came from the other end. “I’m gonna get you for that one. Have some fun for me, will ya? Keep me updated on the case. I know I can’t be much help, but if you need anything, let me know.”
Carson chuckled. “I wish you could help with the case. It’s turning into one hell of an adventure. I’m trying my best to help out your relative’s friends, but for the first time I just don’t know. Hell, listen to me rambling like I’m a spoiled bitch. Forget it, man. Go love your baby.”
“Okay, but stay in touch, Carson. Don’t go MIA so often.”
“I hear ya.”
As he disconnected, he thought about Alex’s comment. Going MIA, doing his own thing, was part of who he was.
His current personal life lined up with his new career perfectly. He had a few women around the country who knew the 411 when it came to him. Lavish times with no commitment; that was how he rolled. Period.
Now here he was, rushing back to Vegas every weekend. Why? What the hell was the draw? Carson sighed because he knew damn well.
Sienna Flower, adult entertainer with moves that would ignite a dead man, and eyes like a virgin, making him feel like a young kid all over again.
Christ, he had a problem.
The case he was currently working was burning him up and playing with his mind, besides displacing him to the West Coast. Although the job was lining his bank account—even at his lowest rate—it was taking much longer than he expected. He needed it to be over.
Am I losing my touch already?
He sighed and turned the car back toward the Strip while something nagged at his gut over this assignment. There was something odd, some piece of the puzzle missing, which was why the case was taking longer than expected.
What was wrong with him that he couldn’t find it? What was he missing?
It was a first for him, and he didn’t like it. Not. One. Fucking. Bit. Which was why he found himself running off to Sin City every weekend.
He needed to let off steam, and where better to do so than Las Vegas? It was an occupational hazard of his . . . letting loose. Going back to his FBI days, Carson always needed a little fun, a tiny walk on the wild side to let go of the stress of the job. Otherwise, he lived and breathed his cases, working late into the night to solve them.
He needed a good time to release the pressure, which he currently was finding at the Electric Tunnel, but the pressure only mounted more after visiting the club. What originally started out as a method to clear his head and make way for him to solve the case, was clouding his judgment even more.
Sienna Flower had happened . . . that was what.
His latest client—or clients, since it was a married couple—was able to pay him. Yeah, they were making good on his rates, but their friends raised the funds, not them. They were willing to keep transferring money to him, yet he didn’t like the eerie feeling that had begun to dog him. They were lying to him. Withholding information, at the very least.
For the first time ever, Carson was considering giving up the case. The only thing that stopped him was the worry that nagged him over the missing person he was hunting down.
Shit, I’m going soft.
He was turning into an emotional cream puff, which was a bigger occupational hazard than having a grand time in Vegas.
Originally, he’d needed a respite from the bone-deep worry that something was terribly wrong with the case, so he started heading to Sin City for the weekends. Now, his gut was messed up from the case and his head was fucked up from a stripper.
The family who had hired him was pretty certain their missing relative had fled out west or thereabouts. Why were they so convinced of that theory? Carson had been stuck scouring small towns for the last month and a half. He didn’t like small towns with strange people all up in each other’s business. Almost as little as he liked the case.
He was starting to need his weekly adventure to Vegas by Tuesday of each week. It was a place where he could disappear and enjoy himself for forty-eight hours. After all, he was still a man with baser needs.
The problem all began when he went to check out the infamous Sienna Flower the first night he got to Vegas. He hadn’t been able to tear himself away from her image, nor enjoy himself at all since that night. He couldn’t figure it out. He’d had many women over the years—gorgeous, seductive, exotic women when he was traveling—and now he was stuck on some Vegas showgirl. No, not a showgirl. Exotic dancer.
Carson downshifted the car as the lights of the Vegas Strip came into view, rolling around what little he knew about her in his head. Nothing about her made sense. She’d arrived on the scene a few years back, and before long became the biggest thing Vegas had seen in years. She didn’t do private rooms or parties. Ever. Asher Peterson, king of the adult dance club world, pulled her from lap dancing after only a year of dancing at the Tunnel. Now all she did was grace billboards, shake her ass onstage, and bring millions of dollars into the club.
He knew all this from Google. Fuck, after the first night seeing her, he couldn’t get her tits, firm ass cheeks, and electrifying eyes out of his mind. He’d Googled her like a horny teenager, and decided she must have been a local Asher had taken a liking to.
Were they romantically involved? Was Asher tapping that?
And why was he even thinking about Sienna’s potential bed partners? He was fairly certain that wasn’t a role even he could fill.
Do I want to?
Unfortunately, Carson had developed a nasty habit of heading to the Tunnel every Thursday through Saturday nights for the last month. Tonight was no different. He went to see Sienna dance. Then he left to go back to his hotel to either pick up someone in the hotel bar or jack off. Lately, his preference was to stroke himself to recent memories, those of a striking, gorgeous, naturally curvy woman with a heady combination of innocence and salacious moves.
He might as well have been in high school all over again, lusting after the prom queen, not knowing what to do about it other than rub one out.
This evening was different, though, because he had felt Sienna lock gazes with him. She looked right out at him as her act ended. She was smiling, but he could see right into her eyes. She was examining him back as though she wanted to know more about him.
It was disturbing on so many levels. He was a private eye. He should be able to read people. Yet she seemed to be reading him, looking deep within him.
He couldn’t begin to figure out Sienna Flower, and now she was trying to figure him out? The thought made him harder than he normally was when he exited the club. Tonight he was practically limping as he walked out.
He needed to get laid, stop coming back to Vegas, and leave his thoughts of Sienna Flower at the door.
Of course, he knew he’d be back at the same place tomorrow night with his eyes homed in on one stripper, his dick standing at attention. Weeks ago, he’d paid the concierge at his hotel extremely well to keep him on the weekend list for the Tunnel. Open ended. No need to waste that.
Leaving his rental sports car at the front of his hotel with the valet, Carson bypassed the gaming tables and slot machines and went straight to his favorite bar for a drink. He grabbed a seat at the far end of the bar and nodded at the bartender, Victor, who now viewed him as a regular and brought him a drink without his even needing to order. Top-shelf scotch on the rocks.
Fuck, he was officially a Vegas groupie. The valets knew him, the bartender knew his drink and had it ready as soon as he stepped foot in the lounge, the front desk gave him the same room each weekend, and he was lusting after a woman who starred in Lord only knew how many other men’s fantasies.
If his FBI buddies caught wind of this, they’d never let him live it down. Most of them were settling down, either resolving themselves to living double lives, or trading in their FBI badges for white-collar jobs. Not Carson, he was living the dream. Fast cars, motorcycles, big money, booze, high-end escorts—or dancers, depending on how you looked at it—and his current bullshit case.
He needed to relax and get a handle on all this shit. Carson caught Victor’s eye and then lifted his chin, smiling when Victor made his way over to him.
“Hey, Vic, how’s it shaking? You got any cigars back behind the bar, or do I have to move my ass to a special bar to smoke one?”
Victor chuckled as he wiped his hands on a bar rag. “You’re in luck, buddy, this is Vegas, where anything goes. I just happen to have a few select ones in a humidor under the bar. Let me grab it and you can pick your poison.”
Moments later Carson inhaled deeply, scotch in one hand, a fresh cigar in the other, his view on the casino floor. Actually, he was relaxing for the first time all week, coming down from his dark mood, and found himself not wanting another woman. He wasn’t even sure if he wanted to take care of himself either, which was new.
Surprised at that revelation, Carson decided he was content to only finish his drink and cigar before heading upstairs to go straight to sleep.
There was always the promise of tomorrow night, and Sienna locking eyes with him again.
Continue reading now!
Sign up for my for the latest news on releases, sales, and other updates.