Chapter Two
Austin
Arms folded, I watch with mild interest as a woman wearing nothing but a white G-string and angel wings spins around a pole while men of all ages toss dollar bills onto the stage. In a word, the atmosphere of the lower level of Chicago’s popular strip club, Cardinal Sin, can be described with my stripper name: Rowdy.
Yes, I’m a stripper, and no, I don’t work here.
In fact, I don’t work in any club. I’m what we call a personal stripper, the kind you hire for bachelorette parties, birthday parties, retirement parties, or just-because-it’s-Tuesday parties. Although I own Playboys 4 Hire with my two friends, since graduating college the stripping has been more of a hobby and easy means for extra cash, since my full-time job doesn’t exactly have me rolling in dough.
Despite my dad wishing I’d choose something safer, I followed in my old man’s footsteps and became a Chicago firefighter. My motto for both jobs is Find ’em hot and leave ’em wet, and I’m damn good at what I do.
“Hey, Rowdy,” a sweet voice says loud enough to be heard over the music. I swing my gaze to the left where the stunning blonde is seated next to me, dead center in front of the main stage. She bats her eyelashes and holds up the garnish stick from her chocolate martini with an impish smile. “Want my cherry?”
“No, he fucking does not.” That growl comes from her boyfriend, Roman Reeves, who also happens to be one of my best friends. Before they got together, Addison used my mouth and a maraschino cherry to make him jealous enough to finally make a move. It worked. “Keep it up, wildcat, and you’ll get more than you bargained for when we get home.”
Addison Paige sighs dramatically and drags the cherry off the stick with her teeth, tucking it into her cheek. “Promises, promises.”
“Aw, what’s the matter, Addie-girl?” I ask, injecting my words with the Southern drawl I pull out at will. “Old Roman here not doin’ the job anymore?”
Roman leans forward to glare at me from Addison’s other side. “Cut me some slack, asshole. I’m trying to enjoy myself.”
“All work and no play makes Ruthless a crabby boy,” Addison says, rolling her eyes at me. Ruthless is Roman’s stripper persona. When he’s not in his Armani suits and running his law firm with an iron fist, he can be found in torn jeans, a wife-beater, piercings, and black guyliner.
“Breaking your own rules, amigo?” I ask him.
“The firm can’t afford to lose this case, so yeah, it’s been rough. I haven’t had a night off in weeks and it’s not making me a happy fucking camper.”
“True story,” Addison said with a pout. “If this case doesn’t kill him first, I just might.”
Draping my arm across the back of her chair, I smile wide, launching the full arsenal of my dimples. “If you need me, darlin’, you know I’m always willin’ to pick up his slack.”
“Why don’t you use that Southern charm on someone who’s available, asshole?” Roman picks Addie up by her waist and sets her in his lap possessively. If the satisfied grin on her face and the way she twines her arms around his neck is any indication, that had been her plan all along. In seconds, they start kissing like teenagers at a drive-in.
“Hey hey hey, knock it off. No one wants to see that shit. Where the hell are Chance and Jane? I need them as a buffer. It’s bad enough I have to deal with Liam sulking over here like a damn two-year-old.”
Liam O’Donnell pries his left arm out from where it was crossed in front of his chest long enough to show me his happy middle finger. Completely oblivious to the naked woman on stage, his gaze is pinned to the back where the performers enter. His body is tense, and his jaw muscles clench in agitation. The kid needs a drink, but he’s refusing anything but water tonight because although he hasn’t admitted it, he’s afraid of losing his shit.
We’re at Cardinal Sin for two reasons tonight. One is for my role in the P4H business. Since my mother was a professional ballroom dancer and I was exposed to different styles of dance growing up, the guys put me in charge of recruitment—not that any of that has to do with the kind of dancing you do while taking your clothes off, but whatever. My job is to seek out new talent and offer them unique contracts that ensure their privacy and anonymity. P4H is perfect for those who enjoy the job but don’t want to advertise it. Any time we have open positions, I check out the guys on amateur night on the upper floor, which is where the men perform.
Chance Danvers is my other best friend and P4H business partner. He’s currently upstairs talking to the two guys we thought had potential. Jane Wendall, his girlfriend and Addison’s best friend, is with him. Normally we don’t bring the girls with us to the strip joint, but they’re here for the second reason we’re here tonight.
Liam’s best friend, Raquel, is performing as one of the amateur females for her birthday bucket list. I think it’s great and can’t wait to cheer her on—I brought a roll of fifty singles just for her—but Liam is not happy about it. “Cheer up, O’Donnell, it’s just one night.”
“And what if she likes it and decides to make it a regular thing?” he asks, glaring at me.
“So what if she does, Mr. Hypocrite?”
Yeah, Liam’s a stripper when he’s not attending school. The ladies go crazy for his Irish looks with the red hair and fair skin. He’s a handful of years younger than us, and he’s like the little brother none of us had.
“It’s not the same, Massey. If I have a client who becomes obsessed with me, I simply decline the business, or we send someone else. This place might not be a shithole, but if some guy gets it in his head that she’s his, that could be dangerous.”
He’s right, of course—men are pigs, and the real bad ones are entitled pigs who feel like they’re owed something from the world, including a girl he might like—but Liam’s looking too much into this. I really think this is just a bucket-list thing for Raquel.
Clapping a hand on his shoulder, I give him a squeeze of brotherly support. “All I’m saying is stop putting the cart before the horse, man.”
“Yeah, all right.” He lets out a resigned sigh, but the tension in his body doesn’t go anywhere. Nothing I say is going to change that; he has to work out his issues on his own. Or better yet, with Raquel.
The stripper-angel finishes her number to cheers from the audience and a shower of dollar bills that she quickly gathers up before exiting in the back, blowing kisses to her fans. I remember her being announced as a regular, which means the next couple will be amateurs.
“Listen up, gentlemen,” the MC says into the microphone in his radio DJ voice. “Next up is one of our favorites here at Cardinal Sin. She’s been with us for several amateur nights, and we’re so damn glad she keeps coming back.”
The crowd gets noticeably louder, apparently knowing who’s about to perform. Raquel didn’t tell us her stage name, but since this is her first time, it’s definitely not her. Mild curiosity at the audience’s reaction has me focusing my attention to the shadows where Liam’s been staring for the last hour.
“Give it up, for Raven!” The MC draws out her name like he’s introducing a prize fighter in Vegas, and the crowd goes absolutely ballistic when the electric guitar starts up from Janet Jackson’s controversial early ’90s song, “If.”
Now I’m more than mildly curious, and I sit up a little straighter in my chair as I get my first glimpse of the woman called Raven.
Clad in skin-tight leather and a short blue wig, she commands the stage, walking with all the confidence of a runway model to the beat of the music while slowly unzipping her halter top. The amateurs never go fully nude, and I’m curious what she has on underneath, but she’s working the strip-tease like a pro.
As she gets closer, I try to get a good look at her face, but half of it’s hidden behind eye makeup that reminds me of a peacock in shades of bright blue and green, the same as her glittery lipstick. The only things I know are that her bone structure is beautiful, and she has the sweetest cupid’s bow mouth that gives me all sorts of dirty ideas.
Raven whips off her top, revealing a set of pert tits in what looks like a not-quite see-through string bikini. Because I’m in the front row I can just barely make out the shadows of her areolas, but nothing more. Being in the biz, I’m not normally fazed by the nudity of performers, but this woman has me wishing I could see every detail of her breasts.
She grabs the pole with one hand and swings around. As she faces front again, our eyes lock, and it feels like a horse kicks me square in the chest. She holds my gaze as she continues to move with a seductive force and Janet sings about wrapping her lips around her lover’s cock. I lean forward, bracing my elbows on my knees with my hands clasped to keep them from reaching for the stage. She manages to sever eye contact to play to the rest of the crowd, but I don’t dare look away, and I feel a strange sense of satisfaction that she always returns to me.
“Is it just me or is Raven giving our Rowdy-boy some serious subliminal messages?” Addison asks between shouts of encouragement and tossing money on the stage.
From the corner of my eye I see Roman look at me and chuckle. “Careful, brother, it looks like you’re about to drool all over yourself.”
“Fuck off,” I return without moving a muscle.
“Seriously though,” Addie continues, her relentless nature proving why she’s called the Honey Badger. “Between the eye-fucking and suffocating sexual tension, I’m calling this a match.”
I barely refrain from rolling my eyes. Addie likes to consider herself a professional matchmaker and takes full credit for getting “Jance” together when Addie sent Romeo the Handyman stripper—aka Chance—over to Jane’s instead of the plumber she actually needed.
“Stay out of the man’s business, wildcat,” Roman ordered.
“But—”
“Addison,” he warned.
She sighs dramatically, making sure her discontent can be heard over the loud music. “Fine, but I want the record to show that I’m predicting this to happen. I think I’ll call you Ravstin, or maybe…”
Addie continues to contemplate the name she’s giving my fake relationship with the mysterious woman on stage, but I’ve tuned her out because Raven just tore her pants off, and my brain has officially shut down thanks to all the blood in my head rushing south.
She has the body of a dancer, with toned abs, muscular legs, and a firm, round ass under the high cut of her bikini bottoms. The platform heels make her calf muscles stand out with long lines like they would if she was up on toe shoes. And that’s when it hits me. The muscle definition, the soft position of her fingers when she extends her arm, her graceful movements even with the fast choreography. Raven isn’t just any kind of dancer; I’d bet good money she’s a ballerina.
The song is approaching the end. Facing away from the crowd, she jumps to grab the pole as high as she can, locks her legs into place, then throws her upper body back and uses the strength in her thighs to hang upside down with her arms stretched out to the sides. Suddenly she drops several feet on the pole, and a bolt of fear pierces my chest as I imagine the worst. But my worry turns to awe when, on the last beat of the song, she stops on a dime, with the tips of her short blue wig brushing the stage. And once again, her gaze is locked to mine.
My hands are itching to touch her, to run over her fluid lines and learn her body like a blind man. Then I’d take control of all that beauty, positioning her however it suits me, posing her like she’s my very own pleasure—
I break out of my baser ruminations when she rights herself and strides to the back of the stage, only pausing long enough to grab her top and pants. She must be in a damn hurry to go somewhere, because she didn’t even bother to pick up the money. Shit. She’s not a regular here, which means Raven won’t be coming out to mingle with the customers. In a few minutes she could be gone, and I might never see her again.
As the MC starts announcing the next girl, I shove to my feet.
“Hey, man, where are you going? Raquel could be up next,” Liam says.
“Then try to keep the murder off your face and show your girl some support. I’ll be back.”
I stride across the main floor toward the hallway that leads to the backstage area. I’m a man without much of a plan right now, driven by pure instinct and the slight chance that I didn’t imagine the connection between me and the mysterious dancer known only as Raven. But I’ll be damned if I let the night end before I find out.