Breaking the Rules (15 page)

Neesha sat on the bench, afraid to move, afraid that someone else was watching, even now.

She’d come here this morning to warn Ben—to tell him not to go back to the mall, to make sure he didn’t get hurt.

But now she didn’t dare climb the stairs to the second floor and knock on his door—or even use the key that he’d pulled out from beneath a potted plant in the courtyard downstairs. She didn’t dare to do anything—except dig out the last of the money Ben had given her and board the bus when it finally arrived, and ride it into the city, where she could lose herself in the crowds.

Wishing she were brave enough—and ashamed that she wasn’t.

And knowing with a growing sense of dread that she wouldn’t be safe until she got well out of town—and that she wouldn’t get out of town without a whole lot of cash.

Izzy pulled over to the curb in a loading zone, just down the street from D’Amato’s, where Eden had gone in the back door. It was, as the signage proclaimed, a
GENTLEMAN’S CLUB
where
LIVE HOT GIRLS
danced, i.e. stripped, 24/7!

It shouldn’t have surprised him. And on one level, it didn’t. There weren’t many jobs anywhere for someone with Eden’s lack of education to earn more than minimum wage. And there was no way she could have afforded an apartment in that relatively uncrappy part of town on even eighty hours a week of minimum wage.

At least not without her fucking some guy so he’d help pay the bills.

And okay, that was harsh, but true. Although the fact that she was working here probably meant that she
hadn’t
hooked up with anyone new—and yeah. That was just wishful thinking on his part.

Eden Gillman was not the kind of woman who went for very long without a man in her life, and Izzy well knew it. Maybe being reminded of that would help him find closure—his seeing the low-life scum that she let into her bed instead of him. Or maybe he didn’t need to see the guy. Maybe he just needed to know his name.

Izzy took a deep breath and then he took another, even as his mind continued to race.

Maybe she was a waitress here, because the signs also boasted
GOOD FOOD
, but no. A woman as beautiful as Eden didn’t work carrying trays in a place like this.

He knew he should drive away—just put the pedal to the metal of this rental car—all the way back to San Diego, where he could start the ball rolling on getting that divorce.

But he pulled the car into the club’s valet-only VIP parking lot instead, and tossed the attendant his keys, because he was hungry and he wanted breakfast and the freaking place allegedly had good food, so why the hell not?

Probably because he was feeling distinctly out-of-body as he walked around to the street-side entrance of the strip club. He’d found, from past experiences, that that was never a good sign. Still, his feet took him toward D’Amato’s heavy wooden door.

The location was a seedy one. Yes, the sidewalks were clean, having recently been hosed down—a luxury not every establishment paid for, here in the land of scarce water. And the club was near some of the
bigger conference hotels and no doubt had some relatively upscale patrons. And sure enough, there was a sign by the door advertising a convention breakfast special—two eggs over easy, arranged like a pair of breasts atop a mound—their word—of corned-beef hash Mexicali. Served with Erma’s Cloud Nine potatoes and choice of toast and juice and a bottomless cup of coffee. All for $7.99; $12.99 if you wanted a bottomless mimosa or Bloody Mary.

What a fucking awesome deal.

Plus, any charges that showed up on your credit card would no doubt read
D’Amato’s
, instead of, oh, say,
the Pussycat Lounge
. Just in case either the boss or the wife objected to breakfast meetings held in strip clubs.

But the area was peppered with “massage parlors.” And Izzy had absolutely no doubt that—should he request the service—for a slightly larger tip, the valet would set him up with a hooker to hoover him, right there in his car, in the parking lot.

Izzy opened the door and went inside, nodding to the gargantuan bouncer who stood near the entrance. Guy was former Marine Recon—he’d had his unit’s patch tattooed onto his tree trunk of an arm. Either that, or his boyfriend was the marine and was currently active duty, over in A-stan. Probably not, but the modern world was full of surprises and not all of them were unpleasant ones.

Just some of them.

Izzy paused for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the sudden severe drop in light and to get his bearings.

The place was set up like almost every other strip joint around the world. There was table seating in front of a small center stage, which in this place was the lowest point in the club. There were also runways, like spokes on a wheel, leading out into the main floor, with up-close-if-not-quite-personal seating around them for those who were there not to partake of the “good food” but only to drink and ogle girls who pole-danced for their supper.

Four different tiers, each higher than the last, created a stadium-seating effect. And it was clear that proximity to the stage was a pricier
experience than sitting up in the cheap seats, even though the higher level gave patrons a clear shot of the poles and various other dancing surfaces. But down front, the tables were large and bore white cloths. As the altitude rose, the tables grew significantly smaller and were topped with plastic. Here in the back, they were positioned much closer together, too.

A bar was along the rear wall, up on this highest level. And because this was Nevada, there was also the obligatory row of slot machines, and even a blackjack table off to one side.

And oh, look. There was a handicapped ramp so that physically challenged patrons could get their wheelchairs from the upper levels down to the main floor. How very PC.

Of course, making sure there were clear and easy-to-access aisles to that main floor was of paramount importance to the dancers. They earned tips from the myriad of patrons who wanted to see their naked bodies from a closer vantage point, and experience the thrill of slipping a dollar bill against that unattainable smooth skin. There were three generous aisles in the place, the rug-covered surfaces worn bare by the constant traffic.

It was cool and windowless and smelled half like a frat-house basement and half like a damn good diner—the “good food” advertisement seemed to be true. Which meant that the “Live Hot Girls” sign was probably correct as well, even though there were currently no girls, hot or other, anywhere to be found.

In fact the girl who was coming toward him now, wearing a waitress apron over a stained white blouse and carrying a tray filled with plates of eggs and pancakes and a pot of coffee, hadn’t been a girl for forty years. She was definitely hot, though. Izzy could see beads of sweat standing out on her forehead.

“Sit wherever you want,” she honked at him in her three-pack-a-day voice. “Don’t worry, the dancers will be out soon. They’re having a staff meeting.”

A
staff
meeting? Seriously?

He sat all the way in the back, in the shadows, as his stomach
churned with anticipation and dread. His hunger was long gone—if it had ever actually existed. Up at this altitude the breakfast menu was printed onto the place mat that was on the table, which was pretty smart since Izzy wasn’t keen on touching a menu that any of the club’s other cheap-seats patrons had handled. And that was saying something because his gross-out factor was usually quite high.

The waitress approached. “What’ll it be, hon?”

“The special, please,” he said, because he knew he had to eat something. “Orange juice, whole-wheat toast—dry. Coffee, black and ASAP. And just out of curiosity, do the dancers often have staff meetings?”

“Only when there’s a new girl, causing trouble,” she told him darkly, taking a mug from another table, setting it in front of him and filling it with coffee from that pot on her tray.

“Trouble?” he repeated, making it a question.

“Really just learning the ropes,” she said. “Some of the older girls get jealous, particularly when the new girl is as pretty as Jenny is.”

“The new girl’s name is
Jenny
?” Izzy asked.

“Jennilyn LeMay is her stage name,” she said, and he almost fell out of his chair. The woman snorted. “God only knows her real name.”

God and Izzy. Because there was no way on earth that a stripper with Dan’s girlfriend’s name coincidentally worked at the same club with Dan’s sister. It was a move that was pure Eden, because in truth? Although Izzy would never say this to Dan—even he wasn’t
that
stupid—Jennilyn LeMay was one kick-ass stripper name. And Eden clearly never imagined that anyone—especially her brother—would ever find out where she earned her weekly paycheck. So why not use his gf’s awesome name as an alias?

It would have been funny except Izzy seemed to have left his sense of humor in the rental car.

“Thank you,” he made the effort to tell the waitress, but she was already beelining it toward the kitchen, to put his order in.

Leaving him to sit there, clutching his coffee mug, waiting with his
heart in his throat for his wife to come out on that stage and take off her clothes.

He didn’t want to think about what this was that he was feeling, this turmoil of adrenaline-laced emotion.

And then he didn’t have to think because the music started—the heavy funk beat of “Brickhouse”—nice choice. And there they came—out onto the stage and runways.

He found Eden immediately. She was over to the left, but in the front, next to a blond Amazon, and she deserved to be there—of course, he’d always thought she was the most beautiful woman on the planet.

She was wearing outrageously high fuck-me heels that sparkled in the stage lights, and a tight skirt that could’ve been part of a bathing suit, it was so small. It hugged her hips, leaving her stomach and midriff bare, exposing a sculptured mix of muscles and soft female curves and a tattoo that peeked out from the skirt’s top, that no doubt covered the scar from the C-section that had saved her life all those months ago. The bottom edge of the skirt barely covered the panties she wore beneath it, and as she turned around, moving in vaguely unison steps with the other dancers as she circled one of the poles, he saw that the skirt intentionally didn’t cover her world-class derriere. And yeah, as if to illustrate, she bent over with her long, shapely legs spread wide in another choreographed bump-and-grind move, and it was more than clear that the piece of clothing—if you could call it that—she wore beneath that skirt was a thong.

Her full breasts were covered by a halter top that fastened in the back and around her neck, tied in big loops that would be easy to undo, when the time came.

Her dark hair was loose around her shoulders and it gleamed and bounced as she moved her head, as Izzy shifted in his seat to see past the waitress who’d returned with his breakfast.

It was then that the entire group of dancers simultaneously lost the bulk of their clothing.

It was an amazing effect—the lights changed and the music got louder—and Eden instantly shed both the skirt and that top. It happened so fast, if he’d blinked or been distracted by the appearance of his corned-beef hash and eggs, he would’ve missed it.

She would’ve just appeared to be suddenly, dazzlingly nearly naked as she wrapped one long leg around that pole and moved to the music as the early-morning crowd woke up and roared their approval.

But because Izzy was watching her closely, he saw how it had happened. The skirt unfastened at her hips, the top opened between her breasts and slipped down her arms. She tossed both costume pieces to one of the waitresses on the floor as the entire group of women broke choreography and went into doing their own thing.

Eden’s thing was all about the men who clustered around her runway. She gave them eye contact and plenty of smiles as she ran her hands across her own perfect body—touching where she damn well knew that every man in that room wanted to touch. Her neck, her shoulders, her arms. Her breasts, her stomach, and lower, and then down the smooth insides of her thighs … She watched them, smiling the entire time. But her smile didn’t look at all calculating or manipulative. It was somehow inclusive—part very bad girl, absolutely, but also part sweet young thing—eager to please.

And the crowd ate it up.

Izzy exhaled hard as he watched her work, his food growing cold in front of him. She’d always been good at turning the sex up to an eleven whenever anyone male was around. He’d thought it was dangerous, the way she did that, her total
you know you want me
attitude—but she was now clearly making good money from it.

It was also clear that there were regulars who’d come specifically to see her. She spoke to them as she danced, bending close to let them slip dollar bills between the strap of her thong and what Izzy knew firsthand to be the smooth softness of her skin. They held the bills out before they reached for her, and he knew they were showing her their denomination. It was clear she didn’t accept anything lower than a five or maybe even a ten. Or shit. A twenty. Why not, right?

He stood up, his breakfast untouched, and pulled a ten from his wallet and dropped it on the table to pay for his meal.

Izzy didn’t have all that much cash left—maybe a hundred twenty dollars, tops—but he took the rest of it out and headed toward the lower floor of the club.

It was stupid. He knew he should just walk away, walk out the door. But he’d come this far. And he finally knew what he wanted to say—what it was that he wanted to ask her.

So he worked his way through the crowd to the edge of the runway where she was defying gravity around that pole. Up close, her skin was even more beautiful, her breasts full and tightly peaked from the relentless air-conditioning. Or maybe the way she was dancing was turning her on.

It sure as shit was working for him. Or it would be working, if he weren’t close to overwhelmed by a wave of sadness that swept through him.

Was this closure?

God, he hoped so.

Up close, Izzy saw a whole lot more of that tattoo she’d chosen—a swirl of hearts and roses in an intricate design—to cover the scar left when Pinkie’s already deceased little body had been plucked from her, in an effort to keep her from dying, too.