Brutally Beautiful

BRUTALLY BEAUTIFUL

Lynne Connolly

www.loose-id.com

Brutally Beautiful

Copyright © February 2013 by Lynne Connolly

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eISBN 9781623002169

Editor: G. G. Royale

Cover Artist: Ginny Glass

Published in the United States of America

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This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Nick leaned with his back against the bar but at a slight angle that gave him a view of the mirrored surface behind the bottles. Old habits he couldn’t get out of. He held his drink loosely, but not so loose that anyone could knock it out of his hands. He could see it at all times. Basic urban safety. Interesting how few people did that and still—in these days of drugs dropped into drinks—left their glasses on the tables so they could dance. Even left their jackets slung across the chairs behind them for the pickpockets and occasional thieves. His lip curled. Fucking idiots deserved what happened to them.

He turned his attention back to the stage. Naked women cavorted around their poles, their bare pussies rubbing against the metal surfaces in a way that made him think about hygiene, not sex.

Too many clubs, too many women. Story of his life. He grinned mirthlessly.
Poor baby
. He could hear his brother’s amused voice in his head, even though he hadn’t set eyes on Larry for four years. Nearly five, now. He’d done what he had to in order to get food and later, to survive in one of the worst areas in Britain. He’d got good at it too.

All gone, all in the past. Except in his mind, where his old life existed as vividly as it ever had. Larry and him against the world, running through the streets, beating the other gangs, going for the top of their particular stinking pile of shit. Nick missed his brother so much that an aching void opened inside him every time he thought of him. But he couldn’t contact him, couldn’t risk it until he knew he was free and clear of the contagion that had followed him halfway across the world, here to New York City.

Perhaps he’d find someone to help fill the void, at least temporarily.

He took another visual pass and returned his attention to the woman he’d noticed the minute he’d settled against the bar. She’d taken the same position as him, except she’d chosen to perch on one of the high bar stools. She held a brightly colored drink in one hand, and to his practiced eyes, it looked virtually untouched. She’d had it in her hand for an hour, ever since she got here.

Interesting. So was she. Gorgeous legs, encased in silky hose, one foot propped against the rung of the bar stool, the other on the floor. Shoes with three-inch heels, not too extreme, but enough to showcase those slinky limbs.

The owner had done a great job of making the club female friendly without deterring the regulars who wanted to relax and watch a few strippers do their stuff. Down here the stripping tended to the burlesque, with tassels, corsets and the like, although they did get naked eventually. If the women who came here could handle men hitting on them at regular intervals, this was a good, reasonably priced place to get a drink in the early hours of the morning. Here in New York, where the city never slept, there were always women looking for a drink. Like this one. For the first time since he’d started coming here, Nick’s interest piqued.

Her dark red dress skimmed her curves, but didn’t mold them too tightly, hinting at tantalizing secrets instead of displaying her wares. Her body was the kind to attract the connoisseur, not the person avidly searching for sex at any cost.

“She’s not a hooker, in case you’re wondering.” He’d been aware of the approach of Odell Prejean, the owner of Bared. He trusted Odell and allowed him to get close.

Since the club had become a place for the avant-garde, Odell had kept the working girls out. “I know. You keep them out pretty effectively. The female punters don’t appreciate the competition.” He kept his voice low, below the loud music.

Odell flashed him a grin. “Punters? You are so fucking British, man.”

Nick shrugged. “Ordinary joes. Customers. Do you know her?”

“Nope, first visit tonight,” Odell said. He nodded to the barman, who reached under the counter for his bottle of VSOP cognac.

Odell poured a generous dose of cognac into a clean glass and offered it to Nick. He took the liquor with thanks, inhaling the fragrant distillation. “Where did you get the taste for this stuff?”

“In da ghetto?” Odell suggested.

Nick gave a derisory laugh, matching the gleam in Odell’s eyes. “Don’t kid a kidder. You’ve no more been near the ghetto than I’ve been to Seattle.”

While he chatted with Odell, he kept his attention on the woman. She watched the crowd as if waiting for someone or something to happen. He scanned the club again through narrowed eyes. He couldn’t see anything amiss, and if he couldn’t and neither could Odell, chances were there was nothing to see. “Think she’s waiting for a date?”

“Maybe.” Odell shrugged. “Do you want her? I can get her for you. Every woman has her price.”

Fuck yes
, but he wouldn’t need any help. Either she’d want him or she wouldn’t. He didn’t need a mediator.

She slid off the stool, and the sinuous, graceful movement sent his cock stirring, surprising Nick, because the old boy hadn’t shown interest in a random woman for some time now. He should have expected its resurgence, he reflected with a wry grin. Working on his doctoral thesis had left little time for socializing, and he hadn’t fucked a woman for—shit, months.

This was one prime specimen of womanhood. Maybe time to break his self-imposed celibacy.

When he tried tilting his glass at her, she ignored his salute. He shrugged. That suited him fine. He’d drink up and go home. Maybe he’d just walk. Then finally he might get some sleep. He never slept well.

With the honed instincts of a long-time streetwise operator, he sensed trouble. She was waiting for something to happen or someone to arrive, and everything she did convinced him that she didn’t want to be here. “Watch yourself, my son,” he murmured to Odell. “There could be trouble ahead.”

“Don’t worry,” Odell said sotto voce. “I arranged a webcam just for her. And a bouncer too.” He nodded at one of the men propping up the walls. Although they didn’t wear monkey suits and weren’t standing with arms folded like the doormen, they were, to Nick’s eyes, just as obvious. “She’s probably vice. They come here from time to time, to try to catch us. Watch Freda and Alberto blow her mind. They get as close to the line as they can.”

Nick pursed his lips in a soundless whistle and changed his mind about leaving. Freda and Alberto were worth hanging on for. “I didn’t think this was their night.”

Odell shrugged. “It is now.”

“If she orders a raid, I want out the back.”

Odell chuckled. “Can’t take the heat?”

“Something like that.” Keeping below the radar was an art, and Nick didn’t exactly need Odell’s help to get out of here if the cops moved in. He knew all the private exits.

He might need it with Freda and Alberto. They could raise the fucking dead, and their act frequently skirted legality, but they did it with artistry and style. Upstairs in the private rooms, legality didn’t have a meaning, but down here the club kept to the letter of the law. No physical contact with the customers, no penetration of anything with anything. The dancers concentrated on the dancing and wore inventive, sexy costumes for most of their acts. Most.

The lights on the stage area changed to blues and greens, and the dancers collected their tips and slid away. The poles slid away too, into the area below the stage, leaving an unimpeded view and an empty space. An air of anticipation filled the club, and the lights flashed up the names of the performers. This was one reason the club was so popular. Odell must be paying a fortune to keep them here, because they were truly talented and other places were constantly trying to poach them.

Freda and Alberto had many different acts and different moods. This time they were tango dancers.

Freda was a beautiful, full-figured woman with tits any woman would kill for. As far as Nick knew, she hadn’t had significant surgery done, which enhanced her beauty to him. Tonight she wore a knee-length dress in a pale color. Lavender, Nick thought, although it was hard to tell under the colored lights. The slit up one side from knee to hip flashed a string of underwear underneath when she moved. Her black hair swung down to her waist, loose and straight but tousled. Her feet were clad in crazy high-heeled shoes. It must be like walking on stilts, teetering on those things, and this woman
danced
in them. Shit, could she dance.

Alberto was about an inch or two taller than his partner in her stupid shoes. He wore black pants and a white shirt, the top couple of buttons open, his long black hair caught back so that the front strained against his forehead.

They danced. The tango had to be sexy enough clothed—Nick wouldn’t know; he didn’t waste his time watching it—but this was almost unbearably erotic.

After a few tense turns around the small stage, her partner unzipped her dress right down the back in a movement that appeared more like he was ripping the garment off her. She gave a careless shrug to let it fall to the floor.

Fuck, she was built. They’d sprayed or polished their skin so the planes of their bodies gleamed as the lights changed from the cold end of the spectrum to the warm. Heat played over them. Alberto stripped off his shirt like a matador’s cape and flung it away as if it offended him. They approached each other like enemies who couldn’t stay away, their bodies sliding together, then separating. He had only his pants on now, and she wore an opaque black bra that hoisted her breasts up to twin plump temptations, and a black thong, her buttocks clenching as she slid his fabric-covered thigh between hers and he lifted her into the air, whirling her around. Her red-painted nails dug into his biceps, and Alberto responded by unclipping her bra.

The garment lasted a few more moves, and then she arched back, away from him, and it slid down her arms, exposing her top half.

Alberto spun Freda around so her back was to his front, and he cradled her breasts in his hands before lifting her once more and swinging her around. She let her hair trail over his chest, strands clinging to his arms. Her nipples were brown and hard, evidence that this wasn’t just a show for them. Or seemingly so, Nick thought cynically.

Alberto lifted his arms, and she hung on while he twisted and turned her, displaying her body perfectly. When he put her down, he tugged the front of her panties and ripped them away. Now she was naked. She bent, legs open, flaunting her bare pussy and backside to the audience while she unzipped and slid his pants down, a supplicant to him.