CROW (Boston Underworld Book 1) (7 page)

“What the hell is that?” I cover my ears.

“Watch your mouth,” he says. “That’s me national anthem. Means the bar is closing down.”

“Hey, I’m Irish too,” I protest.

He cocks his head to the side and dismisses it entirely. “Ye’re about as Irish as a plastic paddy.”

That sets off the hot head in me, and I stand up and poke a finger into his chest. “Hey buddy, you watch your fuckin’ mouth. My dad was Jack Wilder, the son of Joseph Wilder. Two of the greatest boxing legends in their time. It doesn’t get any more friggin’ Irish than that.”

“Ye’re kind of a feisty wee thing.” He grabs my arms and pins me in place. “Aren’t ya?”

For the briefest of seconds, something odd flashes in his eyes. Something that looks like hunger, but whatever it is, it’s fleeting. The shutters come back down and his eyes go dim. His palm slides down around my wrist and engulfs me as if to demonstrate how easily he could break me. But instead, his thumb skates over my pulse. I blink up at him when I realize he’s either giving me a human lie detector test, or trying to see if I’m affected by him.

Of course, this only makes my heart beat faster. His eyes spark when I lick my suddenly very dry lips. I try to snatch my hand back, but he doesn’t let me. His skin feels so hot against mine, and I’m not sure why. This is that intimacy thing I don’t like. Being close to someone, in their space. Breathing the same air and smelling their scent. It freaks me out. By now he knows I’m going to need a defibrillator at any moment, and there’s nothing I can do to hide it.

He’s looking at me like he hates me. Like he doesn’t know why he’s still standing here dealing with me at all. But at the same time, the corners of his mouth tip up into the smallest hint of boyish smile that he can’t seem to help.

Game face, Mack. Get your fricken game face on. This man is a killer remember? A low life scabby criminal. And I am not that girl. Never have been. So what the hell is going on?

He watches me stew silently in his grasp, knowing I could easily pull away from him, but also that I won’t. I realize now that this outfit is a lot harder to crack than I’d hoped. Lachlan in particular is suspicious and decisive in his every thought and action, and a whole lot more complex than I gave him credit for.

“So,” I huff like I’ve got better things to do. “Are you gonna’ let me dance for you, or what?”

He reaches down and tips my chin up so I have to meet his gaze. Now his mouth is just inches from mine, so close his breath is mingling with mine. “Let’s just review, sweetheart,” he says. “Ye come into my club, dressed like that…” His eyes wander over me again as if to make his point. “Ye seem to know me by name, and yet I don’t know you. And ye just expect me to believe a pretty little ride like you can’t make her way in this city without dancing? I may be stating the bleeding obvious here, but ye’re full’a shite, Mack.”

It takes me a minute to rebuff his accusation because I’m staring at his lips and trying to work out what he said. Jesus. What the hell is wrong with me? I pull back and regain my space. And then I hold up my fingers and start listing off the reasons why he should give me this job.

“I’m good at dancing,” I tell him. “And I need the money. I’ve got a crazy ex-boyfriend after me, so I figure what better place to hide out than inside the hive of the Irish mafia?”

That last part is complete bullshit, and it makes him scowl, but I’m grasping at straws now.

“Have ye got any idea who ye’re talking to, sweetheart?” he stalks towards me and takes back the distance between us. “Ye’re liable to get yourself some new cement shoes if you keep running your mouth like that around here.”

“Fuck you buddy.” I cross my arms and glare. “I already told you I know who you are. What more do you want? Should I be quaking in my boots because the mighty Lachlan Crow…”

I don’t get to finish because he grabs a fistful of my hair as he jerks me forward and slams me up against the wall. His body presses up against me from behind, his arousal digging into my ass as his lips hover near my ear.

“Not surprised ye’ve got a crazy ex after you,” he says. “If ye’re always giving this much cheek.”

“Can’t help it,” I smirk against the wall. “I’m from Southie.”

“Ye’ll help it when ye’re around me,” he says.

I don’t reply, and he grips my hair and forces me to look at him. There’s no doubting the authority in his tone, he ain’t fucking around. But there’s also no doubting the unmistakable heat pressed against my ass.

“I run this club.” He squeezes my face in his fingers before moving them down over the delicate skin of my throat. “And everyone in it. If ye take issue with that, I’ll gladly show you to the door.”

Shit.

“No issue,” I tell him as his grip tightens in warning. “Whatever you say goes. I get it.”

I didn’t think it possible, but he presses even closer. So close I can feel his body heat burning into my back. He’s got me pinned and I’m shocked that I’ve managed not to have a freaking meltdown yet.

“I’ll turn your life inside out.”

“I know,” I whisper.

“This isn’t the kind of place ye can walk away from. Ye’re done when I say ye’re done, and only then.”

“Understood.”

“One dance, butterfly. That’s all ye’ll get to impress me. The odds are already stacked against ye.”

Again, he’s manhandling me out the door and dragging me down the hall. Exactly to where I want to be. The bouncer opens the door for us and I get a glimpse of the VIP area. It’s an intimate setting, dark with nice leather seats around the stage. It’s nothing like the strip clubs I visited with Scarlett when I was doing my research, but then again, it’s not intended to be. This private show is a place for the men of the MacKenna syndicate to come and unwind. Apart from them, the only other invitees are their business associates. AKA the Russians. Also, the occasional politician, lawyer, or other prominent figures they’re greasing the palms of. This is exactly where I need to be to find my guy.

None of them are around right now since the place is closed down. The only person left is the emcee who’s shutting down the lights and overhead speakers.

“Hold off,” Lachlan tells him. “I’ve got an audition.”

The man behind the podium eyes me off with curiosity and obvious interest. “You want me to stick around?”

“No,” Lachlan replies in a clipped tone.

The other guy is crestfallen as he walks towards the back without a word. I smirk and pull out my iPod. “I’ve got my own music anyway.”

“Carry on then.” Lachlan takes a seat in front of the stage and stretches out his legs while he waits.

He doesn’t look like he’s going to be easily swayed, so I know I’m going to have to pull out all the stops. I decide to forgo the routine I had planned and freestyle it instead. I think organic movement will look sexier than if I’m too much in my head. While I’m confident in my fighting skills, this stuff is a completely different ballgame. This stuff means I’m banking on someone to like me. To want me.

Those are things I never had time to want. When every day was a game of survival, I didn’t want anyone else to care. Because if they cared that meant I could lose them too. I’m not good at this stuff. I don’t know how to be sweet or seductive. But I know what I want, and I’m determined. I hope that will carry me through.

I plug in my iPod and cue up the song I’ve chosen. Living Dead Girl by Rob Zombie. I want to keep him guessing.
I need to be an enigma. A confusing dichotomy of shy and sweet and hard and tough.
Lachlan lives in a dark world. He doesn’t want a pop princess up on stage. None of them do.

I shimmy out of my skirt and leather jacket, leaving only the strappy leather ensemble covering my body while he watches. When I steal a glance at him, I can’t tell what the hell he’s thinking. His face is a steel mask of indifference, and it’s too dark to see if he’s still sporting a hard on. I temper my nerves and close my eyes as I start to move.

I’m just going to pretend he isn’t there. Seems the best way to do it. I do some of the customary stage crawling and a lot of hip gyrating, walking around the pole very slowly and a few little leg tricks before I move onto the bigger stuff. I’m confident that as long as I own what I’m doing and believe in it, it will shine through. I have the strength and coordination to pull out a couple of the big guns. I do some aerial inverts, a Chinese flagpole, and a boomerang. And when I’m done, I finish it all off with a butterfly for my own amusement before melting back to the floor and dismounting.

When the song finishes and I open my eyes, Lachlan is still there, but this time he can’t hide the heat in his eyes. He’s burning a path over my every curve and valley, feasting on me like he’s seriously considering fucking me right here.

“So what do you think?” I ask shyly.

“I think ye’re doing a bang up job,” he admits reluctantly. “Carry on.”

I smile and get down on my hands and knees, crawling across the stage. The next song on my iPod is Sweet Dreams by Marilyn Manson. I flip my hair around and do a few floor tricks up close and personal to give him a nice little show from his vantage point down below. Lots of back arches and hip gyrating. The stuff that men just can’t look away from.

Something else Scarlett taught me comes to mind. Men love an ego boost.

“I like the jeans.” I crawl closer to the edge and let my eyes drop. “They look good on you.”

He laughs again, but it’s not in amusement.

“Oh, ye flatter me sweetheart. Fancy them, do you? Would ye like me to bend you over and show ye what’s inside?”

“Tempting.” I flop onto my stomach and move into a shoulder stand before melting into a backbend. “So very tempting Mr. Crow. But the thing about butterflies is they need to be admired from afar. If you touch them, they could die.”

My words cause the darkness to return to his face. I thought we were playing a game- that it was nothing but banter- but then I glimpse something else beneath. Something I wasn’t expecting. Grief so raw and real, it feels like I’m looking in a mirror.

For a strange moment, I feel connected to him. His pain draws mine out like a magnet, and our eyes lock onto each other, linking us together in an unexpected way. This time, it’s me who breaks the trance, quashing down whatever this strange energy is and locking it up tight.

The song comes to an end, but I don’t stop moving. I still haven’t shown Lachlan the goods, and a part of me is wondering if he’ll ever ask. He doesn’t.

“That’s enough,” he says finally.

I stop and swing my legs over the side of the stage to dangle as I wait for the verdict.

“I don’t want ye in my club,” he says.

My stomach rolls with nerves and a sense of impending doom. His suspicion of me is too strong, and even his reluctant attraction to me won’t get in the way of that. Right now, I have no doubt he’s being real with me. He doesn’t want me here. At all.

I’m trying to conjure up the words to argue with him. To plead my case. But they aren’t coming. Defeat is weighing heavy on my shoulders, and all I can think of is that I’ve failed Talia. How the hell did she ever get a job here? Another mystery to figure out.

I rise on shaky legs and do the only thing I can at this point. I call his bluff.

Stalking back across the stage, I pick up my clothes as though I’m about to storm out. “Look, just forget it. You saw what I can do, but if you don’t like it, I’ll take my act somewhere else. There are plenty of clubs in town…”

“Mackenzie.”

My name comes out of his mouth like a whip, and it commands my attention right away. He hasn’t moved an inch, but he doesn’t need to. This is the Lachlan Crow I hear about on the streets. The man that nobody fucks with. He’s scowling at me, and the threat is clear. And yet, I’m smiling inside. Because I’ve got him right where I want him.

I think.

“Fuck me, ye’re a stubborn wee thing.”

I shrug.

“How much money do ye need?” he asks.

“However much I get dancing every night at your club.” I need to stand firm on this. This is where the action is, and I can’t be anywhere else.

“Ye can help behind the bar,” he suggests.

“I’ll never make as much money up there as I will dancing, and you can’t tell me otherwise.”

His eyes are ice cold and brutally devoid of any sympathy towards my plight. If I thought he had heartstrings to pull, I was dead wrong. But something is still keeping him from letting me go. I don’t know what it is, and it doesn’t matter. I’m going to grab onto it with both hands and pull at the thread for all I’m worth.

I flip my hair over my shoulders and reach for my things. He needs to believe I’ll walk out that door and go somewhere else.

“I still don’t trust ye,” he says.

I glance at him over my shoulder and catch him checking out my ass. I smile, and he jerks his attention back to my face.

“I know.”

“Ye don’t want to cross me,” he adds.

“I know that too.”

He leans back and stretches his arms behind his head while he considers me for a moment.

“Come here to me.”

His voice, not his words, draws me closer. He’s been blunt and indifferent to me from the moment we met, but right now he’s decidedly calm. I doubt there are many women who could refuse an order as far as Lachlan Crow is concerned in either case. I toss my stuff back onto the podium and walk down the stairs. Standing directly in front of him, I meet his gaze with a hint of challenge. His eyes narrow, and he points at the space between his legs.

“Closer.”

I take three small steps until I’m standing so close I can feel his body heat branding my barely covered flesh. He reaches up and grips me around the waist and tugs me into his lap like a frigging ragdoll. My annoyance is quickly snuffed out by the fact I can feel him throbbing for me beneath my ass. It stirs something within me. Something unfamiliar.

“I don’t want you up on that stage.” He brushes my hair back over my shoulders and gathers it in his fist. “I don’t fucking want ye here at all.”

My heartrate jacks at his words. Everything about this man scares me, even though I haven’t let onto it. I know this is how it works. The threats to keep me and the other girls in line. But it doesn’t just sound like an empty threat. Where a moment ago I thought I had him, now his hatred almost sounds real. Personal, even. When I speak, my voice is missing the usual snap to it.