Iron Rods: 1 (Strip Club) (15 page)

With all the work she had to do before Iron Rods reopened,
including this practice session with the two dancers on the verge of losing
their jobs, she had to stop fantasizing about Bennett and focus. But the sexual
longing he had tapped into refused to stay suppressed. God, how she wanted
another round in the rodeo ring with him. He was the type of beautiful but
fierce stallion she would like to ride until both their hides lathered.
Yippee-ki-yay, indeed.

And thanks to the extremely charming but talkative Dan “The
Man” Camden, she knew more about Mr. Perfect than she probably should. The
information had changed the way she looked at the tall, dark and handsome man
from the East Coast. She had liked their spirited bouts and the way he made her
body feel alive just from giving her one of his sultry hooded looks. But now
she understood his tough exterior shielded a vulnerable side. A side he kept deeply
buried.

After several hours of practice, Steele finally found some
rhythm. Instead of looking like a caveman awkwardly shuffling his feet while
simultaneously jerking his hips backward and forward, his movements became more
fluid. The rough edges of his dance had smoothed out to something passable. The
combination of his tight, well-defined muscles, his blatant sexuality and his
newfound dance ability might just be enough to get him on the stripping team.

Gangsta G, however, turned out to be a bull of a whole other
breed. No matter how many times she and the young dancer worked through his
routine, he couldn’t seem to find his feet. His dancing skills consisted of
yanking his tall, thin frame to and fro, while thrusting out his skinny arms
and kicking his legs. He had zero sense of timing and couldn’t find a beat of
music if his life depended on it. In all her years of dance, she’d never seen
anyone fail so miserably at following even the most basic steps, let alone an
entire choreographed routine.

Sensing his growing frustration, as well as her own, she
called the practice to an end. “That’s a wrap, guys. I think it’s time to head
home.” She did her best to sound impressed and enthusiastic as she spoke.
“Steele, I think you really turned around today. I saw a lot of promise in your
progress, not only with your routine, but your pole work. Nice job. Keep
practicing on your own and hammer out your technique.”

She turned to Gangsta G and forced herself to smile. “And
you came a long way today too. If you don’t mind, I’d like to talk with you
privately while Steele and Nicko get the room ready so we all can leave.”

The young man’s face collapsed and his shoulders dipped low.
“Sure,” he said, his voice heavy with disappointment.

Apparently her perky disposition hadn’t masked her
intentions well enough. How could she help a kid who needed a job so badly he’d
endured a day of being endlessly corrected and coached with absolutely no
success?

She pulled him to a corner of the studio and handed him one
of the towels she held. The room might be air-conditioned, but they had exerted
themselves so long and hard, they were both drenched with sweat.

“So how do you think you did today?” she asked, dabbing the
thick terry cloth towel on her chin and cheeks. If he said he thought he did
spectacularly well, she was hosed. Somehow she’d have to find a way to let him
know his perception and reality were about as close as the Earth and Venus.

Deep within his eyes, she saw a tortured soul. The sight
nearly broke her heart. She understood what it meant to want something so badly
her body ached for it, only to be let down time and time again.

“Not so good.” His gaze drifted to the floor and he tapped
the wall with the toe of his sneaker.

Tatum drew in a breath and let it out slowly, trying to
figure out what to say next. She wanted to help him. He looked too much like a
lost puppy not to. Plus he’d said he needed to strip because he needed to pay
for college. At least he was doing what he could to help himself. She had to
admire him for that.

“Gavin,” she started, using the name she’d seen on his
driver’s license. “I have other jobs at Iron Rods that might work out better
for you than stripping.”

He looked up, his features glum. “That will make as much
money?”

“Probably not. But it’s a job. I’m looking to hire at least
one person to help Elmer clean and two or three waiters. With either job you’ll
still make money. Good money.”

“Not four hundred dollars a night though.”

“No,” she agreed, sensing his disappointment. “But keep in
mind, that’s what Nicko makes. You’ve seen him dance today. He’s taken dance
classes most of his life. Have you ever seen a stripper dance like Nicko?”

“No.”

“Then let’s make a deal. You work at Iron Rods as a waiter.
You’ll make minimum wage plus tips. If you’re a good waiter and work the ladies
really well, you have a chance at making a lot of cash in tips alone.”

The grim set of his lips suggested he hadn’t given up on
making the cut as a stripper. But there was no way in hell the Slim Jim of a
man would get past the women asked to audition the dancers. Most of the ladies
were presidents of sorority houses. She knew from her own experience at the
university these girls weren’t exactly an easy crowd to impress, nor were they
known for their high degree of sensitivity. They’d eat the gangly young man
alive then spit out his bones.

“I’ve been wanting to talk to Lyle Truitt about the college
scholarship he recently set up. I don’t know much about it yet.” She wiped down
her shoulders and arms. The lie she’d just let slip by her lips was so
Texas-sized she couldn’t even face him. “I could find out if you qualify for
it.”

For the first time since she’d met Gavin, he actually
appeared happy. He smiled and lit up brighter than the Zilker Tree at
Christmas.

“Really?”

“Of course.”

Add another item to my long list of things to do. Talk to
Lyle about setting up a scholarship fund.

“I’ll get in touch with you when we start the training for
the waitstaff,” she added. “I want to make sure all y’all know what you’re
doing so the customers are happy. If they’re happy, then y’all will get big
tips. You want big tips, right?”

He furiously bobbed his head, making the logo on his cap
blur.

“Good. Go get your things.”

After locking the door to the studio, they wearily trudged
down the corridor to the front doors of the warehouse. The full day of dancing
had worn them all out. Even Nicko, who normally had the energy of a wind-up
toy, walked slower than usual as he dragged his big cooler behind him.

Tatum pushed the bar to the doors. Although the shadows
spreading over the street and parking lot were long, the heat of the day still
lingered. If she had any strength left in her body, the high temperature
immediately zapped it.

Hopefully she would go home to find that not only were there
no fire trucks or paramedic vehicles in the parking lot of her townhome, but
Heather had successfully cooked an edible meal. Then she and her roomie could
both relax with a bottle of wine. The image her mind created was so wonderful,
her mouth actually watered.

As Tatum locked the outside doors, Steele lingered on the
sidewalk and fiddled with the straps of his gym bag. Nicko and Gangsta G had
already crossed the street to the parking lot.

“So listen, I want to thank you for your help today.”

The gratitude the big man expressed sounded genuine. A quick
happy dance tapped its way across her belly. She’d actually made progress with
another of the Iron Rods staff. The day had started out great with her meeting
and was ending the same way.

“You’re welcome,” she said, masking her glee. “I think
you’ll do very well at the auditions. I hope you take a minute to thank Nicko.
He was a huge help.”

“Ya. You’re right. I owe him and you an apology. I said some
things this morning that were out of line. I’m sorry.”

That act of contrition silenced the chiming keys in her
hand. She turned from the double doors. “I appreciate that. Very much.”

Steele stepped closer. She could see the muscles in his neck
working as he thought.

“I know I’ve already asked for your help with my audition,
but I was wondering if I could ask another favor.”

“Shoot.”

“One of my daughters is trying out for the dance team at
school. It’s a big deal for her.” He visibly swallowed. “Would you mind working
with her too? It would mean the world to her if she can get on the team.”

At that moment the big man transformed from Steele the
pumped-up stripper to Roberto Delgado, dad and family breadwinner. The
metamorphosis completely caught her off guard and caused her view of reality to
tilt on its axis. Just like her, this man had a life outside of work. A family
who depended on him. She’d never thought of Steele that way, nor any of the
other strippers up to that instant. The revelation shocked her all the way to
her deeply embarrassed core.

“Yes, of course. I’d love to work with your daughter. What’s
her name?”

“Catalina. Her friends, Yolanda and Andrenette, are also
auditioning. Would you mind working with them?”

She nodded as tears threatened in the corners of her eyes.
He trusted her with his child and her friends. “Absolutely. The more the
merrier. I’ve got a great place here to use until Iron Rods is renovated. May
as well get the most from it.”

“Cool.” The tightness that had stiffened his shoulders and
neck disappeared. “Thanks.”

“My pleasure.” And it was. She’d enjoyed every moment
teaching him and Gavin in the dance studio. The experience of being instructor
instead of student and seeing the progress of at least Steele had been
incredibly rewarding. Her mind already raced with ideas she could use when
working with the girls, as well as the music she would use.

The music.

Tatum glanced at her feet. She’d left her ancient boom box
in the studio.

“Crap. I need to go back and get my CD player.” She unlocked
the door and stepped inside. “Call me later and we’ll set up a time for the
girls.”

He nodded and walked onto the street. “Thanks again.”

She retrieved her boom box, retraced her weary steps outside
the warehouse and once again locked the double doors. Finally, she could go
home. Lifting her bag and heavy portable stereo, she heard the sound of
bootheels rapidly approaching. Tatum looked up. A man ran hell bent for leather
toward her.

She blinked, trying to clear her vision. It was Mad Dog, she
was certain. He wore a black T-shirt and black Western boots. His belly
protruded over the top of his too tight black jeans. He’d cut his red hair
short. So short she could see traces of his scalp between the fuzz of ruddy
spikes he’d formed at the top of his head.

The former stripper appeared to be racing toward her, a switchblade
in his right hand.

Mad Dog held the weapon high. The blade, long and wickedly
pointed, glinted in the golden light of the fading sun. The unexpected and
truly horrific sight rooted Tatum’s feet to the sidewalk. She should scream.
She should run. Her body refused to cooperate. The unreality of the situation
would not register in her brain. Instead, her mind took everything in as though
she were sitting comfortably in a theatre and watching a terrible slasher movie
that starred someone other than herself.

Her heartbeat sped up and adrenaline rushed wildly
throughout her body, yet the scene around her somehow slowed down to one
individual frame at a time. Each pounding step the stripper took and every
thrusting swing of his arms appeared to be in extreme slow motion. Tatum could
make out the rise and fall of his black tee, the puffs of dust rising around
his booted feet each time they pounded the concrete and the pure hatred
emanating from Mad Dog’s steely gaze.

A flash of movement from the parking lot across the street
drew her attention from the advancing attacker. She turned and saw Bennett,
clad in a white, long-sleeved shirt and dark dress pants, pushing his leaning
body off his car. Once upright, he sprang forward, his long legs punishing the
ground as he dashed across the asphalt. He opened his mouth. “No!”

That one word seemed to bounce off the walls of her mind and
dully echo over and over again.

Mad Dog turned his thick neck and head toward the parking
lot, then glanced back and forth between her and Bennett. His pace faltered,
but the knife gripped in his fist remained poised for attack.

Unbridled terror held Tatum spellbound. Her rushing blood
roared like a freight train in her ears. Once again, she attempted to scream,
only to find her throat had closed. The muscles in her chest tightened. She
couldn’t breathe. Her whole body felt as though it were controlled by someone
else.

The boom box she toted slipped from her numb fingers. She
vaguely registered the crash of the heavy portable stereo hitting the pavement.
Too much was happening. Her quiet world had gone insane.

Just as suddenly as the slow motion began, time resumed its
normal speed. Mad Dog raced forward, coming so close she could hear his heavy,
labored breathing. At the same time Bennett jetted across the street. When the
stripper swung his knife, Bennett leapt. He tackled Mad Dog, the force of the
impact propelling them off the sidewalk. They slammed into the metal siding of
the warehouse, Mad Dog taking the brunt of the collision. Mad Dog slipped to
the ground, only to be hauled up by Bennett, who had one fist twisted into Mad
Dog’s shirt and the other hand clutching the redhead’s wrist. The deadly
switchblade remained clenched in the Mad Dog’s grasp.

Bennett pounded Mad Dog’s wrist several times against the
side of the warehouse until the knife fell and skipped across the concrete
sidewalk. Mad Dog snarled. Using his free hand, he sucker punched Bennett in
his side. Bennett uttered a low groan, sending shivers of dread down Tatum’s
spine.

Don’t hurt Bennett. Please, God, don’t let him hurt
Bennett.

Bennett unwound his hand from Mad Dog’s T-shirt and receded
one step before drawing back his arm. The muscles in his broad shoulders
bunched then lengthened as he swung forward. A sharp
crack
sounded
milliseconds after Bennett’s fist found its mark on the side of Mad Dog’s jaw.
Spittle strewn with blood shot from Mad Dog’s mouth, spraying thick lines of
pink across Bennett’s white shirt and the concrete below.

With a powerful thrust, Bennett pushed Mad Dog back into the
metal exterior of the building and stepped away. The heavyset stripper sank to
the ground in a heap.

Bennett gave Tatum a quick glance. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” she said, finally locating her voice. Never in
her life had she been so glad to see someone, especially in one piece. “I’m
more worried about you.”

A strange look of confusion briefly crossed Bennett’s face.
“I’m okay.” He returned his sights to Mad Dog but continued to talk to her.
“You have your cell phone on you?”

“Yes.” She fumbled for her bag. Her hands shook so badly she
could barely open the zipper. After rummaging blindly through the contents of
her purse, she pulled out her phone. “Got it.”

“Good. Call the police.”

Her numb fingers refused to obey. She tried three times
before successfully pressing 9-1-1 and then the dial button. “It’s ringing.”

Bennett kicked the self-exiled stripper on the sole of one
of his well-worn boots. “You need an ambulance?”

“Fuck you.” Mad Dog angrily shook his head as though trying
to regain his bearings while being upset that he lost them in the first place.
“That bitch is going to pay for what she did to me,” he snarled and ran the
back of a fleshy hand over his wet mouth. “She cost me my job. Now I might lose
my truck.”

“You were going to assault her because of a vehicle?”
Bennett asked, incredulous. “You ignorant redneck. She didn’t fire you. You
walked away from the job. All you had to do was audition for one of the
stripper positions.”

“It’s the same thing in my book,” the redhead shouted back.
He placed his fingers on his chin and gingerly pushed it from side to side. “I
think you broke my fucking jaw.”

“Good,” Bennett retorted. “You’re lucky that’s all I did.”

“Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?” a woman asked through
the earpiece of Tatum’s phone.

As Tatum answered the emergency operator’s questions,
Bennett reached down to help Mad Dog up. Mad Dog scowled, but accepted
Bennett’s hand. Suddenly the hefty man yanked Bennett’s arm, causing him to
lose his footing and fall forward. When Bennett’s face came close to Mad Dog’s,
the former stripper head-butted Bennett, sending him staggering backward until
he landed hard on his ass. Apparently sensing his advantage, Mad Dog shot up
and dove for his knife. Bennett wasn’t far behind. He scrambled to his feet and
lunged at Mad Dog.

Mad Dog turned to face Bennett, kicking madly, the blade in
his beefy hand. He lashed the switchblade in erratic patterns, making Bennett
bob and weave to avoid being sliced or stabbed. But Mad Dog got in one lucky
swipe. A dark red stain bloomed on the stark white of Bennett’s left
shirtsleeve.

Tatum screamed.

“Tell me what’s happening,” the 9-1-1 operator’s voice, calm
and reassuring, sounded on Tatum’s phone.

Bennett pulled his right hand back again and hit Mad Dog
with a powerful blow. A loud crunching sound penetrated the evening air. The
stripper’s flailing legs immediately stilled.

For a moment, all Tatum could do was watch in horror as
blood quickly spread through the crisp fabric of Bennett’s shirt. He had come
to her rescue and had been stabbed for his efforts. How badly, she didn’t know.
Bright beads of blood formed and dripped from his arm, pooling near his left
hand which drooped on the sidewalk.

Her heart lurched as hot tears formed in the corner of her
eyes, then spilled down her cheeks. “Send an ambulance, please. Hurry. Please!”
she begged through gasping sobs. “Someone’s been hurt.”
Someone I truly care
about.

* * * * *

A pretty, young nurse did wonders to distract Bennett from
the drab, tiny space allotted to him in the emergency room and the strong
smells of hospital sterility. The nurse finished wrapping his arm with a roll
of gauze and fastened the wispy end with a metal clasp. Her fingers lingered on
his biceps. She raked her gaze from his injury, over his bare chest and up to
his eyes, then sucked on the edge of her pink bottom lip.

According to the nametag neatly sewn on her scrubs atop the
swell of one amazing breast, the woman administering this immensely personal
care was Gina. Petite, with long, chestnut locks pulled back in a jaunty ponytail,
Nurse Gina ticked off many of the boxes on his list of desirable female
attributes. Yet despite this woman meeting so many of his physical preferences,
only the tall Texan with hair the color of fresh cream interested him.

Tatum.

Tatum had ridden in the ambulance with him, refusing to let
him out of her sight. During the entire trip to the emergency room, she had
touched his arm, his leg or his feet, making certain he knew she was still
there. Even as he had fought Mad Dog in front of the warehouse, Tatum had
looked fearful about his safety, something he’d seen only from his mother or
Anne. Her continued display of outright concern for him simultaneously touched
him deeply and tore at his soul.

Tatum was chipping away at the brick wall he’d built around
his heart. After so many years of disappointing relationships with his father,
his grandfather, and even his mother, he’d needed the carefully constructed
protection from continued heartache. At school he’d needed to protect himself
from the bullies, so he learned how to box. At home he’d needed to shield
himself from the indifference and loneness, so he became an expert at
distancing himself emotionally. Both skills had served him well up to now.

Somehow through their easy banter, her never-say-die attitude
and her beautiful exterior, Tatum had slipped past his defenses. The only other
person who had managed to do so was Anne. Although Bennett had tested his
stepmother by being standoffish and sometimes downright hateful, Anne had never
once let him down. Time and time again his stepmother been there for him,
demonstrating absolute care and unfaltering love. Anne had been and continued
to be the one brick keeping him from totally sealing off his heart.

Bennett broke his daze into the bright glare of a fluorescent
light panel to see Nurse Gina slide her hand down the gauze bandage onto the
skin of his forearm.

“I get off at midnight,” she volunteered. “I’d be happy to
check in on you at home to make sure you’re doing all right, if you like.
Wouldn’t want you to have any problems with your stitches during the night.”

Before he could tell the voluptuous nurse he’d have to pass
on her more than kind offer, a doctor whisked through the small opening in the
light-blue curtains separating the space from the others in the emergency room.
Charts in hand, the hunched old man looked more like a mad scientist than a
physician. Tangles of white hair thrust from his head at odd angles. Behind
thick, round glasses, his eyes appeared frighteningly close to popping out of their
sockets. Bennett half expected him to raise his thin hands, tilt back his head
and shout, “He’s alive!”

Nurse Gina released his arm and stepped aside, making room
for the doctor in the small space. She ran the tip of her tongue over the top
of her pert little mouth and winked before exiting the same way the doctor had
come in.

“Okay, young man, you’re sewn up and ready to go. The
laceration in your arm was deep, but the stitches worked out nicely. The ones
below your skin should melt away on their own, but the stitches on top will
need to be taken out by your physician.” The doctor scribbled something on a
small yellow pad, ripped off the page and handed it to Bennett. “This is a
prescription for pain medication. Aside from your cut arm, your bruised ribs
are going to hurt like the dickens once the meds we’ve already given you wear
off.”

Bennett leaned forward bed to take the paper. Bright balls
of light whirled before his eyes. His head spun. He felt his upper body sway as
though he’d just stepped off a dizzying carnival ride.

“Steady now.” The doctor gingerly grabbed Bennett’s shoulder
and guided him back onto the mattress. “You’re going to need some rest. Lucky
for you, you have several people sitting in the waiting room to take you home.
I asked a nurse to escort them back here to collect you. As soon as they come
and the wheelchair I asked for arrives, you can go home. I think I hear them
coming now.”

So did Bennett. Lyle’s voice, as twangy and loud as ever,
boomed over the sounds of the emergency room. His crazy father had no sense of
decorum. Not even in a hospital.

Lyle ripped aside the curtain, revealing not only Anne, but
Tatum. Still dressed in the same small leotard top that showcased her flat
stomach, and a pair of cutoff sweats over skintight leggings, Tatum clearly
hadn’t gone home since they’d arrived at the hospital in the ambulance. Though
the deep lines of worry that had creased the fine skin between her brows were
gone, concern still lingered behind her emerald gems, which were puffy and
rimmed with red.

Lyle, on the other hand, looked positively ecstatic.
Bright-eyed and face glowing beneath his Stetson, he smiled the smile of a man
who had just won the lottery. Even his long handlebar mustache seemed to have a
little extra curl.

“That’s my boy,” Lyle announced, charging up to the side of
Bennett’s bed. He gave Bennett several congenial slaps on his knee.

His boy?

When was the last time his father sounded so happy when
calling Bennett his son?

“You really got Mad Dog good. His jaw is broke and so is his
nose,” Lyle continued with surprising enthusiasm. “I wish I’d have been there
to see the fight for myself. That dumb son-bitch might have got in a lucky
punch to your side and cut you up a bit, but you plumb knocked the boy out.
He’s still laid out somewhere in this hospital. The cops are waiting for him to
get patched up enough to tote him off to jail.”

Bennett stared at his father in disbelief. After a lifetime
of trying to gain the old man’s attention and favor, he’d finally done so by clocking
one of his former employees?

Unbelievable.

Anne
tsked
and skirted Lyle to stand near the head of
the bed. “I’m just glad you’re all right.” She placed a soft, cool hand on
Bennett’s forehead, then combed back his hair with featherlight fingers. “You
really had us worried. When Tatum called Lyle to tell him you’d been hurt and
were in the emergency room, we didn’t know what to think. I had to convince
your sister to stay at College Station until we knew for sure how you were
doing. She was fixin’ to climb through the phone when we told her you were
here.”