Iron Rods: 1 (Strip Club) (7 page)

If she was smart, she’d push him back and put an end to
whatever this was before it started. Office dalliances couldn’t be a good
thing, especially when one of the responsible parties thought the sun rose and
set on his ass.

But oh what a fine ass it was. And oh how much she’d love to
grab it, smack it and hold on to it while he rode her into sexual oblivion.

Most likely, Bennett was trying to manipulate her. Lyle had
cautioned her of that. She was going in with her eyes wide open though. No way
she’d allow him to take advantage of her. Quite the opposite. Little did he
know, she was taking advantage of him. She’d been without a man for so long, it
was a wonder she hadn’t already ripped off his clothes.

“I don’t want to be responsible for the CFO losing his
mind,” she whispered on a dreamy exhale.

“That’s exactly what I wanted to hear.”

The back of his hand drifted across her jawline and
continued on to her nape, then he cupped her head. He slipped his other hand
around her waist to the curve of her back and pulled her to him until her
breasts pressed firmly against the solid muscle of his chest. With no
trepidation, he parted his mouth and angled over her, claiming her lips and body
as though they belonged to him and only him.

This was the moment, she realized through the haze of
romantic delirium clouding her brain. Right now, right here was the John Wayne
moment she had fantasized about.

A bold, strong man with amazing good looks had her in his
big arms and was kissing her at a time when she least expected it. She’d wished
for and envisioned this scene so many times she had choreographed each step as
if it were a dance routine. Funny how completely wrong her imaginings turned
out to be. She had figured on a cowboy laying her down on a blanket in a field
of bluebonnets. Never in her wildest dreams could she have guessed this fantasy
would take place in a strip club office with a city slicker from New York. And
never could she have imagined just how absolutely sexy and alive she’d feel.

Closing her eyes, she leaned into the kiss, fully enjoying
this dream come to life. She drank him in one sweet millisecond after the next
while a warm, euphoric sensation, like sitting too long in a hot tub, spread
through her core and limbs, making her weak. Her legs trembled to the point she
wasn’t sure how long she’d be able to stand on her own. She linked her arms
around his shoulders as much for support as for the need to be closer to him.

Complete awareness of his size and strength sank in as he
held her captive. She knew she was far from small, but wrapped in his powerful
arms, she felt tiny and fragile. He was much bigger than any other man she’d
ever been involved with. Tall, brawny and muscular. This man could easily take
whatever he wanted from her and there would be no way for her to stop him.
Rather than frighten her, the knowledge only excited. She had no doubt of her
safety, but the riskiness of the situation, the least of which was getting caught,
only turned her on more.

Bennett held her tighter, deepening his kiss. He drew her
lower lip between his teeth and nipped the tender flesh. The sensation elicited
an exquisite tingling between her legs, followed by softening and wetness.
Having a mind of its own, her body had already forecasted the future and begun
preparations. If things between them progressed the way she hoped, she would be
ready for him. Hot, wet and slick. Based on his height and his massive build,
she’d need to be ready. Bennett’s cock could be enormous.

Yes, yes, yes. Please let him be enormous. Enormous is
good. Enormous is very good.

He lowered his hand to her ass and squeezed while plunging
his tongue into her mouth. The bold move caused her pussy to cream with
expectancy. With forceful strokes, the length of his tongue swept across hers
and then brushed over her teeth and the roof of her mouth.

How long he continued to drug her with mind-altering kisses,
Tatum had no idea and didn’t care. Aside from getting the new job, being
enveloped in Bennett’s embrace and kissed to the point she couldn’t see
straight was the best thing to happen to her in months. Years.

When he finally broke the kiss, the firm bones and strong
muscles she relied on as a dancer had melted to a wobbly pool of mush. As far
as lip-locks went, his had all the others eating his sweet dust. Bennett was
both gentle yet bold. His mouth had been warm and generous, coaxing and
commanding, taking from her what he pleased.

She raised her lips and used what little strength she still
had in her arms to pull him back. He resisted.

“The staff will be here any minute,” he said, gazing at her
through hooded eyes.

“Staff?” The word barely registered. Only one thing
dominated her thoughts—the need to put her body out of its aching misery.

“Yes. They’re coming for the meeting this evening. You’re
going to tell them about all your ideas for the club, remember?”

She nodded drowsily. Her mind struggled to draw itself out
of the impassioned fever Bennett had induced. Kisses. She craved more kisses.
Some stroking would be nice. The couch looked very comfy. A great place to move
on to second base. Hell, a great place to hit a home run. She so wanted to hit
a home run.

“I think I hear them coming through the front door,” Bennett
persisted. “The bartender has a key.”

A meeting?

A key?

Her back stiffened as the thick fog in her head parted and
realization dawned.

“I’d like to finish what we’ve started, but now isn’t a good
time.” He removed his arms from her waist, then stepped back and straightened
his shirt. “You’ve got work to do.”

Heat rose up from her neck and spread across her face. Had
Bennett just successfully played her? Were the last few minutes and all his
rousing kisses nothing more than a ploy to throw her off her game right before
the staff arrived? Or was this a case of extremely bad timing?

As much as she hoped for the latter, she couldn’t be sure.

She took in his relaxed demeanor. Poised, confident and in
full control of his faculties, he didn’t appear to be affected by their
spontaneous make-out session in the least.

He offered her a smile and winked. “Go knock ’em dead,
Tatum. I’ve got your back.”

Did he? Or had he attempted to cripple her before tossing
her to the wolves?

Tatum shook her head, clearing her brain of the confusing
thoughts. Now wasn’t the time to worry about anything other than getting the
club’s employees on board with her plans. She needed to concentrate on being
positive, getting the staff excited and involved, and moving forward.

Whatever just happened with Bennett would have to wait. If
he was toying with her and attempting to stand in the way of her success, she’d
know soon enough. At least she hoped she would. Her limited experience with men
and the games they liked to play didn’t exactly give her an edge with Mr.
Perfect. The best she could do was not let him know he’d rattled her.

Tatum pulled the ponytail holder from hair and fluffed the
long locks with her fingers, then straightened her simple T-shirt and cutoff
jeans. She frowned and cast a wary glare at Bennett. She was meeting her new
staff looking like someone he had just pulled off the street.

To hell with him and the horribly awkward position he put
her in. She might not be as prepared to talk with the staff as she would like
to be and she might not appear professionally dressed, but she would go out and
nail this meeting. By God, she would.

Failure is not an option.

He’d been in Texas too long. He’d drunk the crazy water and
submitted his application for his nut job membership.

Those were the only explanations for his lecherous actions
that made any sense. Had he been in New York around other sane people, the
chances of spontaneously acting on inclination fueled by lust would be a big
fat zero. He simply wasn’t the type to give in to temptation. Yet when he’d
seen Tatum ripping off her shirt and strutting around in a pretty pink bra, all
flat stomach and soft curves, he’d come damn close to tossing her over his
shoulder and whisking her off to the nearest hotel for some much-needed sexual
relief.

As things turned out, he’d lost all attempts at restraint in
the manager’s office. He should be furious with himself. He was playing with
fire. Unfortunately, deep in his gut he knew if he had a chance to do it all
over again, he would.

Bennett pulled his familiar coin from his pocket. He leaned
against the bar, mindlessly walking the Susan B. over his fingers again and
again while Tatum spoke with the Iron Rods staff. This was an important
meeting. He should be paying attention and taking things seriously. But despite
an effort to concentrate on the discussion, he couldn’t shake the image of
Tatum dancing half naked onstage. His mind replayed every bump and grind of her
hips, twist of her shoulders and flex of her toned legs. The desire for the
perky but smart-mouthed Texan that had smoldered since their unexpected meeting
only days earlier now blazed like an out-of-control wildfire.

Where was the control he’d so carefully honed?

Why did someone so unsuited for him continue to tempt him?

If he didn’t watch himself, the stigma he’d worked hard to
escape would reclaim him. His grandfather might be a thousand miles away in New
York, but the lessons the manipulative old tyrant had forced on Bennett about
class and social distinction would always be with him. As would the memory of
bloody noses and black-and-blue welts he’d received from his boarding school
classmates after they had discovered his father stripped for a living. The
hallowed halls of the Laughton Academy deserved better than a white trash kid
from Texas, and not even his affluent grandfather had been able to remove the
stink that had clung to Bennett.

Sidestepping the unwelcome remembrance, Bennett pocketed the
coin and focused his gaze on Iron Rods’ imposing bartender, who paced between
the bar and a nearby table as if he were a caged black panther. A man of few
words, T’s lack of dialogue hadn’t stopped him from communicating exactly what
he thought of his new manager. If looks could kill, Tatum would have been torn
apart and buried next to Jimmy Hoffa by now.

“In addition to hiring a new cleaning service, some
waitstaff and someone to collect money at the front door booth,” Tatum said
with a nervous glance at T, “I’d like to bring on another bartender to help
with the overflow.”

The giant black man stopped mid-step and whipped his
colossal body around. Flames burned hot in his dark eyes. “Like hell you will.”

T’s deep voice boomed through the large room like a cannon
shot. Several of the staff who were slumped in their chairs suddenly sat up at
attention. Tatum’s face drained of all color and her tall frame went rigid.

Well, this ought to be interesting.

Bennett cocked his head, curious to see how Tatum would
handle the powerful bartender. Her college business classes might have taught
her the theoretical aspects of managing people, but tackling a real situation
involving a pissed employee who ate small cars for dinner wasn’t something
anyone could learn from a book.

T shot out a massive arm and pointed to the bar. “This is my
bar, you hear me? I don’t give a rat’s ass what you do with the rest of the
place or the staff, you keep your hands off my bar. If any changes need to be
made, I’ll tell you what they are and what should be done.”

Like spectators taking in a tennis match, the profiles of
the open-mouthed employees shifted from right to left as they monitored the
ensuing drama. T had just scored a point. The ball was now in Tatum’s court.

“I’m glad to see you’re so interested in what happens at the
bar, T. I definitely want you to be a part of the process,” Tatum said after a
visible swallow. She spoke slowly, appearing to consider each word before
uttering anything aloud. “But I’m responsible for what happens at Iron Rods,
including the bar. If y’all want to turn this place around, we have to work
together. We’re all a team now. Our goal isn’t just helping Iron Rods limp
along a few more years, but to thrive. You do want this club to be successful,
don’t you, T?”

Clever girl.

Bennett grinned at her strategy. She put the unofficial
leader of the motley crew on the spot with a proposition he had to agree with.
Bennett hadn’t expected her quick thinking and ability to turn the situation
around to her favor. She seemed to be full of surprises.

T did not look amused.

“What the hell kind of question is that? Of course I want
this place to do well,” T fumed. “But I don’t need nobody’s help in deciding
what’s best for this bar. Especially from somebody who never worked in a strip
club before.”

A few heads in the small gathering bobbed in agreement. The
chubby Rodriguez twins, who were in charge of the DJ booth and bouncing at the
front door, sat on the edges of their chairs. Alonzo and Miguel gazed up
expectantly at Tatum.

“Did Cotton help you decide what’s best for the bar?” Tatum
asked the bartender.

“Hell to the no,” T shot back. “Cotton didn’t know his ass
from a hole in the ground. That old man barely bothered to show up for work.
When he did, he was either drunk or stoned.”

“So you were responsible for how well the bar did then?” she
pressed with her sweet Southern accent.

“Damned right I was. I still am.”

Tatum turned to the group. “Then you can tell the rest of
the staff how well the bar did this last year.”

T narrowed his eyes and clamped his mouth shut while his
broad chest expanded and contracted. His massive hands clenched then flexed
several times at his sides but he said nothing. The atmosphere in the room grew
heavy and uncomfortable as everyone waited for the big man’s answer.

“Here’s the truth y’all need to hear,” Tatum finally said.
“Iron Rods isn’t doing as well as it could. This is not the fault of the bar,
the strippers, or any one person or thing. It’s a combination of many things.
Things that must be addressed and corrected if this place is going to turn
itself around.”

She took several steps into their ranks, then tapped a pink
fingernail on one of the tables. “Y’all take a look around. We have an outdated
decor, outdated furnishings and outdated means for making a strip club work.
It’s time for a change. Actually, a lot of changes. But making those changes
will take all of your combined efforts.” Turning to face the bartender, she
added, “T, I truly value your thoughts and your input for the bar and who helps
staff it, as well as anything else you may want to weigh in on. You have more
experience here than any other employee, and you may be the reason Iron Rods
has stayed afloat as long as it has. Can we count on you to work with us and
get this place back on its feet?”

The staff turned their attention to the bartender whose
stony face and shiny bald head looked as though it had been carved from ebony.
He took a moment to look directly at each person attending the meeting.

Raising his chin, T nodded. “This place ain’t going down on
my watch. I’m in, as long as I have a say in what’s done with the bar and who
gets hired to help me.”

Tatum’s entire body relaxed and she let out a breath. “You
have my word on it.”

“What about us?” Zeeda Wilson asked. The seventy-something
black woman with silver hair lifted her considerable girth from her chair. Her
dark-purple dress, a throwback from the sixties, could have been the fur-lined
cape of an African queen for the tall and proud way she stood. Hard to believe
she worked for tips in the women’s restroom, providing customers hand towels,
hairspray and perfume.

Zeeda placed a balled hand on her wide hip, her head held
high. “If you going to make changes to the ladies’ room, then I have a few
suggestions of my own to add. Like getting me a better chair than the ol’ stool
I sit on now. By the end of the night my back’s so sore, I can’t hardly even
stand straight.”

Elmer Templeton raised a shaking hand. The old man’s skin,
pale and paper thin, looked almost transparent, even from where Bennett stood.

“I need new brooms and cleanin’ supplies,” the lanky senior
citizen said in a thin voice. “Can’t get a place clean with dirty old mops.”

Elmer lowered his hand, but apparently thought better of it.
Within seconds, he’d shot it back up again.

“And I need some GD help,” he added, avoiding the use of the
Lord’s name in vain. “Cotton promised me years ago he’d hire a helper for me.
This place is too big for one man to clean on his own.”

“Um-hum,” Zeeda agreed. “I’ve seen dirt floors cleaner than
this one.” The big woman sat back down and patted Elmer’s knee. “No offense,
you understand. You done yo’ best with what you had.” Before the janitor had a
chance to respond, Zeeda removed her hand and pointed a finger at Tatum.
“Cotton promised a whole lotta things he never delivered on. Including a regular
salary for me. I live on a fixed income. I can’t afford to work for tips no
more. Not if I plan on eatin’ or puttin’ gas in my car.”

Miguel Rodriguez jumped up, his eyes bright with excitement.
He raced on chubby legs to the stage, made an abrupt about face, and extended
his clasped hands, which he’d manipulated to look like a pistol.

“I need a gun,” he said.

“No!” the entire staff shouted back.

The heavyset bouncer frowned and dropped his hands. “Ah,
come on guys. I’m working security. I need a gun.”

“Like you need a hole in yo head,” Zeeda said. “Only women
come to this place. Ain’t like you need to wear a bulletproof vest and carry a
club to keep them in line.”

“Well I might. There’s some rough characters living on this
side of town,” Miguel said in an exaggerated Mexican accent.

“
We
live on this side of town,” Alonzo, Miguel’s
brother, shot back and rolled his eyes.

“That’s right. And we’re pretty badass.” Miguel angled his
round face up to the ceiling and stroked at a nonexistent beard on his double
chins. “Machismo even. Have I mentioned that we’re babe magnets? Women like
tough guys like us.”

“Tough or tubby?” Zeeda let out a hoot and was joined by the
rest of the staff.

“All right everyone.” Tatum raised her voice and waved her
arms in the air, bringing the conversation under control. “I get the picture.
As soon as we have a contractor hired, I’ll get with y’all and we’ll discuss
the plans. In the meantime, start looking for potential dancers to audition.
Anyone who refers someone who is hired will get a finder’s fee.” She nodded to
the four strippers sitting in a small group near the bar. “Guys, that includes
you too. If you’re rehired, you’ll get the finder’s fee. Keep in mind, I’m more
than happy to help you choreograph and practice for your audition piece if you
want. Just let me know.”

Bennett regarded the dancers. He could only imagine the
thoughts that must be crossing their minds.

Only six of the ten regular strippers had bothered to come
to the meeting. None of them appeared much happier than T. When Tatum had
dropped the bomb they would have to audition for spots when the club reopened,
as well as learn new dance routines and get new costumes, a mutiny had almost
erupted. Two of the dancers, a hefty redheaded guy who went by the name Mad Dog
and another called Cowboy Willie, had offered their new boss a one-finger
salute and stormed out of the building.

Had he been in Mad Dog and Cowboy Willie’s situation,
Bennett might have joined them in telling Tatum to go screw herself. But he
would not have crossed the line Mad Dog had right before leaving the club.

“You don’t know who you’re messing with, you crazy bitch.
I’ve already been in the joint once for roughing up a woman,” Mad Dog had
shouted. “I ain’t scared to go back for the pleasure of making you pay for what
you’re doing.”

More than likely Mad Dog’s ranting had been exactly that,
just a rant. Nothing more than venting steam and thumping his chest in front of
his coworkers. But the pure hatred Bennett had seen in the stripper’s eye
during his angry tirade was enough to give him pause. He knew all too well
strong emotions sometimes led to acts that couldn’t be undone.

Yet for all Mad Dog’s theatrics, four dancers still bothered
to listen to Tatum’s spiel and none of them had gone off the deep end. He had
to admit, she’d earned a little of his respect in her handling of the
strippers. She’d made a tough call about having them audition for their
positions and had stuck by her guns even though sharing the bad news to the
guys couldn’t have been pleasant.

Steele, who could have been a Sylvester Stallone clone and
had the rhythm and ungainly moves of a deaf ostrich, glanced nervously at the
other dancers. If he was waiting for one of them to be the first to talk, he
was out of luck. The skinny white kid sitting next to him, a nineteen-year-old
dancer who went by the name of Gangsta G, sank deeper into his chair and tugged
on the lid of his cap to further cover his face. The other two dancers stared
straight ahead, avoiding any eye contact with anyone in the room.

“Okay then—” Tatum started, but was immediately cut off by
Steele.

“Me,” the massive stripper grunted. He rose awkwardly from
his too small seat. Once standing, he swayed slightly as though his
considerable bulk interfered with his equilibrium. He was so pumped up, the
overly tanned muscles of his arms stretched his shirt to the limits. “I want
your help. I need this job. I’ll do what it takes to keep it.”