Panther's Claim (Bitten Point #2) (8 page)

P
erhaps shouting
titty bar wasn’t the best thing to do when surrounded by scantily-clad women who turned an evil eye their way.

Daryl brought his lips to her ear. “Careful, Cyn. It’s just a bar like any other.”

“With women who take off their clothes for a few bucks,” she hissed back.

“A few bucks?” Wes snorted over his shoulder as he led the way, wending his way through the tables. “I’ve spent way too much of my paychecks here. Hell, I’ve probably singlehandedly put a bunch of the dancers through college.”

“Me, too,” Daryl added. At Cyn’s dark look, he smirked. “Just doing my best to support my community.”

Surely it wasn’t jealousy making her dig her nails into her palms? “Isn’t there another tavern in town? One that serves food?”

“The Itty Bitty has food, too.”

“Is any of it not made in a deep fryer?” she queried.

The guys exchanged a look. “I think the peanuts aren’t.”

In other words, nothing healthy after the day she’d had. Perfect. “I’m in.” She was starved. She felt herself shrinking…
shrinking
… She needed food. Stat!

Her revival began with a nice iced tea—touched with a little something extra—served by none other than Renny.

“You work here?” Cynthia couldn’t help but blurt out.

“Tuesday through Friday until supper time. The money’s decent and the tips are amazing.”

“Beyond amazing,” Caleb grumbled as he slid an arm around his woman and laid a kiss on her tilted lips. “Much as I might have initially disliked it, the fact is it’s a decent place to work. They treat the girls here a hell of a lot better than other places.”

“That’s because Bobby knows happy dancers means happy clients, and happy clients keep coming back for overpriced beer.”

“I come for the beer-battered onion rings,” Daryl admitted as he took a seat against the wall then growled at Wes when he would have taken the other. Daryl shot Cyn a look and patted the seat beside him.

Wes and Caleb took a seat on either side while Renny leaned a hip against the end of the table.

“So what the heck happened?” Renny asked. “You guys look and smell awful.”

“Car crash.”

“Attempted murder.”

“Trouble.”

The various blurted answers all pointed to the last.

“I’m going to go out on a limb here,” Wes announced, “and say that the SHC knows we’re still looking into what happened.”

“You think they’re the ones that came after us today?” Cynthia squeaked.

“They wouldn’t have resorted to hired thugs. Why would they do something so messy when they would have just sent the SHC Private Guard to pick us up?”

“Wes is right. They wouldn’t have to be subtle. If they claimed we were imperiling our secret, they could have just snagged us. No, whoever came after us today was looking to make a statement.”

“A pretty fucking loud one,” Caleb rumbled.

“An attempt that failed, raising the question, will they try again? After all, they now know we’re digging into the past. Or were. With Gary’s house destroyed and the microfiche useless, have they eliminated all the sources we can search? If they have wiped all evidence, do we have to worry about them coming after us again?”

“Are we sure they eliminated everything?” As eyes zeroed in on Cynthia, she explained. “So far we’ve been looking for written-down accounts. Internet searches. Police reports. Reported news. You are all assuming that something was written down. But what if people were threatened back then, too? Told to keep their mouths shut?”

“Then there wouldn’t be a record,” Caleb said slowly. “However, the people would still know, even if they’ve kept silent all this time.”

“If we find them and talk to them, let them know there’s other people involved now, maybe they’ll tell us what they saw or know.”

“One big problem,” Wes interjected. “How do we figure out who knows what?”

That was a problem none of them had a solution to. And they were still pondering it when the food began to arrive, served by a buxom blonde in pigtails, wearing a skirt that might have once been a bandeau in another life and a bikini top that was environmentally friendly with its lack of fabric.

Cynthia disliked her instantly, and it had nothing to do with the fact that the overly exposed woman flashed her hussy smile at Daryl and squealed. “Sweetie, it’s been a few days since I saw you. I thought you’d forgotten all about me.”

“Of course he did because I’m his favorite barmaid now,” announced a freckled redhead with a big round tray bearing drinks and wearing tiny shorts that were smaller than most of Cynthia’s underwear.

The gong show part occurred when the third and fourth woman appeared at their table to wave and giggle at Daryl while exclaiming they were his favorite.

“You’re not just a bad kitty. You’re a tom kitty,” Cynthia exclaimed. “You’re a regular here.”

“Because of the employee discount,” Daryl explained.

“You don’t work here, do you? Don’t tell me you’re a stripper?” The idea shocked and titillated. She’d never gone to see any male strippers before, but if Daryl was the one taking it off…

“The only stripping I do is in private—”

“Or drunk,” Caleb volunteered.

“Renny’s the one letting me use her discount on the food. Their rings really are yummy. Try one.” Daryl shoved the crispy tidbit at her lips, and it was automatic to open them and take a bite.

Crunch. Salty, and sweet and… “Those are freaking good.” She snatched the rest of the onion ring from his hand and popped it in her mouth then took a sip of her beer.

Perhaps there was merit in coming for the food, but the flash of boobs on the stage as different girls came out every few songs proved distracting. To his credit, Daryl didn’t seem to pay attention. None of the guys did.

On the contrary, Daryl showed he was most aware of her presence by the hand he laid heavily on her thigh, his occasional squeeze and gentle rub keeping her in a constant state of awareness.

Still, though, the man brought her to a strip joint. That didn’t exactly scream romantic to her.

And is that what you want? Romance?

What she wanted was for those tarts to stop parading their half-naked bodies by their table and blowing kisses. It made her a touch irritable, so she let the object of her ire feel it.

“You know this whole search thing wouldn’t be so complicated if you’d managed to snag one of those things the other night,” she accused, noticing that her first beer seemed to have been replaced with a fresh one. She gulped another sip, the liquid courage warming her.

“What can I say? Those monsters got away.”

“And you didn’t go after them.” She shook her head.

“Of course I didn’t. I stayed with you to make sure you were alright.”

“You lost our only lead.” A tiny part of her felt naughty for baiting him, but just then, another perky pair went bouncing by.

Daryl didn’t seem to notice. He stared at Cynthia—the winner with clothes on! “Did you escape a mental institution?

“No.”

“Are you taking any drugs? Were you dropped on your head as a child?”

“No and no. Why?”

“Because only an idiot would give me shit for sticking around to take care of an unconscious woman who was just attacked.”

Caleb groaned as he leaned over. “Dude. You did not just go there. Stop now.”

“Stop what, poking holes in her craziness?”

She straightened after guzzling the last of her beer. “I’m not crazy. Just impulsive.”

“Impulsive means you do wild, spontaneous things. Crazy means you’re not firing all your mental cylinders.”

“I am too impulsive.”

“Really?” Daryl’s eyes glinted with challenge. “Prove it. I dare you. Let’s see how impulsive and sinful you really are.”

“You can’t just put me on the spot like that,” she sputtered.

“A truly impulsive girl wouldn’t have a problem.”

“You want proof?” Cynthia shoved her chair back and stood. “I’m going to go on that stage and shake my booty. Is that impulsive enough?”

He leaned back in his seat and crossed his arms. “Go right ahead.”

“I will.” She didn’t move.

He smirked. “I knew you wouldn’t do it.”

“It occurs to me that your dare is probably meant to distract me from the fact you screwed up and let those two thugs go free.”

“I did not screw up. I was taking care of you.”

“Sure you were.”

The sound he let loose reminded her of the frustrated one she’d managed to get her parents to utter more than a few times.

She tried the trick that worked on her daddy. She batted her eyelashes.

“Got something in your eye?”

“Nope, but I’ll give you something to eyeball,” she muttered.

Welcome to logical plan number…okay, she didn’t keep count, but she knew there was a good reason why she was marching for that stage—other than the beer circulating in her system—and crawling onto the platform because it didn’t have any stairs she could see.

The stage was in between acts, but music still blasted, a certain recent song coming to an end leading into another one, a retro one that was rather dirty.

So dirty.

So perfect.

And not as scary as expected. Now that Cynthia stood in the spotlight, she couldn’t see the crowd or the tables, just vague shadows, not that she looked for long. Cynthia always danced with her eyes closed. Gaze shuttered, arms held out to her sides, and hips rolling, she began to dance as she let the beat of “Touch Me” by Samantha Fox thrum through her body.

Her shoulders moved, rolling into her torso then down to her waist. Her ass jiggled too. This wasn’t so hard.

Until someone reminded her where she was. “Take it off!”

Strip? Someone actually wanted her to strip?

Isn’t that why we’re up here?

Take it off. A body was a beautiful and natural thing. It wasn’t something she tended to show off, but with her inhibitions lowered and her skin prickling with awareness—because Daryl watched—she found the hem to her shirt and pulled it over her head.

It got caught for a second on her messy bun of hair, but not for long.

With a triumphant grin, she whirled it around her head and let it loose.

Someone caught it because she heard someone exclaim, “Smells smoky.”

Yeah, because I’m on fire.
And not literally this time unlike the incident with the barbecue.

Her hips undulated, along with her arms, in a body wave that brought whistles from the audience.

Funny how being the object of attention could prove flattering, but not as flattering as the man who’d pushed his way to the edge of the stage.

Daryl’s gaze smoldered with heat. She shook her hips and waggled her shoulders and felt a spurt of triumph—oh, yes, and heat—when a tic formed by his eye. He liked what he watched.

He wanted…

She wanted, too. Cynthia dropped to the floor and crawled to him, knowing her breasts hung heavy in her bra. The tips of them ached they’d drawn so tight. She stopped mere inches from the edge, less than a foot between her and Daryl. She could practically see the electric awareness sparking between them. She smiled and arched as she threw her head back, exposing the smooth column of her neck to him. Open invitation.

“Get down,” he growled, or did she just read his lips? Did it matter? His intent was clear. He wanted her to get down? Her smile curled into something utterly wicked and mischievous as she obliged, dipping her hips to the stage and then letting a wave of sensual motion roll through her body, projecting her breasts outward. The erect nubs of her nipples poking through the fabric of her bra led the way.

The tic became more pronounced as his lips went into a straight line, but she knew it was only partly in anger. She had only to peek below his waist to see he was affected in another way.

He wants me.
Much as he might blow hot and cold, that one fact remained.

But what would it take to make him finally break?

Let’s find out.
She pressed herself against the stage again, her hips flush with the floor, and she licked her lips as she moved in time to the music.

It was utterly decadent. Even if she still wore her yoga pants and her brassiere, she was moving in ways that left nothing to the imagination.

But some people needed visual help, hence the yelled, “Take off your top. Let’s see those titties!” The request came with a shower of bills, a green paper rainfall that managed to break the intense stare between her and Daryl. It disintegrated the erotic spell they were under.

Before she could react to the request, the money, and the sudden realization of what she was doing—
in public!—
Daryl turned and grabbed the guy who’d suggested she strip further. Her very irate seeming kitty held the bulky man off the ground, and she could only watch in shock as Daryl’s fist met the guy’s face with a snarled, “Don’t talk to my woman that way.”

My woman. Did he just say that?
Had he just defended her honor? Swoon because she’d never seen or heard anything hotter in her life.