Shooting Dirty (4 page)

Jester smiled, as if he found these theatrics amusing.

“I can look into Dimebag’s death for you, but I’ll need more than two days.”

Ace wasn’t opposed to digging up dirt on Wild Bill. The man was a liar, a cheat and a ruthless criminal. He’d never relinquish control of Skye. It didn’t matter to Ace if Jester and Wild Bill killed each other. He hoped they would.

“How long do you need?” Jester asked.

“As long as it takes,” Ace said.

Rex tightened his grip on his Wesson.

Ace engaged the safety on the .9mm and set it on the surface of the desk, backing up slowly. “Your security sucks, by the way. Next time we meet alone. I don’t want to get shot by this fucking amateur.”

“Just bring me the information,” Jester said, sounding bored. “I’ll be keeping an eye on your girl until you do.”

Ace strode out of the office, his hands clenched into fists. He could go to Bill and tell him everything Jester had said. Courtney had been Bill’s only daughter. Bill hated Jester just as much as Ace did.

But there was one thing stronger than hate, and that was love. Ace would do anything for Skye. He’d kill for her, die for her, sell his soul for her. Taking up arms against White Lightning wouldn’t help him get custody.

Because his number one enemy wasn’t Jester. It was Bill.

Chapter Five

Janelle pulled into the driveway at her mother’s house in Niland.

She let the car idle with the air conditioning on, glancing at Jamie. He had purple smudges under both eyes, and his nose was slightly swollen. He hadn’t told her what the fight was about, though he’d admitted to taking her tequila.

“How was school today?”

“Fine.”

“Did those boys bother you again?”

He stared out the window at her mother’s front lawn. There was a pair of pink flamingo statues stabbed into the snowy white gravel. “No.”

“I told your grandmother you were grounded.”

“So?”

She swallowed hard, drumming up the nerve to continue. He was angry with her, and she thought she knew why. “We need to talk.”

“About what?”

“About what you said when you were drunk.”

He turned toward her with a frown. Every day he looked more like Shane. They had the same blue eyes, the same belligerent expression. Jamie was only twelve, but he already had the lanky arms and legs of a teenager. He was growing up too fast. “What did I say?”

“You called me a whore.”

His guilty flinch told her he remembered. “Oh.”

“Oh?”

“I didn’t mean it. Can I go in now?”

She tightened her hands around the wheel, wishing for a cigarette. She never smoked with him in the car. It would be easier to let him off the hook, drive away and light up. She didn’t want to have this conversation—ever. “I had that college interview yesterday,” she said anyway. “I blew it.”

“How?”

“They asked me about my job.”

“Your job at the
sports bar
?”

He knew. Derision was written all over his face, and she could hear it in his caustic tone. “I was going to tell you.”

“Right.”

She raked a hand through her messy hair. “Okay, I wasn’t going to tell you. I was planning to switch jobs before you ever found out.”

“Too late.”

“Is that—is that why you were fighting?”

He stared at the flamingos again, sullen. “I shouldn’t have defended you. All those nasty things they said were true.”

She didn’t ask what they’d said. She felt awful enough. “I want a better life for us, Jamie. I don’t want to keep dancing forever. Why do you think I’ve been taking classes all day and working nights?”

“You should just give up. You’re not that smart.”

She clenched her hands around the steering wheel as he exited the vehicle and slammed the door. The dig at her intelligence stung. College had been a struggle for her. Jamie, on the other hand, was academically gifted. He had a quick mind and a surly attitude. Everything she did seemed to annoy him.

The feeling was mutual.

She got out of the car and chased him across the gravel. “Hold on a second,” she said, gripping his arm. When he tried to twist free, she held tight. She might not be a genius, but she wasn’t a weakling, either. She could still lay down the law. “Don’t you ever talk to me like that, you hear? I bust my ass to put a roof over your head and clothes on your back. Your soccer gear isn’t free. How about that goalie training camp over winter break? That was two hundred dollars for a week!”

“If I’d known what you were doing for it—”

“You’d have decided not to go?”

He scowled and didn’t answer.

She released his arm, aware that she’d lost her temper. Her fingernails had left angry red crescents on his skin. “I dance topless for a living. I’m not ashamed of that, and I’m not a whore. Do you understand me?”

“Whatever,” he muttered, heading toward the front door. When she followed, he gave her a surprised look.

“I’m coming in.”

“You never come in.”

That was true, and he didn’t need to know why. As difficult as this conversation had been, the thought of telling him about her stepfather hurt far worse. But maybe she’d kept too many secrets in her quest to protect him.

Before he knocked, Renata Parker appeared in the doorway. She stepped aside as he edged past her, mumbling hello.

Janelle’s mother was a short, plump woman with a timeworn face and faded brown hair. She’d had rheumatoid arthritis for more than ten years, and her mobility was limited. She did a double take at the sight of Janelle on her doorstep.

“I wanted to talk to you about something,” Janelle said, feeling like a child again. Vulnerable and uncertain.

“Of course,” Renata said, waving her in. She shut the door and made her way into the kitchen, her gate steady but not smooth. Walking was a chore for her. She used a motorized chair at the grocery store.

Jamie had retreated to the guest bedroom. Her old bedroom. Janelle couldn’t even glance that direction without being assaulted by memories. She entered the kitchen and took a seat across from her mother, in the corner. The space looked the same as Janelle remembered. Green curtains. White tile countertops. Plastic tablecloth, wiped clean.

Renata studied her with a wary expression, as if she expected to be asked for money. Janelle knew she didn’t have any.

“Jamie found out about my job,” Janelle said. “Some boys at school told him. That’s why he was fighting.”

Her mother’s eyes softened in sympathy, though she’d never approved of Janelle’s work. It was one of the topics they avoided. They avoided a lot of topics. “Would you like some lemonade?”

“Sure.”

Renata got up with some difficulty and selected two tall glasses. Then she removed a pitcher from the fridge and filled them. Ice clinked inside the slushy mixture as she set both drinks on the table.

Janelle took a sip. It was cool and sweet and refreshing. Her mother wasn’t perfect, but she made a great cup of lemonade. She’d had a lot of experience at the task; life had given her too many lemons. Her first husband, Janelle’s father, had been bad. Her second husband, Janelle’s stepfather, had been worse.

But they were both dead now. Only Janelle and Renata remained. Estranged survivors, facing each other across the table.

“This is good,” Janelle said.

“I made it for Jamie.”

Janelle set her cup aside. “I had an admissions interview at Loma Santa Fe yesterday. It didn’t go well.”

“Why not?”

“I lied about my work history, and they checked into it. They’re a Christian college. I can’t imagine getting accepted.”

“Can’t you go somewhere else?”

“I hope so. There are programs in San Diego and San Bernardino, but I can’t afford to move right now. I’ll have to ask for some extra shifts at work, and pinch every penny for the next few months. I thought, maybe...we could stay here. With you.”

Her mother was speechless.

“Just temporarily,” she said. “Until I have enough money saved.”

“You can stay here as long as you want,” Renata said. “You and Jamie are always welcome.”

Janelle leaned back in her chair, trying to hide her disbelief. She’d been sent away when she was fifteen, and she hadn’t felt welcome since. But now wasn’t the time to criticize, so Janelle forced a grateful smile. Their relationship might be shaky, but her mother had just agreed to take them in. She’d always been willing to help out with Jamie. Janelle was relieved by her positive response.

Leaving the trailer park was the right move. Jamie would be under constant supervision at her mother’s house. Janelle wouldn’t have to drive him back and forth, and she wouldn’t have to worry about another visit from that motorcycle club freak.

Jamie wouldn’t be happy about the change. He was nice to his grandmother, and she doted on him, but he preferred the no-rules freedom of the trailer park. He liked his hoodlum friends at the rec center.

She was in for another battle.

Janelle finished her lemonade and left, thanking her mother with an awkward hug. The move would be difficult for Janelle, too. Her mother’s house was small. Janelle would have to sleep in the sunroom or stretch out on the couch. The thought of passing by her old bedroom every day filled her with a sick panic.

As she drove to Vixen, she acknowledged that life would be easier if she had a man. Someone to help her pay the bills. A positive role model for Jamie. His Uncle Owen was great, but he only came by once a month. Owen had a girlfriend with a little boy of her own. The last time Owen had visited, he’d brought Penny and Cruz with him.

Janelle could tell that Jamie had felt threatened. Maybe he thought Owen would forget about him now that he had a ready-made family.

She parked and locked up her car, thinking of Ace.

His card was burning a hole in her purse. She’d tossed and turned all night, imagining what might have happened if he’d kissed her instead of walking out. In her fantasies, his mouth had descended on hers, devouring her. He’d pushed her toward the bedroom and trapped her against the door, still kissing her. Then he’d gripped both of her wrists with one hand and stroked her to climax with his other.

She’d touched herself in the wee hours of the morning, holding her wrists together as if they were tightly bound. She’d finally drifted to sleep after, only half-satisfied. It was difficult to play captive when you were all alone.

Flushing at the memory, she strode across the parking lot with her head high. She really needed to get laid.

She walked through the main entrance, nodding hello to the bouncer and the DJ. The place was almost empty, which wasn’t unusual for the early evening on a weekday. On weekends, Vixen was a madhouse, overflowing with raucous customers. Janelle made more money when the seats were packed, but she didn’t mind dancing for a small crowd. She liked dancing, period. She felt confident and powerful on stage.

As much as she hated certain aspects of the job, performing at Vixen had made her a stronger person. She knew who she was in this setting. She knew exactly where the lines were, and how to stay behind them. There was no touching, no grinding, no nudity in the VIP room. Those professional boundaries were comforting.

Unfortunately, not everyone played by the rules. Customers tried to grope her during most shifts. They exposed themselves to her on a regular basis. She’d seen some sad, sorry-looking penises. Men weren’t supposed to masturbate in the club, but they did. They jerked off under the tables and in the bathroom. One horrible night, a man had ejaculated in his hand and wiped it on her.

The insults and abuses were too numerous to count. And they weighed on her, counterbalancing the sense of control she felt during her stage performances.

Vixen wasn’t the best or the worst place she’d ever worked in. She’d done the rounds at all of the local clubs as a young, energetic dancer. Strippers often traveled from venue to venue, performing a week here or a night there. Porn stars were popular on the club circuit, and centerfold girls brought in big crowds. Most of them couldn’t dance for shit, but their fans didn’t give a damn.

Janelle had never been a headliner, and she hadn’t enjoyed traveling. Some clubs were just meat markets, full of naked women on display. She’d done full-nude once and never gone back, despite the excellent tips. Burlesque clubs were friendlier, with a fun atmosphere and no lap dances, but they didn’t pay as well.

For the past seven years, Janelle had stayed at Vixen. It was close to home, she knew the staff and she made decent money.

That didn’t mean she was fulfilled by her work. She was almost thirty years old now, and a decade in the profession had soured her on men. She didn’t want to be jerk-off fodder forever. She longed for a normal life.

A family.

She’d never really had that.

Instead of going backstage to get ready, she walked toward the office. She might as well ask the manager for those extra shifts now, before it got busy. The club owner, Chuck Finch, was a good man, but he rarely made an appearance these days. Vixen was run by his brother, Kevin, whose business skills were lax.

The door was cracked open, so she rapped her knuckles against it and peeked in. Kevin was sitting at his desk, looking down at something. He seemed distracted, but he didn’t tell her not to come in. When she stepped forward, he groaned and held up a finger, indicating that he’d be with her in a minute.

That was when she caught sight of a dark-haired head bobbing up and down on his lap. Smothering a gasp, Janelle beat a hasty retreat.

Ugh. Jerk.

She hurried away from the office, catching sight of the bartender and bouncer as she headed backstage. Their matching smirks told her that they knew what she’d walked in on. “Thanks a lot, assholes.”

They both burst into laughter.

“You could’ve warned me.”

“No fun in that,” the bartender said, his eyes twinkling. He was handsome and nice, but Janelle had never looked twice at him. She couldn’t date any of the guys from work. They saw her tits and ass all night.

She shoved through the curtains and took a seat at her station. There were eight lighted mirrors backstage with wooden stools and vanities. On weekends they had to share, and space got tight. Today she had the station all to herself. She arranged her makeup on the surface and began to apply it in heavy strokes.

Within moments, she’d transformed herself from plain-old, down-and-out Janelle into sultry, glamorous, bombshell Jezebel.