Turning It on (Red Hot Russians) (3 page)

After stopping to straddle a fortysomething birthday girl and rip open the snaps on his shirt, he noticed a younger woman at the opposite end of the table. Straight brown hair parted in the center, round acne-dotted cheeks, heavy-framed glasses. He danced over and looked her in the eye.

She shrank back a little and her lips parted in surprise. Anything too outrageous would probably embarrass her, but in a single, quick motion, he pulled off his shirt and flung it behind him. Her friends squealed and crowded around, vying for his attention, but he kept his gaze on Glasses Girl. She blushed, unused to being noticed, but her shy smile suggested she liked it. With a wink, he moved on to the next group, on the lookout for the guest of honor and the guest forgotten.

He shed the rest of his clothes during the second rotation and by the third, he was down to his black satin thong. The audience held out cash and he moved close to accept his tips. Glasses Girl held out a dollar. Her shoulders were hunched, as though she feared he would refuse.

Vlad danced over and let her stuff the money beneath the waistband of his thong. Her shaking fingers lightly brushed his skin. In the real world, did she ever touch a man? On impulse, he bent down and planted a quick kiss on her cheek. The audience squealed their approval. Glasses Girl’s ear-to-ear smile said she could now die happy. He danced away, happy, as well.

The older women were usually less touchy, but they tipped extremely well. One held out a twenty, and Vlad made sure he was within easy reach. Most were married, and simply wanted to admire his cut, greased form, while the younger girls wanted him to be flirtatious, sexy and sweet at the same time.

Vlad had become very good at giving all of them what they came for.

As the song ended, he mounted the stairs once more, playing to the main floor audience, then out of habit, glanced up at the VIP box. His stomach lurched as he met the gaze of the balcony’s sole occupant. Rosalie DiMarco, twice-divorced, twice-widowed sister of a badass local land developer rumored to have mob ties. Her surgically altered face creased in a grotesque smile as she lifted her martini glass. Vlad spun away.

In the locker room between shows, he counted out his take. Three hundred bucks and that was just for the first set. God, he loved Friday nights. He’d go home tonight with at least six hundred, even after tipping out the DJ and the set up guy. More than what he and his mom used to live on for a week, back in Arkhangelsk. But here, it was expensive to live. He drove a nice car. Lived in a nice place. Went out with women who cared about such things. Some weeks, he barely made enough to get by.

He stuffed the cash in his wallet, next to Eric Conrad’s card. If he reached the last episode, he could walk away with two hundred and fifty grand. Easy money, luxurious travel and a new life.

But hadn’t he thought the same thing at eighteen, when he joined the International Review? He’d traveled on a luxurious private jet...as a virtual prisoner. He’d earned lots of money doing things that sickened him. If the experience taught him anything, it was that if something sounded too good to be true, it probably was. Though he’d physically escaped that life, the invisible bonds still held him fast.

Beside the producer’s card was another, this one buff-colored, with a date and time handwritten on the back. The appointment had come and gone weeks ago. He’d sought the counselor’s help, knowing on some level that changing his future meant reconciling his past. But he’d not been prepared for how painful that would be. After a month, he’d had enough. Though the counselor had finally quit leaving messages on Vlad’s phone, the last one still haunted him. “
I know it’s difficult, but if you stay silent, you’ll never break free from your past. When you’re ready to talk, give me a call.”

Hard to imagine that he would ever be ready.

From behind, the music got louder as the door opened and Stella came in, carrying a generous shot of something clear. She eyed the card as he put it away. Vlad tossed his wallet in his locker and took the glass she offered. He caught the astringent odor of cheap vodka. “Drink up,” she said. “You’ve been summoned.”

He didn’t have to ask where, or by whom. He set the glass down. “Tell her I’m busy. Tell her I don’t work VIP.”

“I told her. But what Rosalie DiMarco wants, Rosalie DiMarco gets, and right now she wants you.” Stella offered a sympathetic smile and sat down on the bench. “The longer you avoid her, the more determined she gets. Go dance for her, and she’ll move on to someone else.”

As badly as he wanted to refuse, Stella was right. That had been Rosalie’s pattern with Lamar, Jared and Pedro. A dance or two and Rosalie was satisfied; the dancers a few hundred richer. He would give her what she wanted, and then it would be Xander’s turn. “One dance.” He knocked back the vodka and reached for his costume.

“Don’t bother with that. She wants you as you are.”

“
Chyort
.” Vlad swore and glanced down at his black satin thong.

“Go!” Stella picked up the glass and followed him out. “Oh, and Vlad? Fucking smile for God’s sake!”

Smile? Was Stella out her mind? He bared his teeth in a grimace and then took the back steps up to the balcony where $100 bought a private dance and $200 bought the privilege of doing whatever one liked to the dancer. Some of the guys didn’t care. All that mattered was the money. But the upstairs scene was too reminiscent of Vlad’s days with the International Review. He only worked the VIP when he had no choice.

Madonna’s “Like a Virgin” was playing in the background and the lounge was still empty except for Rosalie, who sat sipping a bright pink cocktail, watching with unnaturally lifted eyes. Her too-short pink skirt matched her pink-and-black leopard-print shoes. Appropriate footwear for a woman some plastic surgeon had sculpted into a large cat.

She beckoned, holding two folded bills between her fingers. “You’ve been avoiding me, Vlad.”

“Not avoid,” he said. “I don’t work VIP.”

She narrowed her eyes. “That’s what Lamar said, too. But he came around. So will you.” She pointed with her toe at a spot before her round captain’s chair. “Closer.”

He took another step forward. She lifted her foot, running the sole of her shoe along his inner thigh, and rubbed the pointed tip against his dick. At the same time, she ground the spiked heel into his thigh, marking him. Then she leaned forward and slipped a red-tipped finger beneath his waistband, pulling him closer. When she had him within reach, she stood and circled slowly. Wrapping her hand around his left biceps, she squeezed. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph, you are grade-A prime, that’s for damn sure.”

Meat. That’s all he was. And as long as he remained at The Male Room, it was all he would ever be.

From behind, she palmed his bare ass and then wrapped her overly tanned arms around his waist. Her hands splayed across his lower abdomen, kneading his flesh and muscles. Moving lower. Fondling him through his G-string. It took every ounce of self-control to remain still and fight the intense revulsion that pounded through him. Rosalie pressed her mouth to his bare shoulder and nipped with sharp teeth. “So just how bad are you?”

He had no answer, but behind his closed eyes were faces. The fresh-faced girls who came to the International Review as ex-ballerinas and left as junkies. The senator’s wife who helped him gain freedom, for a price. The sad, lonely women who frequented The Male Room. The bride-to-be willing to risk her fiancé’s love for a night in a stranger’s bed.

He wanted to be away from all of it. He wanted to be a man who was good and honorable. Going on
Last Fling
might not do that in the short run, but it would earn him enough to start a new life.

“Don’t you like me?” she purred.

Again, no answer.

“I don’t care. I’ve bought you for twenty minutes, and you have to do whatever I want.” She came to the front and jabbed his stomach with a sharp fingernail. “Dance.”

He went through the motions, his sights on the money clutched between her fingers. The offer for the show was still on the table. All he had to do was call the producer before noon tomorrow. Hell, he would do it tonight. Even if he lasted only a few episodes, he’d come away with more than he had now. And once he had money, the Rosalie DiMarcos of the world would have no power over him.

“Stop.” She reached between his legs and his cock shriveled at her touch. “What’s wrong with you? Don’t you like women?”

He looked into amber eyes that seemed more animal than human. “I like women. But of cats, I’m not so fond.”

Her slap stung his cheek and she pulled the cash out of reach.

Chapter Three

The concrete floor of the convention hall was cold beneath Eric’s slush-damp shoes as he stood in line to meet the Midwestern Mondo Motor Extravaganza’s star attraction.

Moments earlier, ex-TV starlet Alison Michaels had stepped out of the curtained cubicle that served as her dressing room wearing her signature red bikini and matching high heels. Though she carried a few more pounds than she had in her heyday as the scheming Missy Goldsmith, at twenty-nine, she still looked damned good.

The fans lined up seemed to agree. Most were men, but there were a smattering of women and even a few preteens who must have discovered the old
Somerset High
series in reruns. Alison Michaels still had an audience, and a demographically diverse one at that. The suits at the Xposé Network would be pleased, and above all, Eric wanted the suits to be pleased.

To the left of the platform was a table with a stack of plastic-wrapped posters rolled into tubes. Eric once had a copy of that very poster on his bedroom wall. Alison in a red bikini, lying on her back on a surfboard. She was still trading on her decade-old image as a teenage temptress, but how much longer could she keep it up?

Last Fling
could change her life.

He had traveled from Miami to Chicago, his last stop before jetting back to LA. Now that Jack and Hannah were on board, the show was coming together nicely. The Russian stripper’s signed contract was in his briefcase, as were those from the rest of Chris and Tammy’s invitees. His co-executive producer was working on Jack and Hannah’s list of last flings, and Alison was the final piece of the puzzle.

Piece of cake. Eric glanced at his watch. It was just a little before seven o’clock, and he might even be finished here in time to catch the red-eye.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. The incoming text was from Jack. Should I get an agent now?

An agent? Eric frowned. It was great that Jack was so eager, but signing with a talent agent might be jumping the gun a bit. He and his old friend needed to have a talk, but right now, there was more pressing business at hand.

Alison smiled an invitation at the next two fans in line who climbed the three steps to the elevated platform where she stood. One of the men was at least six feet tall, and wore a Hooters T-shirt. “Why you’re just a lil’ bitty thing, ain’t you? Now smile pretty, while my buddy takes a pit’cher.”

His booming voice had a noticeable slur. He moved behind Alison, grabbed her and jerked her back against his hips. Her lovely face registered shock. “Sir, I’m sorry but you’re not allowed to—”

“Like hell I’m not. I paid five bucks to stand in this line,” the man said, as his friend, who wore a carelessly buttoned shirt and had a comb-over, fiddled with a digital camera. “Now shut up and hold still.”

Eric glanced toward the security guard’s post. Damn. The guy must be in the john. The bony old woman selling posters would be no help. Neither would the two twelve-year-old boys and their mom in line in front of him.

“Please let go of me.
Now
.” Alison tried to pry the man’s big hands loose, but he must have outweighed her by a hundred pounds.

The man laughed and his hands moved higher on her body, closer to her breasts. “I think she likes me, don’t you, Ray?”

The guy with the camera chuckled.

Eric’s heart pounded. Should
he
do something? The guy was big, and had a friend with him. Even though the friend didn’t look like much, it was two against one. Eric was no good in a fight. If he intervened, these two would beat the crap out of him, he would end up in the ER and this whole damn trip would be wasted. The suits would be pissed, his coproducer would be pissed and Eric would—

“Goddamn it! You hurt me, you little bitch!”

The big guy had let go of Alison and held his cupped hand to his chest, as if wounded. Red-faced and outraged, he towered over her, shouting into her face. “What’d you do to me? Swear to God, if it’s broken, I’ll see to it you get worse!”

She stood her ground and appeared unafraid, as people in line murmured uneasily. The cameraman tugged at his friend’s sleeve and the pair left. Once they were gone, Alison let out a breath. She smoothed her hair and tugged her bikini top back in place. When she turned to face the line again, she flashed a dazzling smile.

The boys in front of Eric clambered up the steps to the platform. “Whoa, what’d you do to that guy? Can you show me?”

Alison laughed and took the posters they held out for her to sign. “It’s a self-defense move a friend taught me, and it hurts
bad,
so no funny stuff.” She stabbed the air with her Sharpie for emphasis.

Eric broke out in a giddy grin. Not only was Alison Michaels beautiful, she was kick-ass. He watched in admiration as she finished with the boys, and then took the steps two at a time, his right hand extended. He imagined that her handshake would be warm and strong. He would try to make it last as long as possible. He flashed his whitened smile. “Man, that was impressive. The way you handled that guy from start to finish. Very good, very nice.”

Alison’s smile faded quickly. “You saw what was happening and just stood there?

It was if she had caught him with his fly open. “Um, uh...you look like a woman who can take care of herself.”

“That’s not the point. When someone’s in trouble, you speak up.” She shook her head, looking sad and bewildered. “It’s the right thing to do.”

“Oh, uh, yeah. Sure.” She had a point, even if she was no damsel in distress.

“Okay, Sir Galahad. Do you have something for me to sign? I’m not in the mood for pictures right now.”

Caught off guard, he stared blankly, patting his pockets for his business cards. He pulled out a creased car-show map, then moved to the other side where his cards were. Fumbling with the card and map, he handed her both. “Here, sign this.”

Alison shrugged and turned the items in her hand. She scribbled her name on the brochure and handed it back. “Is that really all, or is there a pair of lacy panties stashed away somewhere you want me to sign?”

“Oh, God. No.” Eric’s cheeks burned, as he transformed back into the awkward kid who’d whiled away lonely nights with her poster and his right hand. “Uh...listen, could we maybe talk sometime? Like soon? Tonight?”

“Tonight?” She glanced toward the line of waiting fans. “I’m a little busy at the moment.”

“Right. Sure. I didn’t mean right now. Just...soon. What I have to offer might interest you. I mean, it would definitely interest you. My number’s on my card. Call me?”

He took a step off the platform, his left foot nearly missing the top stair. The only thing that could have made this worse would be a face-plant onto the concrete. A sexy laugh came from behind. He turned, as she wiggled her fingers in a little wave. “Not likely, but watch your step. Have a nice night, Galahad.”

Eric made his way to the convention hall bar, in serious need of a drink. He ordered scotch, tossed a twenty on the bar and pulled out his phone. His bad evening got a little worse. In addition to Jack’s messages, there was also one from Cody deWylde, the head of Renegade Productions and the main reason
Last Fling
was going to be on the air.

His pulse quickened as he scanned Cody’s bizarre question about whether Hannah’s fling list was a joke. What did the hell could that mean? He tapped Cody’s number and put the phone to his ear. Cody answered on the first ring.

“Dude! Where are you?” Cody sounded jovial, but Eric had no illusions. The guy was a shark with a spray tan who would pimp his grandma for the sake of good TV. Eric had taken his sleaziest reality idea to deWylde’s production company, which had a track record for selling the most unsavory programming on the air. Cody had jumped in with gusto, not to mention substantial funding and with just a few phone calls, got a green light from the Xposé Network. Just like that, Eric was launched into the big leagues. A Faustian bargain, to be sure.

“Still in Chicago. Coming back tonight. What’s up? You left a message about Hannah’s list.”

DeWylde laughed. “Your friend’s crazy, but casting is on it. No worries. I forgot you still had to go to Chicago. So. Alison Michaels. Is she on board?”

Eric sipped his drink, stalling to collect his thoughts. “We talked, but it wasn’t a good time to pitch.” He didn’t mention that hearing his teenage crush talk about lacy panties left him too flummoxed to get the job done. “I gave her my card.”

Cody snorted. “Your card? We’re running out of time, my man. Look, I had no problem with you going to Chicago to recruit your dream girl, but we need results. If you can’t do it, say the word and I’ll take over.”

It was tempting. Eric had felt in over his head since the day the network green-lit
Last Fling
. He was the idea guy, happiest when he was alone at his computer, creating. People intimidated him. Women who looked like Alison Michaels definitely intimidated him. Cody deWylde was better suited for wheeling and dealing. He wouldn’t have gotten tongue-tied and made an ass of himself.

But Eric couldn’t back out now. This was his big break, and making
Last Fling
a success would mean he could get his real ideas—the ones he was actually proud of—to the screen. He’d used a precious weekend of preproduction time to come here, and Alison Michaels was on the other side of the convention hall...waiting to say yes.

“No, dude. I’m good,” Eric said. “I’m going back to talk with her, and once she hears the pitch, she’ll jump at it. No doubt in my mind.”

“Sweet. So what’s she look like? As hot as her poster?”

At last, a question he could answer truthfully. Eric smiled. She was gorgeous as her poster, but a photo didn’t capture the warmth, humor and intelligence of the real-life woman. “Better.”

“All right. So let’s make ol’ Chris’s wet dreams come true. And yours. Call me when the contract is signed.”

“Will do.” Eric shut off his phone and stuffed it in his pocket.

When truck driver Chris Tucker had put Alison on his fling list, they hadn’t thought about how they might persuade her. Her career had crashed and burned a decade ago, and now she was working the convention hall circuit. She’d jump at the money. Eric was an up-and-coming Hollywood wunderkind, and a washed-up starlet turned car-show attraction should have been putty in his hands.

He took out the brochure she’d signed and something fell out of the bottom. His business card, which she’d returned without him realizing.

Putty in his hands, all right.

He took another sip of scotch and let thoughts of another woman push aside his failure with Alison Michaels. Her name was Dr. Pamela Chandler, and Eric had created her.

She was the central character in a new series he was developing; working title
St. Nowhere
. The concept was a hospital drama set in an eerie netherworld. As beautiful Dr. Chandler and her colleagues worked desperately to save lives, an endless, catastrophic storm raged outside the hospital. Would the storm ever stop? Where were they anyway? Another dimension? Hell?

He began making notes on cocktail napkins and before he knew it, the bar was emptying out. He’d been here too long and needed to talk with Alison before some hunky boyfriend showed up to whisk her away. He was about to leave when raucous laughter rang out on the other side of the room.

It was the men who’d harassed Alison. The camera guy was telling the story to another loser, while Hooters T-shirt protested loudly. “I didn’t do anything. I shoulda smacked that little bitch! Make her show me some respect.”

Eric hurried from the bar and went straight to Alison’s booth, where only a few autograph-seekers remained. Alison greeted him with the sexy, knowing expression he’d once associated with Missy Goldsmith. “So, Galahad? Did you change your mind about having me sign those panties?”

He blushed again, but there was warmth, not malice, in her voice. “You gave this back accidently.” He held out his business card.

“Who said it was an accident?” She glanced at the card, squinting slightly. “Eric Conrad, Renegade Productions.” Her smile was gone and her blue eyes were cold. “You’re a producer,” she said flatly. “Of what?”

“Television shows. In particular, a groundbreaking new reality series for the Xposé Network called
Last Fling
. And I’d like for you to be on it.”

“Not interested.” Her voice was polite, but firm.

“But this could put you back on top. You could be a star again.”

She pressed the card into his hand. “That part of my life is over. Been there, done that, bought the T-shirt.”

“You could take home two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

For a second, she hesitated. Then she shook her head. “Sorry, but I’m not interested in being on TV and definitely not on a reality show. Oh look, my ride is here.” An off-road monster truck the same color as Alison’s bikini had pulled up beside them. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go be eye candy in this lovely vehicle. So long, Eric. I hope you enjoyed your trip to Chicago.”

His desperation rose and he reached to grab her arm, then thought better of it. “Wait! Please, Alison. There’s one more thing.” She stopped and turned back. “I just wanted to say, you’re as beautiful as you were when you played Missy Goldsmith. More so, even. If that’s possible. I also wanted to say...” He took a deep breath. “Jeez, this is hard.”

She smiled a little. “Try anyway.”

“I’m sorry I just stood by while that brute pawed you. And please be careful when you leave here tonight. The guy’s still lurking around. Is someone picking you up? Besides that?” He motioned toward the waiting truck. “I could take you home. I mean...see you home. Just so you’re safe.”

“That’s very kind. But not necessary.” Gently she touched his sleeve. “Please don’t worry, I’ll be fine.”

Even when she took her hand away, Eric felt her touch. She walked to the truck, which had open sides and tires nearly as tall as she was. The driver rolled down a metal stepladder and Alison climbed aboard. Eric followed the truck as it made its way through the convention hall, Alison perched in the passenger seat, waving and smiling. Just like that, his dream girl was gone.