Читать книгу Strip - Delta Dupree - Страница 6

“Ooh-ooh. Girl, I’ll need to change my panties when this is over. He chose the perfect tune to turn us out. ‘Jamaica Funk’ was the baddest hit on record,” Galaxeé said. She swayed to the hip-hop song’s downbeat, snapping her fingers as loudly as she popped gum. “He’s hot, isn’t he?”

“No doubt.” Rio Saunders shifted, sat straighter on the barstool at Killer Bods. The male strip club she and Galaxeé Barnett owned wasn’t open for business until eight tonight, but the current dance applicant…mercy.

For a youngster he was a prime specimen, one of Denver, Colorado’s finest. With a sable mane hanging well down his thick neck and a startling pair of slate-gray eyes, this tall honey paraded his attributes. He was God’s blessed gift to women.

He swaggered toward the stage’s edge. Under bright spotlights in the darkened theater, his view was nowhere near as good as hers. He flaunted all his finery. With broad shoulders, acutely defined pecs with just enough dark hair and a rippling six-pack, his body was a temple built for some lucky girl’s loving.

“Mm, mm, mm,” Rio purred quietly. And he had rhythm. Hiding a smile, she sipped from the glass of lemon water the bartender had set down.

“What do you think? Yes? Can’t imagine otherwise,” Galaxeé insisted.

They’d judged all sorts of wannabes for three hours—lean, stout, cute, plus a few sure-goners. Bryce Sullivan was the last performer applying for one soon-to-be vacant position.

No one else had danced so well. No one else had boasted his hard-body physique.

No one else looked this darn good.

Except Dallas Cooper, a.k.a. Panther Man. He—rather, his twenty-two-year-old hussy, Shannon Fields—decided to hang up his G-string for marriage. Dallas was Killer Bods’ shining star. At twenty-eight, with smooth skin blacker than obsidian, he moved effortlessly during his performances, flexing his bulging muscles. Had he been a dozen years older, closer to Rio’s age, she’d gladly let him turn her inside out. Welcome it.

“Let’s think about it a couple days,” she finally replied. “This is an African American revue.”

Galaxeé’s huffs would deflate most people’s lungs. “Girl, time is running out. Panther’s last night is next week. So what if this guy’s white? As good as he looks, not to mention how well he boogies, he’ll draw more chicks to the club. From Silk’s.”

Killer’s dancers loved their sistahs, although a variety of women, single and married, looking for outstanding action frequented the nightclub. Quality advertisement was a must in this business. “White women.”

“Blacks, too. And Latinas, Thais, hell, Egyptians. He is fine. You know it. I know it. Why wait? He could start tomorrow night. We can break him in for the Christmas rush, ready by…”

“Slow—” Rio clamped her mouth shut, shaking her head. Galaxeé talked faster than any auctioneer’s banter during a hot sale.

“…We’ve booked four private parties so far, all between now and New Year’s. He could work them. Shit, he’d clean up and so would we. Think of how much money we’d have coming in for only three real working days a week.”

She shook her head again. “I don’t think so.”

Two deep frown lines creased Galaxeé’s forehead and her lips thinned flatter than the straw Rio had chewed on. “Why not?”

“You know the sisters hosting these parties. They want chocolate, not vanilla.”

She stared at Sullivan as he moved across the stage. He halted, struck a sexy pose. Every lean muscle rippled.

Jesus.

He unzipped his pants, stroked the length of his…Rio sucked in a tank full of air, held it.

Slowly, sensuously, the denim slid down narrow hips, displaying powerful thighs and strong calves. When he kicked the garments aside, Sullivan straightened to his full height—a towering statue of regal flair fit for any queen’s fantasy.

Breathing again, Rio lowered her gaze.

Good night!

Brazilian G-string. Miniature. Bulging flame-red against bronzed skin. Unblinking as he gyrated, she wasn’t sure the fabric would hold together or hold all it carried inside the thin material. Barely enough to cover…She drew in the next breath between her teeth and sat straighter on the stool.

“Ooh, gir-irl,” Galaxeé breathed, fanning her face twice as fast as the music’s rhythm. “He’s exactly what you need.”

Air flowed from Rio’s lungs in a long, unsteady rush. “You mean us. Killer Bods.”

“I mean you,” her partner qualified. “You need a good fucking by a young buck just like him to fry your brains senseless. You’ve been going without way too long.”

“Shut up.”

Water and ice spilled over her hand as she set the glass down, splashing on the wooden bar top. An instant later, Luanne the bartender wiped away the puddle and handed Rio a fresh white towel.

“You do. That’s why you’ve been so evil.” Smoothing her hand down the length of her auburn dreadlocks, threaded beads clicked together. Galaxeé flicked the thick mass over her shoulder, still staring at Sullivan, mesmerized.

Rio tsked. The nerve of this woman. She folded the towel neatly into quarters and laid it across the curved bar. Yeah, maybe she had been evil, but she’d never shown bad manners to anyone other than her best friend and, of course, her ex-husband Devon, the midlife-crisis hound.

Arching one eyebrow a fraction, Galaxeé said, “You’re getting another pimple, too, right there in the center of your forehead. At your age, any fuckable age, lack of weenie action always launches a round of zits.”

“Shut up. Where do you come up with this mess?” She stole another glance at Sullivan. This man wasn’t lacking anything from what she could tell.

Galaxeé leaned back, dangling her arms behind the chair, cackling. “It’s true, especially after wrestling the monthly blues. I used to get them.” She’d hooked up with a new honey, an older man who, after four months, still lavished her with expensive gifts, bombarding her with boyish love. “Besides, I can tell you really like the way this guy looks, the way he moves. Your aura’s melting, on the verge of disintegrating. And it’s the first time I’ve seen your eyes glaze over in almost two decades.”

Aura. And glaze? She tsked again. Sometimes Galaxeé talked too much smack. No one caused Rio Saunders to glaze over, especially youngsters. “Bar lights, disco lights—”

“Bullshit. Admit it. He’s hot.”

He was hot—is hot—and far too young for her. Plus, he was nowhere near right for her. “Why do you think he came here for a job? Why not apply at Silk’s?”

Smoothly Silk, Killer’s sole competition, employed two African American dancers Rio and Galaxeé had disqualified from their league of performers a month before their own club opened. The guys were physically unsuitable for near-naked entertainment.

“Maybe he did,” Galaxeé replied as the music died away. “We need to interview him anyway. Ask him.”

Bryce collected his clothes and went backstage. After stripping out of the G-string, he struggled into a pair of tight stonewashed jeans. Luckily, his navy knit pullover soaked up sweat. It was freezing outside.

Snow—big flakes—had begun to fall by the time he’d arrived here. Winter had settled on Denver on Halloween night as usual, and continued a blustery rampage.

This was the stupidest plan on record. Galaxeé and whoever the hell this Rio broad is will never hire me. Should’ve come up with a better scheme and left Dallas out of the mix. If he ever finds out, our friendship is history.

His half sister, Angelina Berardi, owned Killer’s competition and Bryce was her silent partner. Silk’s was headed straight to hell as long as Killer Bods kept its doors open.

The club’s downward spiral had stretched his cash thinner than ice after a first hard freeze, compounded by Thorobred Computers lacking a new contract over the last seven months. Banking on a few still in the till, he hadn’t exactly wanted to strip to please a bunch of frenzied chicks. But, he also had a second working program: boxing in Jason Simmons, one of Killer’s dancers, who needed somebody to knock the arrogant chip off his shoulders. Simmons dated Angelina—as in, walked all over her.

Armed with a fail-safe plot backed by his computer expertise, Bryce had pretended he’d met Rio Saunders. Dallas had fallen for the in-lust ruse.

“If you want her,” Coop had said, “you got to get close to her. I’ll tell you what, my man. She is not easy meat. The woman’s got soul and determination, along with much class. This club means everything to her. Everything, dude. Nothing and nobody gets in her way when it comes to Killer Bods. As for Galaxeé Barnett, don’t try to get slick—nothing gets by her. Some of the guys nicknamed her ‘Loose Lips’ for good reason, and she knows everything that goes on, somehow. But the owners are professionals, all business.”

At the time, Bryce needed Dallas’s foot-in-the-door help. “She must have an old man or sugar daddy.” Not many chicks had their own business without financial help—like Angelina.

“Not. Unless she’s got him under lock and key, hogtied and gagged. She dates. Saw her with a couple older dudes, fifty-ish maybe. I’ve never seen her with a youngster like you, and never any guy tinted on the color scale’s lighter side, especially one with hair longer than Cher’s. I’ll get you an application, drop a heads-up, but you gotta lose those damned Coke-bottle glasses. Makes your eyes look bigger than E.T.’s peepers. Might want to think about waxing, too.” Laughing, Dallas said, “Hurts like hell.”

Testily conforming, Bryce permitted a beautician to chop off his locks to near-respectable length. Lasik surgery corrected the crappy vision he’d had since childhood. Horn-rimmed glasses had been a pain in his…on the bridge of his nose. Fuck waxing.

The new look had earned him lots more attention when he had little time for play. Work kept him busy, kept his libido in check most of the time.

He tucked the pullover inside his jeans, slung his black leather jacket over his shoulder and went out the dressing room’s door. Unfamiliar with Killer’s layout, he strode back across the stage and down the stairs, his gaze directed at the floor. Through a collection of tables stacked with hardwood chairs, he wove his way to the bar where Killer’s owners sat. Dancing was the easy part.

“Very nice.”

He recognized Galaxeé’s business tone from the call for tryouts.

“Exceptionally provocative.”

That sultry voice, chilly as a winter pond, floated through his senses, heating his skin unnaturally. Bryce looked up. The partner?

Exotic features fit her—coppery skin coloring, short-cropped platinum-blond hair lengthening to a shag that framed an oval face. Penetrating catlike hazel eyes held his gaze. When was the last time his heart stuttered and pounded like a damn kettledrum? He wiped away the cool trickle of sweat from his forehead.

“Thanks.”

“Better than nice.” Galaxeé tipped her martini glass toward him. “Sheer perfection.”

Encouraged, Bryce nodded, smiled. One point for his side.

“This is my partner Rio Saunders.”

“Tell us something,” she said. “Why aren’t you dancing at Silk’s?”

Busted. Ears on fire, his face surely flushed five different shades of crimson. “They aren’t hiring.” God, he hoped not. He’d forgotten to ask his sister. “And Killer Bods is better known, hiring the best of the best.”

“Bravo. Smart reply for someone so young.”

At least she flashed a brilliant smile. More encouragement, except that degrading “young” crap declared like a long-lost aunt.

Scooting up on her barstool, Galaxeé said, “Grab a seat. Would you care for a cocktail while we discuss business?” The offer earned a flat-out frown from her partner.

Bryce declined anyway, needing to get back to the office clearheaded. Building and selling desktop computers killed off brain cells the same as man’s favorite poison, not to mention the headaches software development induced. If he nailed this gig at Killer’s, his work schedule would turn crazier than it already was. After laying his eyes on luscious Rio Saunders, he thought dancing here might be well worth a pounding migraine.

“How long have you been shaking?” the woman of his super-erotic dreams asked.

He dragged a stool across the floor, placed it directly in front of her and said, “Years, but not professionally.”

Truthfully, dancing ran a close second to skiing, third to computer work. Dallas had worked with him, claiming he had no rhythm or soul. Lacked funk. He’d laid down the law of the club.

Jam well, if he wanted to get next to Rio. Seductive moves earned the right to get close to her. Above all, he’d better know where to start.

Bryce knew exactly where to begin.

Even now, he imagined her skin felt soft as cotton. Nothing could be finer, except the blond hair framing her face. Would the tuft of hair between her legs feel as silky? He intended to find out one day. Slide his hand up her thigh, part her soft flesh, teasing her relentlessly.

“You do very well for a…a baby,” she said.

He raked his fingers through his hair, his sensuous thoughts frozen in one brutal second. “I’m pushing twenty-nine. I’m not a damn newborn.”

“Ooh, with a temper.”

Bryce yanked his head around at Galaxeé’s gum-popping explosion.

“Sorry,” she said, but the disapproving sideways glare she gave her partner meant otherwise.

She’d sided with him. Add another point for the one-man team.

Sliding down on the stool, he spread his legs wider, nearly made contact with Rio, but she twisted in her seat, crossing a pair of lengthy, stunning limbs. “Am I at least in the running?”

“You most—” Galaxeé began.

“We like to discuss each applicant before we make a final decision,” Rio interrupted, which earned another narrow-eyed glare from Galaxeé. She patted the stack of applications. “Everything on your résumé is current? Phone numbers, addresses, etcetera?”

Eyes locked on hers, he nodded. “Email, too.” When she didn’t deny having Internet access, he mentally ticked off an important item on his agenda.

“Well, Mr. Sullivan.” She stuck her hand out. “We’ll be in touch one way or the other.”

What? The interview was over too damn quick—completely illogical. He’d interviewed potential technician applicants, at minimum, for an hour. And this was what, three minutes? Four? Two-hundred-forty stinking, chitchat seconds? How could she learn anything about him in so little time? Granted, he had abbreviated his account of the duties at his day job for good reason, but hell.

Bryce leaned forward and clasped her delicate hand. Long and slender, nails well manicured, her fingers curled around his with softness enough to caress a man into delirium while she kept him under the spell of her eyes—eyes he could drown in. He really wanted to drown.

He held on longer than he should have, but for a shorter time than he would’ve liked, without resistance, until Galaxeé cleared her throat.

“Thank you for your time,” he said.

When their palms slid slowly apart, Bryce got to his feet. Galaxeé added a sly wink to her handshake. He slung his jacket over his shoulder and started toward the front door, telling himself not to look back, not to appear too eager or too arrogant. Step two now completed.

A blast of bitter-cold air and snow flurries whirlwinded into the club before the heavy door slammed shut.

“He likes you,” Galaxeé said. “And he’s got a penetrating pair of gray bullets that were fixed on you every second. When he arrived here, I was concerned, ready to boot the boy out. His aura was dark, murky. It glows now. Maybe it was fear, trepidation.”

Rio rolled her eyes.

“Did you notice how he opened for you?”

“Stop,” she said flatly.

“He did! An open invitation only for you. He’s well hung too. Majestically.” She grinned, winked. “You couldn’t hide your attraction either. Your tits swelled.”

“Stop it, Galaxeé.” She had to admit, her lacy bra still felt uncomfortably binding.

“I saw your nipples perk up under the silk. Bet Bryce saw them. Stood out like cat’s-eye marbles. Bet it made your tattoo spread with bigger, pink ears.”

Rio hated the sound of a cackling witch, but she agreed with Galaxeé on one item. Bryce Sullivan was very well endowed.

She’d felt the first signs of pleasurable interest: nipples tightening, quivering between her legs when she’d glanced down at the bulging thickness nestled inside tight jeans. Lots of inches. Lord. What would it look like during an erection, a big oak tree? She shuddered.

Why couldn’t he have a tenor or sissy voice instead of an I-can-make-you-come-multiple-times bass? God, she loved hearing a seductive, low-pitched rumbler, whispering, promising a thoroughly carnal interlude. A tenor would’ve made it so much easier to forget Sullivan and file his application at the back of the folder. Or in the circular file.

Still, at her age, any twenty-eight-year-old was too young, too inexperienced; she would consider it robbing the cradle.

Uh-uh. No way.

Anger crept under her skin for thinking of the sinful images, if a liaison ever happened. It never would, not in this lifetime. She had more important issues on her mind, like Killer Bods and her future. Denver’s metro area had plenty of room for another women’s club to strip Killer’s of its dancers and clientele.

“I bet he’s got a hundred young chickies chasing after him. Besides, I don’t like men who flaunt their meat and put it on display like a hot item on a smorgasbord. Especially rookies.” Temper had crept into her tone.

“He can’t help it. It’s part of him. What do you want him to do, cut it off? Is that why you like Dallas—Dickless?” Galaxeé laughed hard, mouth wide open, head falling back.

“You drink too much,” Rio said. She meant it to sound snappish and snatched up the applications. “I’ll make copies for you. When you’re sober we’ll discuss them.”

Rio stomped toward their office above the club. Four-inch stilettos clicked noisily on the wooden stairs as she planted each foot, climbing each riser. She might hide her innermost feelings, but they never slipped by Galaxeé. The woman had an impossible perception, able to see through her, see inside her brain, read her thoughts. Ever since childhood, darn her.

Galaxeé had the nerve to call herself a fortune-teller and worked as one for a year, back in the good old days. She’d changed her first name from Cecilia for that reason alone and legally processed the paperwork. Astrology, palm readings and dreams were her best games. She’d said it was all in the hands and mind.

Two weeks ago, Rio had had a nightmare involving snakes. She should’ve known better than to tell her partner, who explained any visions about snakes meant a good “fucking” encounter and, if the dream included an anaconda, a big cock.

Rio chastised her for using foul language and laughed off the prediction, even when the dream featured one very large, very stout serpent chasing after her. She’d awakened startled, drenched in a sweat when it wrapped around her body.

Yeah, so she was afraid of too much meat. Too much meant pain and no enjoyment. Good old Devon had cured her.

But she was also aware of how her body had responded seeing Sullivan leisurely sprawled out like a sultan deciding on his daily choice from an ever-ready harem, displaying every thick, tempting inch of his staggering…Her mouth had watered and something else had shimmered from within. Something maddeningly metaphysical swept through her on one long wave from pinky toes to the roots of her hair, like the hot flashes she’d begun having recently. A sudden fire searing her flesh.

Even now, heat flooded her insides as she recognized the tingling of erotic sensations. Excitement coursed through her body, though Bryce Sullivan had already left the club with his fine self.

He did it on purpose, damn him. Just like a man. Baby! He’s a baby!

She slammed the office door. These thoughts were absurd. Why hadn’t she listened to Galaxeé and bought a vibrator for all the cold, lonely nights she spent without companionship in her downtown loft, for any time when horniness riled her libido and fantasies ruled her dreams?

“There’re always the personal digits,” Galaxeé had hinted.

“Forget that. If I ever decide to have sex again, I want the real thing, not fingers, not toys.” She had avoided adult stores for good reason, still unable to defy her staid upbringing with too much change at once. Hopefully, one day she’d have another chance at a sexual encounter before she was too darned old to enjoy it.

By the time she finished work today, all of these flaming thoughts should melt the frost on the skylight, break the glass and fly away. They’d better fly somewhere. She had no insane reason to entertain them or Mr. Too-Young, Mr. Too-Hot Sullivan.