Читать книгу Strip - Delta Dupree - Страница 7

They discussed each applicant, but every time they ran through the list, one man surpassed all others in every way.

“Guess that settles it,” Galaxeé said. She searched through her purse, found her cell phone. “I’ll give him a call.”

“Hold your horses,” Rio ordered. “Richard Monroe isn’t a bad choice. He’s cute, he dances well and he’s black.”

“Shit, he’s also rangy. Women want to see muscle on our dancers. They want to fantasize about them as good lovers, not about crushing chicken bones or believing they’d squish him flatter than a damn pancake.”

“Okay, fine. David Chambers.”

“He’s gay, remember? A waste, but gay. He wears a Mickey Mouse watch and wiggles like Minnie. Totally uncool.”

Chambers was the best-looking dancer in the remaining group, a fine-looking African American who sported a decent body, but wasted manliness all the same when he paraded his feminine side. He’d risk having his delicate feelings injured if the crowd booed him offstage. And that would even hurt Rio’s feelings because Chambers was quietly sensitive.

“Quit trying to eliminate Bryce. He’s perfect in every way. Our clientele will love him.”

“We might lose clients over this.”

“Bet?” Galaxeé snapped one hand to her hip. “Buck says you lose. Put your money where your mouth is.” They never wagered more than a dollar.

Rio scratched at an imaginary itch near the corner of her mouth. Why was this niggling sensation tickling her skin, now of all times? Sullivan surpassed good. He had talent. Everything about him was steeped in excellence—like a high-quality Bordeaux worth hanging on to, saving the best for last.

“All right. You call. See if he can start tomorrow night. Call Dallas, too. Let him know his partner in crime will split dance routines.”

“He won’t be happy, but his bitchy little girlfriend will jump for joy.”

“Forget her. Shannon is just a silly, jealous heifer.”

Rising from her chair, Galaxeé said, “Actually, I think I saw her mug plastered on a telephone-pole poster that read: Lost dog. Breed: Slut.”

Rio closed her eyes at the poster’s image forming in her mind, her shoulders rocking.

“Answers to ‘Tramp.’ Last seen: In bed with any willing mongrel.”

Rio burst out laughing. “Stop.”

“Shannon ought to be happy Dallas made money here. Good money.”

The dancers earned more in tips than salary. Shannon hated seeing her man touched by other women, although Miss Fields had no qualms about caressing any other dancer. She worked her hands better than two washcloths when performers left the stage to give customers a closer look and better feel. Tips came in the form of G-string insertion. Every dancer accepted the codeand women paid to do the honors.

“What about the bet? Chic-ken?” Galaxeé asked. Flapping her arms, she squawked.

“The devil with you.” Rio laughed again. She swung her soft leather stool around, picked up her favorite gold pen, scribbled her signature on a service document and shoved it into the out-basket with an attached check.

When a loud gum pop filled the room, she murmured, “The bet is off.” And she flinched at the next explosion.

“He’d make a good birthday present for you this year. You could thank him for giving.”

Every year for the last thirty-five, they’d exchanged gifts on birthdays and Christmas. This year, they had included Killer Bods’ sixth-month anniversary.

She spun around again. “Giving what?”

“You a good fucking.” Galaxeé imitated a hyena’s laughter better than the natural-born creatures.

Rio didn’t crack a smile. “Girl, you need to tame your tongue.”

“Why? Randy likes me to talk dirty without cussing.”

“I’m not Randy. And you cussed.”

“Well, it makes him horny. Makes me horny making him horny.” Biting her lip, she looked down at her diamond-faced wristwatch. “I’m taking an hour. Got to find my old man. For some reason, I feel a juicy climax coming on. And Randy—”

“Too much information,” Rio admonished. The woman was as horny as a bitch in heat and open as a busted fire hydrant. “Criminy.”

“Sorry. Forgot you’ve been doing without.” The cheesy grin on her face said it all. “Be back shortly. I’ll tell you all about it later.”

Rio tsked, tossing the pen onto the secondhand drafting table she used for a desk. She needed earplugs.

No, what she needed was a good man to hold her, a gentle companion to ease the aching deep inside her body, a special guy who looked for the same contentment as she—simple companionship.

Fantasy.

All the decent men in this world were married, dead or gay and most of them were far from Thoroughbred stallions. She held up one hand. Were there even five decent ones in the vicinity?

Doubtful. She went back to her daily duties.

An hour and a half later, Galaxeé hung her new red fox-fur jacket on the coat rack. She flopped down on her desk chair. “I called Bryce.”

“And?” Rio asked.

“The man is excited, but he tried to conceal it. Vibes, you see. He’s got a powerful energy that travels through the phone lines, even in this raggedy weather.” She crossed her legs, tapped the toe of her high-heeled, tan-colored boot against the metal file cabinet. “It’s gotten cold, perfect for your birthday.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” She kept her gaze glued to the document she held, bracing for Galaxeé’s unveiling. Lord. What in the world was filtering through her mind at this particular moment?

“It does fall on Thanksgiving this year. Got any plans? Randy and I decided to go to an island and soak up some heat. Fiji, Caymans, maybe some place called the Seychelles that he wants us to visit. I still have a bunch of air miles to burn. You’re welcome to—”

“And do what?” Rio glanced over her shoulder. “Fry in the sun while you and Randy engage in orgies? No, thank you very much.”

“You can’t sit around by yourself on your birthday. That’s illegal.”

“In whose eyes?”

Fat grins always grew wider. “Mine, Venus’ and God’s. Remember, I worked up your chart. Turmoil in your future calls for companionship.”

Rio snorted inelegantly. This woman always came up with the most absurd revelations. “Nothing can happen if I’m completely alone at the cabin. No turmoil, no havoc.”

She’d purchased the remote bungalow for when she needed time away to tame the funky emotions invading her well-being. Hormones, she’d told herself. The way she’d been feeling lately, an extended leave of absence had moved high on her list. Alone, secluded, a good distance away from Denver’s fast pace.

“What if a bear breaks in? You won’t have anybody to protect you.”

“I don’t need protection, and no one’s spotted a bear up there in years. Besides, bears hibernate during winter. I don’t plan to be outside, either, romping around like a snow bunny in my new snowsuit. It’s too cute to get wet. I don’t ski, sled, or build snowmen. If a blizzard socks me in, bring it on. I’ll have a couple books to read, a roaring fire, soulful music and plenty of food. Best of all, excellent wine.”

A robust French Bordeaux and any top-of-the-line cabernet were favored. At the loft, the petite wine cooler was filled to near capacity for intimate gatherings. Those, however, were house parties with friends.

Lifting one eyebrow, Rio asked, “What else could I possibly need?”

“A man—a big, hot body to absorb the chill from your frigid heart.”

That statement dragged out another snort. So maybe she had chilled, but she had good reason. An unfaithful husband normally changed the temperature of a woman’s heater. It had hers. “The fireplace, thermostat, and blankets provide heat.”

Galaxeé glared, her eyes thin slits. “I hate that tacky-assed snorting sound you make.”

Another explosion sent shivers racing through Rio’s body. “I hate your gum popping, but my complaints never have stopped you from detonating a bomb.” They argued daily.

Planting both feet on the floor, Galaxeé said, “Listen to you—evil, bitchy. No wonder you don’t have a honey.” She crossed her arms under the pair of 750-milliliter implants she’d purchased last year, against Rio’s motherly objections and outright horror, and clamped one leg over the other, swung it like a hypnotic pendulum. “You do need a good dick, just to—”

“E-O-D, Barnett. End of discussion.” Good lord. “I’ve got a ton of bills and payroll.”

“Don’t change the subject.”

“I already did, and you and Luanne have an inventory to complete.” She swiveled her stool around, opened the metal file cabinet’s top drawer and picked through file folders.

“Guess I’ll have to work out…”

Rio closed her ears to whatever Galaxeé finished saying. What next, tarot cards? Not again, but she hoped her best friend hadn’t gotten into séances, crystal balls and Aladdin’s lamp.

Abracadabra, she thought, as her partner left the office, boot heels clicking noisily down the stairs.

There was plenty of work to do before the club opened its doors for tonight’s show. She looked up at the octagonal wall clock, a gift from Galaxeé’s mother the day they signed their life away on Killer Bods. Mama Barnett had always said, “Time is short. Don’t waste it away.”

Fours hours until showtime.

The phone rang. Sighing, Rio secured the receiver between her shoulder and ear and grabbed her favorite pen. Another holiday party reservation would be great. “Killer Bods.”

“Hey, it’s Phillip.” His voice sounded scratchy, sickly. “Can’t make it tonight. Bad cold. Flu.”

’Tis the season. “Don’t worry about it, sweetie, just stay in and take care of yourself. We’ll manage. Need anything?” She took good care of the dancers, considered them all close as family members. When they suffered from outside forces, she worried as much about the boys as the mothers who had sheltered them for nine months.

“Jewel’s here.” His latest conquest was a shy woman, so different from the wild young lady he’d dated three months ago. “She’ll make sure I stay alive. Thanks for the offer.”

“Call if you need me.” Rio hung up. “Well, shoot.”

She chewed on her bottom lip, knowing she should call Bryce Sullivan and ask him to work tonight if possible. With Saturdays typically designated as date night, Fridays drew a big crowd. And after the performance she had seen today, he was no doubt ready.

She dialed the bar’s extension. Galaxeé answered.

“Got a problem. Phillip’s home sick and can’t make it.”

“Call Bryce.”

“You call him.”

“I’m busy, Rio.”

“So am I.” She shuffled a few papers together and rapped them on the desk for emphasis.

“You took the time to call me when you should’ve contacted him. You’re the one bitching about the inventory.”

“Galaxeé—” A loud click ended the call. “The nerve of that woman.”

She didn’t have far to look for his phone number. Sullivan’s résumé was sitting in the center of her drafting table. On top of the pile. Gathering much-needed strength, she dragged in a deep, fortifying breath and punched in his work number. She really didn’t want to talk to him, didn’t want to hear the rumbler.

“Thank you for calling Thorobred Computers. How may I help you?”

So, what kind of work does a muscle-bound, gray-eyed stud do at a computer company requiring him to moonlight? Data entry? Plugging boards? Screwing parts? Working every available woman with that enormous screwdriver hanging between…

She gave her name and asked to speak with him.

“He’s currently in a meeting. Could I have Mr. Sullivan call you back or would you like to leave a message?” The woman sounded older, formal and middle-aged. The boss’s secretary?

Figuring the “exec sec” might add two and two and come up with a few too many, Rio left her private cell number.

All but one of their dancers worked a daytime job. No one had wanted their first-round boss to get wind of their second gig, secretly moonlighting at a playground catering to women. Rio and Galaxeé had been discreet over the months, honoring their employees’ wishes.

The male population had every right to enter Killer’s, but few took the risk. Invading female stomping grounds meant potential degradation if a sneak peeker refused to hop on stage to flaunt his wares during a frenzied evening. Women went stone rabid when the mood struck them.

As for Bryce Sullivan, they should eat him up. Bit by tasty bit.

Normally, she stayed in the office during the dance routines. Galaxeé ensured all went well, introducing each dancer, motivating the crowd.

Not tonight. I want to see the frenzy take place, if there is one.

Someone had to take Phillip’s shift, whether that person was black, white or covered in green polka dots.

“It’s filling up fast,” Galaxeé said.

“Are all the dancers in?” Rio asked.

From upstairs, she’d heard the chatter. Bryce Sullivan’s sexy bass laughter had filtered up the stairs when she’d peeked out of the office.

Earlier, she’d spent little time on the phone with him; she’d offered him the job and asked him to dance tonight, he accepted and she ended the conversation within thirty seconds.

“Yep. Bryce, too.” Galaxeé smoothed her slinky, wine-colored dress with both hands, showing a great deal of cleavage as always.

“You’ve got wrinkled ankles,” Rio said.

“Shit. I hate wearing these things. They never fit, and stockings cost a shitload of money.” Wiggling, she fought with the hosiery. “Are you coming out to watch the show to see what effect Bryce has on the crowd?”

“Hadn’t planned on it.”

“Liar.” Her partner knew her all too well. “What’re you wearing?”

“Exactly what I have on.” Spreading her arms, Rio looked down at herself. Today she’d dressed in a cream-colored silk blouse with navy jacket matching a knee-length skirt, business attire for interviewing applicants.

“Wear something sexy.”

“Why? This is just fine.”

“Too conservative for evening wear at a strip club. Dressed like an administrative officer, you make us look old and crusty.” Galaxeé fished through the hanging outfits they both kept at the club for special occasions.

“Here,” she said, dragging out a shimmering sheath designed for a sex machine. “Put this on and wear those strappy, fuck-me-silly kicks. Show some leg. You have good ones, unlike my toothpicks—the reason why these damn hose always bag. Flaunt them for the boys. They like seeing your Tina Turners and the chickies hate you for having them.”

She’d selected the titillating, red clinger. The tailor-made, backless, thin-strapped dress fit an expensive call girl. Rio had worn it once. That night she’d danced onstage with Dallas. The bump-grind-and-rub sent the crowd into a wild frenzy. Then, Miss Fields barked her way into his life.

“Not tonight. Nope.” Dallas’s mind was draped around someone else. Rio had nothing else but fantasies and unproductive dreams.

“Put the damn thing on and come on out. Take those stupid hose off, too. You don’t need them. Luanne’s holding our seats at the bar. Oh,” Galaxeé said halfheartedly, “and Frankie’s got her big behind propped up next to our chairs.”

Frankie Perino, a twenty-nine-year-old Italian beauty with sparkling brown eyes and lazy, blond curls tumbling over her shoulders, had become their friend four months ago. “Don’t use that tone. She’s a very nice person.”

“Was.”

“I understand your feelings, Galaxeé. If she’d known you and Randy were an item, she would’ve apologized then and there. Besides, look how much time she’s given us. She set up our computer, taught us the basics, designed a website that’s—”

“Incomplete.”

Rio sighed. “Some people have regular eight-to-five jobs. She puts in more hours than most. Remember, she’s not charging us.”

Frankie had offered to build their site. Jobless at the time, she seemed to be looking for a friendly face when she’d ventured inside Killer Bods. She enjoyed the show and struck up a conversation with Rio and Galaxeé. A regular now, Rio had added Frankie’s name to the short list of patrons who never paid the cover charge.

Galaxeé dismissed her with a wave of both hands. “Whatever. Get dressed.” She went out the door, slamming it shut behind her.

Well, why not? When had she jumped clean last? And if Dallas beckoned her onstage again, so be it. Let Shannon whine puppy-dog tears. Who owned this club?

Ya home wrecker.

Rio locked the door. She stripped out of her clothes and poured herself into the dress, sucking it in. She’d never get it zipped again if she gained one more pound of fat.

Dieting and exercise, she chanted. She’d had little time or inclination for either until recently, when she’d earned a waistline bulge and her clothes seemed to have taken on a sloppy appearance.

“Metabolism slowdown. We’ll need detailing,” Galaxeé had said. “We’re getting old and our bodies are going straight to hell, south for the final countdown.”

No way. Not yet.

“Except, my new boobies will always hang tough.”

“If they don’t burst beforehand.”

The ballet bar Rio used helped if she took the time to stretch and practice. Years ago, modern and jazz dancing freed her mind, energized her soul and kept her slim.

She’d splurged and cleared a generous area of the loft for workouts. So into maintaining her weight and staying trim, she charged a stair stepper and stationary bike to the only credit card she carried. The mat, bench and rack of dumbbells had helped a little, but she’d hired an in-home trainer to assist instead of frequenting a gym. It was worth every credit card dime and monthly fee. She hated perspiring in front of other people.

Rio smoothed the slinky dress down her hips, slid her feet into the pair of red shoes, which Galaxeé called “fuck-me-silly kicks,” and fastened the ankle straps. Mules were what Rio’s grandmother had called open-heeled shoes, but her devout-Christian mother begged to differ. She called them whore-steppers.

In private, Momma was a kick in the pants when her minister husband had spiritual duties. The Rev preached the good word and read the Bible daily. Sort of like cramming for finals, and it was final.

Sure miss Momma and Daddy.

They hadn’t stood a chance. Emotionally and spiritually bankrupt following her parents’ tragic car accident, Rio’s depression had sealed the end of her marriage to a husband who had cared little for her or her family.

Banishing the devastating thoughts to a dark corner of her psyche, she straightened her body from the slump that always managed to consume her when she thought of her parents. She still had a younger brother and good friends to lean on.

She twirled in front of the full-length mirror, stopped and checked her reflection over her shoulder. Biting her bottom lip, she bent forward to ensure the short-tail thing covered her butt. Barely enough fabric. Lord. She really needed to stop wearing clothes fit for a wealthy teenybopper. At twenty it was fine, thirty was pushing it, forty…she should’ve updated her evening wardrobe last year.

The telephone rang.

“They’re about to start,” Galaxeé announced.

“Who leads off? You didn’t put Bryce first, did you?”

“Nah. Got to incite the crowd. Jason’s first, Orlando’s second up, then comes our shining newbie and his boogieing self. Get your ass down here. We’re packed, and there’s a line outside.”

Rio set the receiver down. After one last twirl, she bent forward again to ensure her boobs stayed secure, her butt stayed covered.

Satisfied, she muttered, “Showtime.”

“How ya feel?” Dallas asked. “Ready?”

“Nervous as a freakin’ mouse with a pride of big cats on the prowl,” Bryce replied loudly. Killer’s DJ spun the latest tunes at maximum decibels.

“Chill out. Keep your mind on the music rather than the crowd. Show a little arrogance. You’ll do fine and rock.”

Bryce hoped to hell Dallas was right. Standing in the drafty hallway, he peeked through the curtain’s opening into the audience. He wanted to shit. A ton of women crawled all over the place, wall to wall. Tall ones, short ones, thick down to lean, superfine and quite a few…others. Dallas had said the latter group tipped the best if dancers gave what they wanted.

He didn’t recognize any woman other than Galaxeé, luckily. Sure as shit, if a worker at the company showed up, word would spread faster than a computer virus through the office.

Galaxeé had wandered backstage earlier, informed him of the dancers’ sequence, offered a few pointers, then wished him luck. She added an interesting request he had no problem fulfilling. In fact, he looked forward to it.

Where was Rio?

Then he saw her. Whoa. She was gliding down the stairs in filmy red, satin skin, and all the dick-enhancing visions of a sex-starved man. She lacked only a hazy fog billowing about her feet.

Fortunately, he hadn’t tucked his long black shirt inside his black trousers. The length concealed his sudden arousal. Beneath the slacks, a sparkling ebony G-string put a tight squeeze on him. Bryce shifted the confining garment to accommodate the swelling. He couldn’t step onstage iron hard.

He followed Rio’s movements as she greeted customers, flashing her brilliant smile, saying a few words. She eclipsed the group like an exquisite ruby among a display of costume jewelry.

Real. And everything she wore, no doubt, was real. Glittery earrings, a single-stone pendant nestled in a set of hooters worth wallowing in, even her dazzling bracelet—most likely diamonds—glistened as she reached for a wine goblet handed to her.

Bet some dumbshit dropped a few paychecks on her, probably one of the fifties guys. Some idiots can be so damned stupid. Be a cold day in hell before I give my money to any broad.

Bryce squinted, zeroed in when she sat next to Galaxeé and crossed her luscious legs. What did she have on beneath that short dress, anything? He noticed she’d gained other’s attention as well. One server damn near broke his neck trying to get an eyeful. The son of a bitch.

“See anything worthwhile?”

Bryce recognized the baritone from a phone conversation he’d had with his sister. Interrupter Jason Simmons, this man. They’d never met face-to-face. “Who’s the big dude serving the woman in blue sitting in the center?” He angled his head around, gave Simmons the once-over: same height, slightly leaner, arrogance written all over his brown face and in his slanted brown eyes.

“Cockroach.”

“Been here long?”

“Since we opened. Why? You want his job?”

No, I ought to bust his nose, just as I plan to bust yours. “Thought he looked familiar.”

Jason grunted. “Galaxeé’s onstage. I’m up, cowboy. Step aside. I’ll show you how things are done here.”

Deep-seated, unadulterated resentment punctuated Bryce’s snarl. Fucker. He shifted to his left, let Simmons pass, and sneaked a peek at Rio before the curtains closed.

He swung his gaze toward the dancer waiting behind the heavy, dark drapes, toward the same punk who had marked his sister’s face with a fist.