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Authors: Karin Tabke
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are you doing?”
Phil smiled and moved into his space. “When undercover, do as those around you do.”
“I didn’t mean it literally.”
“Of course you did, Mr. Masters. How else am I supposed to set myself up for a kidnapping if I’m not performing? Fetching drinks won’t bring attention my way.”
“That doesn’t mean you have to strip.”
She nodded, considering his angry tone. In his burning eyes she didn’t see a lieutenant’s concern for one of his own; no, she saw something more powerful. Jealousy. And that stirred something sleeping deep within her. She suddenly felt like she was walking on very thin ice, ice that with one false move would crack wide open, plunging her into a black icy hole of pain and regret.
“It’s not like I’m getting onstage. A private lap dance or two won’t hurt.”
“I don’t like it.”
“Too bad. Besides, the guys can’t touch me, right?”
He nodded.
“Then there you go. With one of your goons in the shadows, I’ll be safe.”
Ty stood silent, his arms crossed over his chest, the hard line of his jaw the only clue to his anger.
What the hell did she just insist on doing? And why? Phil inhaled a deep breath and slowly exhaled. Well, there it was, out in the open. She’d just committed to performing a lap dance. Her stomach twittered nervously. Charging in and taking no names had become status quo around her lieutenant. And for someone who prided herself on painstakingly mapping out a strategy, she really needed to work on her knee-jerk reaction to her handsome boss.
CHAPTER SEVEN
T y stood rooted to the asphalt parking lot and watched Phil drive out of the lot in her safe, practical, and most uninspiring Taurus. The complete opposite of the woman who drove it.
He had a problem, one he’d never encountered in his life. He was torn. Jesus, he felt like he’d been gut punched.
The red brake lights of Phil’s car flashed as she came to a STOP sign, then disappeared into the darkness of the early morning hour.
Ty’s fists clenched at his sides. When she’d exposed her body parts in the bar, his gut seized. He thought she was different.
A woman who had some class and self-respect. His mother’s sunken, sallow face flashed before him. He turned back to the club and cursed out loud. His mother had raised him in the back of every strip joint from Chicago to San Francisco.
Hell, she couldn’t tell Ty who his father was. Some nameless, faceless john. To this day he didn’t know why she chose to give birth to him instead of having an abortion. Why, he wondered, had she kept him when she so easily aborted others? It was after the third one, the self-induced one in the flytrap apartment in Oakland, when he split the first time. He couldn’t watch her kill herself any longer. Her body had long ago lost its luster of youth and she’d reduced her life to blow jobs on the side to feed her heroin habit. Guilt sent him back. He was all she had in the world. That and her heroin addiction. He should have gotten a clue when she didn’t notice he’d been gone for two weeks. When he refused to pimp for her, and she called him an ungrateful bastard, he knew unless she cleaned up, she wouldn’t last another six months. After repeated threats to call the cops, he got her to agree to rehab. She promised him she’d try—instead two days later he found her dead in her room with a needle stuck in her arm.
“Yo, Boss Man!” Bud called from the open front door.
Ty shook the black memories from his head and headed back into the club.
“What’s up, Bud?’
“Not sure. I found this crumpled up on the bar. It wasn’t there when we closed.”
He handed Ty a Klub Kashmir napkin. Scrawled neatly in black pen were two words, Get Pussy . Ty shrugged. Pussy abounded in the club.
“Who came by the bar after we closed down?”
Bud scratched the stubble on his chin. “No one out of the ordinary. The new girl, Kat, you, and Milo.”
Mile High Milo, Ty called the
Phil smiled and moved into his space. “When undercover, do as those around you do.”
“I didn’t mean it literally.”
“Of course you did, Mr. Masters. How else am I supposed to set myself up for a kidnapping if I’m not performing? Fetching drinks won’t bring attention my way.”
“That doesn’t mean you have to strip.”
She nodded, considering his angry tone. In his burning eyes she didn’t see a lieutenant’s concern for one of his own; no, she saw something more powerful. Jealousy. And that stirred something sleeping deep within her. She suddenly felt like she was walking on very thin ice, ice that with one false move would crack wide open, plunging her into a black icy hole of pain and regret.
“It’s not like I’m getting onstage. A private lap dance or two won’t hurt.”
“I don’t like it.”
“Too bad. Besides, the guys can’t touch me, right?”
He nodded.
“Then there you go. With one of your goons in the shadows, I’ll be safe.”
Ty stood silent, his arms crossed over his chest, the hard line of his jaw the only clue to his anger.
What the hell did she just insist on doing? And why? Phil inhaled a deep breath and slowly exhaled. Well, there it was, out in the open. She’d just committed to performing a lap dance. Her stomach twittered nervously. Charging in and taking no names had become status quo around her lieutenant. And for someone who prided herself on painstakingly mapping out a strategy, she really needed to work on her knee-jerk reaction to her handsome boss.
CHAPTER SEVEN
T y stood rooted to the asphalt parking lot and watched Phil drive out of the lot in her safe, practical, and most uninspiring Taurus. The complete opposite of the woman who drove it.
He had a problem, one he’d never encountered in his life. He was torn. Jesus, he felt like he’d been gut punched.
The red brake lights of Phil’s car flashed as she came to a STOP sign, then disappeared into the darkness of the early morning hour.
Ty’s fists clenched at his sides. When she’d exposed her body parts in the bar, his gut seized. He thought she was different.
A woman who had some class and self-respect. His mother’s sunken, sallow face flashed before him. He turned back to the club and cursed out loud. His mother had raised him in the back of every strip joint from Chicago to San Francisco.
Hell, she couldn’t tell Ty who his father was. Some nameless, faceless john. To this day he didn’t know why she chose to give birth to him instead of having an abortion. Why, he wondered, had she kept him when she so easily aborted others? It was after the third one, the self-induced one in the flytrap apartment in Oakland, when he split the first time. He couldn’t watch her kill herself any longer. Her body had long ago lost its luster of youth and she’d reduced her life to blow jobs on the side to feed her heroin habit. Guilt sent him back. He was all she had in the world. That and her heroin addiction. He should have gotten a clue when she didn’t notice he’d been gone for two weeks. When he refused to pimp for her, and she called him an ungrateful bastard, he knew unless she cleaned up, she wouldn’t last another six months. After repeated threats to call the cops, he got her to agree to rehab. She promised him she’d try—instead two days later he found her dead in her room with a needle stuck in her arm.
“Yo, Boss Man!” Bud called from the open front door.
Ty shook the black memories from his head and headed back into the club.
“What’s up, Bud?’
“Not sure. I found this crumpled up on the bar. It wasn’t there when we closed.”
He handed Ty a Klub Kashmir napkin. Scrawled neatly in black pen were two words, Get Pussy . Ty shrugged. Pussy abounded in the club.
“Who came by the bar after we closed down?”
Bud scratched the stubble on his chin. “No one out of the ordinary. The new girl, Kat, you, and Milo.”
Mile High Milo, Ty called the
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