Dirty Secrets (Get Dirty 4)

Logan waits for my eyes to land on him, the permission to speak silently given.

“Sir, the evening has been as expected. House’s averaged eighty percent full, bar and waitresses running acceptable delivery times, and the second round of performances is well underway. Allie is in back, getting dressed, and she said she’d be ready for her stage time at midnight. Wilson is on the front door, Thomas on the private rooms, and Gavin and I are floating the crowd.”

He pauses, knowing I’ll double-check his report on the security monitor.

“Good. Anything else?”

Logan nods. “Pete came in early. Said to tell you that he knew your meeting wasn’t until later, but he wanted to enjoy the evening before, if that was okay. He’s ready whenever you are.”

I turn back to the window, eyes searching, and then I see him sitting alone at a corner table, his back to the wall ensuring him a full view of the main floor. Pete is one of my captains, a holdover from my dad’s days, though Pete was just a soldier then.

He’s in his early sixties now, well past his prime, but he can still admire the view, he says. He runs the crew on the South Side, making sure product moves smoothly, the violence stays at a minimum, and the streets are safe for families. When he retires in a few years, it’ll be tough to replace him.

“Very well. Send him a couple of fingers of Yamazaki in appreciation for his patience. Tell him I’ll see him at one as arranged.”

In the reflection of the glass, I see Logan dip his chin and leave, the door shutting softly behind him. Moments later, Sarah delivers a glass of the amber liquid to Pete. He holds it up aloft, toasting his thanks to the black windows he can see from his side, trusting that I’m watching.

But as the bass I know all too well begins, my eyes float to the stage.

At the press of a button, the speakers come to life, filling my office with the music. I sit in my desk chair, the black leather soft beneath me as I spin to watch the show.

She may be dancing for the fuckers down there on the floor, the ones laying twenties on the stage to tempt her into coming closer, but as her eyes glance up to the window where I’m sitting, I know who this show is really for.

She can’t see me, but she’s performing for me. There’s a connection between us. It might be unspoken, but it’s there, and in the months since I carried her away from the bloody shooting, it hasn’t lessened. Even though we haven’t acted on it . . . it’s there.

I watch as she moves her lithe body from the back of the stage to the front, making eyes at every man along the rail.

One man has a stack of green sitting in front of him, and though I can’t tell the denomination from here, it must be high-value because Allie chooses him as her mark. She drops down into a squat, her skirted ass resting on her heels and her knees spread wide.

I growl, knowing that even though her skirt hangs between her legs, the fucker is too damn close to her pussy. She runs a black fingertip along the jeweled strap of her tiny corset bra, leaning close as she pulls it out slightly.

The man takes the hint and slips a bill between her skin and the strap, thankfully for him, not touching her.

Watching her this way is somehow the sweetest torture, knowing that she enjoys being onstage and is getting what she needs, both personally and financially, but wanting to kill every asshole who so much as glances at her.

The demon on my shoulder reminds me that I like knowing that though they may watch, not a single one of them can lay a hand on her. No one ever does . . . because she’s mine. Whether she acknowledges it or not doesn’t change the fact that everyone else knows.

Allie slowly pulls her knees closed, waiting for the man to look up and meet her eyes. With a smile that could make an angel have lustful thoughts, she hair-flips around and drops to her hands and knees, her ass pressed back toward the rail. She glances over her shoulder, her eyes full of false heat, and pulls at her hip.

Forty dollars later, or hell, maybe it’s two hundred, she crawls away, making sure her hips swing right and left with every inch closer to the pole she gets.

She’s like a panther, all dark hair and honey skin in the warm light. She presses her shoulder to the pole, letting her head hang down, and with a kick, she’s suddenly in a handstand, her ankles wrapped around the brass so quickly it seems like she floated there.