Lyrics on the Wind (Lost Kings MC 17)

“Lemme see you do it,” I say.

She executes the moves in a slow, fluid motion, then stops to explain. “Step forward with your inside leg.” She pats her thigh. “Swing your outside leg in a wide circle around your body, hooking the back of your ankle onto the pole—”

“You lost me.”

Her mask of patience slips for a second.

Hey, no one told you to offer the drunk girl dancin’ lessons.

“Let me show you again.”

My eyes follow her movements—grip, grip, step, twirl. She does it a few more times but it still looks like a graceful blur of motion.

“Okay, you try.”

Grip, grip—

“No, grip lower.” Vanity repositions my bottom hand.

Step, jump, nothing.

My body doesn’t magically twirl around the pole.

I try a few more times and finally get my leg high enough.

“Good, good!” Erica encourages. “You’re so flexible. Took me forever to get my leg to bend like that.”

“Yoga, baby.” I slap the backs of my thighs a few times.

Vanity smirks at Erica. “Told ya.”

I try the spin again and end up sliding down the pole, dragging my feet on the floor.

“Slightly better,” Vanity says. “Here, move those hips a little when you come down.” She places her hands on me and shimmies from side to side, encouraging me to do the same.

The music seamlessly shifts as a new group of dancers takes the main stage. An Eighties rock song, Candy Jar, blasts through the speakers. Kinda cliché for a strip club, so not unexpected. I bust out some dance moves with the girls, tossing my hair around like a proper Eighties video queen.

“Nice, Shelby!” Erica laughs. “Try the spin again.”

Grip, grip, step, jump, spin. I almost get all the way around the pole, but my heel slips and I land painfully on my hands and knees.

“Ouch.” I giggle and dust off my hands, jumping up to try again.

“I think your jeans are causing you to slip when they make contact with the pole,” Vanity points out.

I may be slightly tipsy but there isn’t enough alcohol in the world to convince me to strip off my pants in a public place. An uneasy feeling settles in my gut. Maybe trying to spin my body around a pole with all the tequila sloshing through my tummy wasn’t the best idea.

“That’s enough of that, songbird,” a gruff voice says behind me. Strong arms wrap around my waist, lifting me into the air and off the stage.

“Stop! I’m gonna puke.”

“A little puke doesn’t scare me.” Jigsaw doesn’t break his stride. Customers barely blink as he carries me to our table, they’re so focused on the main stage.

At our booth, Jiggy gently stands me on the bench, leaving me with a bird’s-eye view of the whole club. “Where’d your boots go?” he asks.

I point to the stage.

“Don’t move,” he warns.

I almost topple over and lean one arm on the back of the booth.

When my vision stops swimming, I search the bar again. No sign of Logan. Where’d he go?

Jigsaw returns with a grim expression. He holds my boots up in front of my face. “Sit.”

I slide into the booth, landing on my rump.

He squats in front of me, shoving my pants leg up while working one sock onto my foot and slipping on my boot. He repeats the process with my other foot, then smooths my jeans into place.

From the corner of my eye, I catch an older man wearing a business suit taking a photo of us.

Oh, that’s not good.

“Jiggy,” I whisper urgently.

“You gonna be sick?” he asks, concern darkening his eyes.

“No…well maybe…but that guy over there is taking pictures.”

He whips around and zeroes in on the wanna-be photographer right away. Leaping into action, he lunges for the phone.

The man jumps out of his seat so fast, his chair clatters to the ground. Instead of running toward the safety of the front door, he tries to dodge Jigsaw and run deeper into the club.

Jiggy sticks his arm out, clotheslining the guy right in the neck. Boom. The man hits the floor with a splat.

Two bouncers who’d been manning the front door come running. Before they reach the guy, Jigsaw grabs his phone, flicking his fingers over the screen, hopefully deleting the photos.

The man struggles as the bouncers drag him away.

“That was close,” Trinity says. “Are you okay?”

“I think so.”

ROOSTER

Digger waves his hand over his shoulder. “Follow me back to my office so we can talk about this without all the noise.” He follows my line of sight. “She’ll be fine. The girls will take care of her.”

I nod as if I’m not worried but as soon as he turns around, I pull out my phone and send Jiggy another text.

Me: Eyes on Shelby. Now.

We’re already in the hallway leading to Digger’s office when Jiggy responds with a thumb’s up emoji.

Wrath’s out there. He won’t let anything happen to Shelby. But I also know if anything goes down, Trinity will be his first priority.