Wicked Games (McCade Brothers 1.50)
“Sounds like the costumes are a hit, girls.” The reporter winked at the camera. “Is this your first time at Deuces?”
Stacy forced her smile a little wider. Show no fear. “God, no! Coming to the club is like visiting family. Deuces gave me my start in Hollywood. I danced here for two years.” She let that statement hang for a beat and then waved, turned, and strutted to the main entrance, where a big bouncer held court over a long line of costumed hopefuls waiting to get into the party. He held the velvet rope aside to allow her and Kylie to enter. Behind them on the sidewalk, all hell broke loose. Questions flew from the cadre of reporters, cameras clicked and flashed. Stacy tossed her hair, aimed one last smile at the media, and walked into Deuces.
Inside the darkened club, thumping dance music and throngs of young, scantily clad bodies greeted them. Spinning black lights over the packed dance floor washed the entire scene with the eerie purple tint of an erotic dream. The overall chaos made it hard to see, hard to hear, and, best of all as far as Stacy was concerned, hard to think. Yes, tonight was exactly what she needed.
“That went well,” Kylie said over the deafening beat of the music, “I just hope you know what you’re doing.”
“Always.” The bar was calling her name. Time to heed that call, because she felt good for the first time in weeks—relaxed, confident, and completely in her element—and aimed to stay that way. She needed to stay that way, if only for one night.
The muscular, slick-haired bartender did a double-take as soon as he saw them, and then stretched his lips into the smarmy grin he’d once told Stacy made him a dead ringer for Ryan Reynolds. In reality, it made him a dead ringer for Ted Bundy. Gary Swinton could be counted on for a lewd comment, and an indecent proposal, but he also poured a stiff one, so she returned his grin.
“Hey, Stacy. Kylie. I didn’t expect to see you ladies here tonight. Just had to come back for a chance to get it on with The Swinton, huh? Don’t worry. I’ve got plenty for both of you.”
In your dreams, she thought, but sadly, the retort was probably entirely too accurate. “With smooth lines like that, how can we say no? We just need a couple thousand martinis first and then we’ll be good to go. Let’s start with two.”
Gary winked at her chest. “Two martinis, coming up.”
Kylie gave her a conspiratorial shoulder bump. “It must be good to know some people will never treat you differently, no matter how big a star you become.”
“Oh, yeah, that’s really comforting.” But, strangely, it was. The team at Deuces, strippers and staff alike, knew her. She didn’t have to put on an act for them, or be on her best behavior. She could be her uncensored, snarky self.
An arm looped around her neck from behind. She jumped, and, for one terrifying moment, wondered if Worst Nightmare had tracked her down and intended to choke the life out of her right then and there. But then a reassuringly familiar voice said, “You, Snowflake, as an angel? I think you’re a shoo-in for most ironic costume.”
Stacy laughed at her ridiculous moment of panic, and then turned to face Ginger, the tall, improbably endowed, flame-haired dancer who headlined at Deuces. Tonight she wore a skintight black bustier that barely kept the girls under wraps, along with a short, transparent black mesh skirt that showed off her black satin thong. Garters, fishnets, and a tall black witch’s hat completed the ensemble.
“Hi Ginger. Decided not to wear a costume tonight?”
“Watch it.” She brandished a sparkling black wand. “Or I’ll put a spell on you.” The redhead pulled Stacy into a hug, and then said, “Oh, good, you brought the nice one too,” and gave Kylie a squeeze as well.
Stacy took the drinks Gary put on the bar, handed one to Kylie, and clinked glasses with her. “Happy Hallow—”
“Woo-hoo! Looky who’s here!” Sunny-haired Southerner Lee Ann closed in on them, dressed like a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader. Ariana, the haughty brunette Russian followed, looking like a Parisian hooker in a black-and-white striped tube top, a tiny, front-slit leather skirt, and fishnets. She led Vern, the club’s manager, by the shiny tie of his 1920s mob boss costume.
While Lee Ann gave Kylie an exuberant hug, Vern stopped in front of Stacy and shook his head. His droopy brown eyes and sagging jowls provided the perfect canvas for his feigned disappointment. “You back again, kid? Didn’t I tell you that whole acting thing wouldn’t work out?”
She laughed. “That is exactly what you said, you miserable grouch.” He was the world’s biggest cynic, but deep down in his cold, black heart, she knew he was happy for her.
“There are no shows tonight because of the party, but since we go way back, I’ll clear the stage if you want to hop up there and make some money. Take Kylie with you, and I guarantee you girls will clean up.”
She took a big swallow of her martini and gave him a raised eyebrow over the rim of her glass. “You can’t afford me now, Vern.”
He turned to Ariana and shrugged. “Look at that. Pretending like she’s too good for us. She probably doesn’t even remember how to shake the moneymaker anymore.”
Ari smiled. “She is big star now. Her muscles are soft.”
Stacy finished off her drink in another large swallow, enjoying the burn of the alcohol in her throat and chest—Jesus, that felt good—and put the glass on the bar. “I haven’t forgotten a damn thing.” She pointed to the stage, where groups of partygoers, mostly female, danced and swayed seductively to the music, hoping to attract attention from the guys congregating on the dance floor directly below. “I play a showgirl on TV. I still dance every day, and I can put any of those girls up there now to shame.”
“Talk is cheap,” Vern said.
“You need me to prove this? Seriously?”
“I dare you. Come,” Ari took her hand, and Lee Ann’s, and tugged them toward the stage. “See if you remember Triple Threat.”
Triple Threat was the name Vern had given an intricate, over-the-top sexy dance Stacy had choreographed for three dancers—typically Lee Ann and Ari, and featuring her as the main dancer, naturally. She mentally reviewed the steps as they wound their way through the packed dance floor. The crowd parted easily enough, and a couple of cute, hard-bodied “construction workers” lifted them up to the stage. And then, there she stood, front and center, with all eyes on her. Just how she liked it. The distinctive opening notes of Flo Rida’s “Whistle” seeped from the sound system—a perfect song for the dance, with its playful, steady rhythm. She gave her body over to that beat, letting muscle memory kick in. Within seconds, the three of them were performing the routine as if they still did two shows a night, three nights a week, with the nota
ble exception that they kept their clothes on.
She felt amazing, alluring, almost like her old self again. The strobes kept everything dreamlike and anonymous. She sensed, rather than saw, the other girls on the stage back off, so as not to suffer by comparison. Then the guys moved in. Guys with the confidence to vie for the attention of the hottest girls on the stage. She flirted with a gorgeous African-American model type who wore a white towel wrapped around his waist like the Old Spice guy. He smiled and worked his way closer, impressing her with dance moves as tight as his abs.