Four Seconds to Lose

behind his left ear. Where that tattoo is. And, occasionally, when he catches me studying him, his top lip will curl up on one side in a crooked smile.

And he’s caught me staring at him. A lot.

“Things are fine, Cain,” I offer, adding, “Though it’s hot. Miami’s hot.” The weather. Boring, but safe.

He shifts his body to face out, his elbows resting on the bar, stretching the material of his shirt over his taut chest. In the club, Cain always wears a fitted button-down shirt and dress pants that highlight his ass nicely. With the air cranked to the max, he can easily get away with it.

And dammit if it doesn’t make him even more attractive.

My nose catches a hint of his delicious woodsy cologne and I inhale deeply.

“That’s right, you’re not from here originally. Where are you from?”

“Indianapolis.”

He nods slowly. “Did you live there long?”

“All my life.” The trick to keeping the lies straight is to make them simple to remember. Charlie Rourke is from Indianapolis. Period.

I watch as Cain lifts his glass to his lips to take a small sip, holding a bit of the liquor in his mouth for a moment before the muscles in his throat tense to swallow. Hell, even his swallows are sexy. “And your parents? Are they still there?”

My gut tells me this is a fishing expedition, and that makes me nervous to say anything at all. “Yup.”

His gaze rolls over the crowd again, never stopping on the stage as the dancer named Delyla peels off another layer. “Do they know about you dancing?”

I frown and shake my head. That sounds like the right answer. What parents would want to know their kid is doing this? Sam actually did know about my pole-dancing lessons. He didn’t seem to care about it. It worked well as a cover. I’d hand a small bag to one of the managers there once a week before class.

“Money is good, right?”

“Yeah, money’s good.” The money is really good. Between the bar and the stage, I’m bringing in several thousand a week. “Could be better, though. A guy just offered a grand for an hour. Isn’t that crazy?”

I catch the almost imperceptible tensing in Cain’s jaw. “Not surprising.” There’s a pause. “Are you upset with me for not putting you in there?”

I should say that I am, but my head is shaking before I can get the lie out. When his shoulders seem to sag in relief, I’m glad I told the truth.

“You’ve never worked a private room before, right?” He asks it so gently, and yet panic suddenly courses through me. Has he figured out that I lied about stripping in Vegas? Is he going to fire me? Is that why he’s out here, talking to me now? Ginger said it’s next to impossible to get fired from Penny’s, but she also said not to lie to him.

And all I’ve told him is lies.

Biting the inside of my mouth to keep my alarm from showing, I look out over the crowd as I decide how to answer. If he told me right now that I could work those rooms, could I?

I was alone in a room with Sal when it happened. He said it was standard to remove your pants for a search. Hiding my panic, I laughed in his face and told him I wasn’t new to this. Then I asked him if he demanded that of all the men who came to visit him, too. Sal flashed a wicked grin—complete with crooked, stained teeth—before gripping the back of my neck and slamming my body over the table, asking me if I wanted to go about this the easy way or the hard way.

I’m still not sure which way he went about it.

I remember holding my breath and watching the door, waiting for the other guy—the one I normally dealt with—to come back. He’d always been respectful to me, as far as drug dealers go. He wouldn’t allow this.

Sal didn’t rape me in the traditional sense, as surprising as that is, given everything else he did to me. Sometimes I still get flashes of his rough, callused hands as they delved into my body. When I didn’t react—not a sound, not a tear, even when I should have cried out from the pain—I guess he got bored. Like a cat batting around a mouse that doesn’t run. He called me a cold bitch and turned his back on me to check the delivery, giving me time to pull my pants back up. At the time, I was relieved that he let me go without taking full advantage. Most men would have.

It wasn’t until after I ran to my car, after I drove to the drop site, after I burst into tears in front of Sam, that the shock wore off and the worst part of it all hit. The part where I emptied my stomach of the vileness but didn’t feel purged. Where I stood under the scalding-hot water until my skin was raw but still could not feel clean. Where I put fresh clothing on and still felt naked. Where I curled up into a ball until the sleeping pills kicked in, only to wake up squeezing my thighs together, feeling like his dirty fingers had just been there.

The actual event with Sal, while horrendous and humiliating, lasted no more than thirty seconds. But the feeling of complete and utter filth lingered for weeks. “Charlie?” Cain’s voice calls breaks into my thoughts.

“I just can’t do it.” The truth slips out of me before I can control it, and I feel Cain’s eyes bore into the side of my face.

I’m surprised when a warm hand curls around my arm, the pad of his thumb running up and down my bicep affectionately. Turning, I find Cain’s normally expressionless face pinched with worry. “If you ever feel like you can do it, promise me you’ll come talk to me?”

I nod in response. I know without a doubt that Cain would certainly not make me feel vile. Cain would make me feel really, really good.

And now I’m pretty sure I know why Cain didn’t allow me to work the floors. Ginger was right. It isn’t about being overstaffed. He knows I haven’t worked one of those rooms and he’s doing his best to keep me away. To keep me safe.

I’m living a life where safety is a luxury, where the only family I have risks my well-being without thinking twice. Yet it took this man—a stranger—mere seconds to decide that he would protect me.

Beyond my frustrated physical feelings for Cain, I feel a pang of something new. Something unwanted. Something that Sam would never approve of.

It’s only amplified by Cain’s next words. “You know that you can come to me for anything at all, right, Charlie? I will help you however I can.”

Pursing my lips together, I nod as I struggle to wrap my mind around this version of Cain. This interaction is so different from any other that we’ve had. I’m forced to come to the conclusion that Cain just may be a truly good man.

A man who deserves a good woman.

The tightness in my chest tells me that woman is not me.

But whether I deserve his attention or not, the devil in me wants it. “How are you enjoying the show?” I ask, keeping my tone casual.

I catch the flash of surprise before he dips his head and chuckles, his hand sliding over that tattoo. His mouth opens and closes several times before glancing back up at me with a dangerous look, his tone having suddenly dropped by a few octaves. “It’s quite the game you’re playing, Charlie.”

I shouldn’t ask. I shouldn’t. Don’t ask. Don’t . . .

“And do you like playing it?” I’m surprised he even heard me, what with my voice as low as it is.

But he must have—that or he read my lips, where his focus is locked right now—because he steps in closer, until our chests are almost touching but aren’t. I hold the air in my lungs as he leans in toward my ear, his warm breath skating along my neck. “Yes, I do. Too much.”

I watch his retreating back as he turns around, unable to breathe for several long seconds as the butterflies thrash about in my stomach.

And I wonder if maybe there is also another side—a darker, less controlled, not so good side—to Cain, after all.

chapter seventeen * * *