Good Girl Gone Bad (3 page)

“I thought fraternizing was against the GOs?”

Reese’s hiss of air caught her before Ty’s angry words. “There you go again, thinking like a rat, always putting a cop on the wrong side. What is it with you IA vermin? Didn’t you learn from your old man that shit runs down hill?”

Phil slapped him. The action stunned everyone in the room, most of all herself. Silence fell hard and heavy. Her anger mushroomed. She’d allowed Jamerson to break her control. In a carefully controlled voice barely above a whisper, she said, “
Do not
ever speak to me about my father.”

Anger swept Ty’s face as the totality of Phil’s action hit her broadside. Immediate beach time and no doubt the beginning of an IA investigation that would culminate in the stripping of her badge. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

She opened her mouth to apologize, but the words stuck like putty in her throat. Never would she apologize for defending her father’s tarnished honor. She swallowed hard and decided that wasn’t what she needed to apologize for. She’d assaulted her commanding officer. She
could
defend her action and say his words provoked her, but that wouldn’t fly. No way, not when it came to bulletproof Lieutenant Tyler Adam Jamerson. After his last IA, which was her first, she was told, in no uncertain terms, hands off.

She drew herself up stiff, her voice empty. “I…sir, I regret my action.” In an instinctive gesture she reached out to him. His eyes narrowed to slits. He jerked away from her as if she had a major case of cooties.

Massaging his stinging cheek, Ty bent low and softly said, “Touch me again, lady, and mark my words, I’ll turn you out like a twenty-dollar hooker on a Saturday night.”

“Are you threatening me, Lieutenant?” Her gumption resurfaced as she realized he’d rather die than write her up for slapping him silly. The rank and file would get wind of it and never let him live it down.

Ty grinned. It wasn’t one of his most pleasant gestures. Not that he had any. “A threat is an implied warning. I’m telling you a cold hard fact.”

Phil swallowed hard and cooled it. She’d just assaulted her commanding officer, in front of two witnesses. Maybe she needed to back out of this. It was apparent Lieutenant Jamerson was unwilling to bend, and more worrisome, she seemed unable to control herself in his presence. A panicked tension flooded through her. Its wake left her shaky and afraid. “Sir, I respectfully request to be removed from this task force. I see no way we can work together.”

Ty’s green eyes flashed. “You have no idea, Officer Zorn, how much I’d like to give you what you want.” He turned back to the storyboard and looked at the three photos taped there. “Unfortunately, we’re stuck with each other. I need a female officer to infiltrate the club and draw out the kidnapper, and you seem to be the only one available.”

“Is that what Marten’s job was?”

Ty’s head snapped up from the file he pulled from the desk drawer. His eyes narrowed dangerously and she felt afraid. Not of him, but of what Officer Marten had to endure, what she might still be enduring, and what Phil would have to do to bring the sick bastard who took her and two others to justice.

“Yes. And let’s hope you’re better at it.” He dropped the file in his hand to the table in front of her and slid it across to her. “Your dossier. Learn it and burn it.”

He proceeded to open a closed file folder on the table and pulled a business card from the flap. Handing it to her, he said, “Your contact at Klub Kashmir is Bud Olman, the head bartender. He’s been instructed to hire the next set of tits that walks in off the street looking for a job.”

Phil swallowed hard,
again.
“Hired, as in a
stripper
?” Hearing her question end on a high note infuriated her. A stripper? She was supposed to get onstage and take her clothes off in front of a bunch of drunken perverts and take dollar bills from their grubby hands with her teeth? Her entire body quaked in disapproval. No way. Besides, there had to be something in the GOs about an officer stripping. She cleared her throat. “Ah, sir, the general orders clearly state—”

“The GO is for normal cops under normal circumstances, Officer Zorn. Undercover has its own set of rules.”

“I—ah, would you have that handbook available for me, sir, so that I know where to draw the line?”

Ty laughed sharply, his eyes danced in challenge. Crossing his arms over his chest, he leaned against the wall. “Officer Zorn, that handbook is called ‘do what you have to do to get the job done.’”

She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “I find that hard to believe, sir. I refuse to circumvent the general orders.”

Slowly he unfolded his arms and pushed off the wall. His features sharpened. “Officer Zorn, when undercover, do as those around you do or end up dead.” Ty backed away from her. “You’ll have plenty of cover. I’ve already infiltrated the club as floor manager. Reese and Jase have become regulars.” He turned to both men and grinned again. “A cover they have no problem playing to the hilt.”

“I will not strip!”

All three men grinned and looked at her as if they could see straight through to her stiffening nipples. “Olman needs a cocktail waitress.” Ty’s green eyes smoldered as he swept her with a blistering gaze from head to toe, then up again, his eyes lingering on her trembling chest. “Besides, you don’t have what it takes to strip.”

She checked herself from striking him again. “Your insults show what a little man you really are.”

His smug gaze waned. He actually looked affronted. “You misunderstand me, Officer. I meant you don’t have the lack of inhibitions for the job. I in no way inferred you don’t have the necessary equipment.” His eyes glowed hot. “To the contrary.”

Said equipment warmed. “I—” She threw her hands up in the air. “Forget it, sir.” She turned away from the three sets of admiring eyes, grabbed her dossier, and strode to the door, yanking it open. “If it’s all right with you, I’ll head downtown to get that job.”

Ty watched the door abruptly shut behind her, the only evidence of the rat in heels was her lingering perfume. He inhaled it and closed his eyes, savoring the musky scent of her.

Jase slapped him on the back and Reese guffawed. “Son of a bitch, Ty, I think you’ve finally met your match.”

Reese added, “If you don’t want to play, I will.”

Ty turned on them both and scowled. “She’s a no play zone, boys. We have two missing strippers and a missing cop to track down, that’s where we need to focus. Not on Zorn’s tits or her ass.”

Jase rolled his eyes. “Oh, but what a set of tits.”

Reese quipped, “I’m an ass man myself, and hers looked like J. Lo’s Mini Me.”

Ty shook his head. He was an ass man, too, and couldn’t remember one so fine as the one that had just stomped out of his office.

He ignored the twinge in his dick and the woman who inspired it. Instead, he sat down and opened the top file folder on case #862543, a.k.a. Operation Internal Affairs.

CHAPTER THREE

“H
ere’s your paperwork. Have it turned in before you start tonight.”

Phil nodded to Bud. Just like that, she filled out a sorry excuse for an application and she had a job as a cocktail waitress in a strip club.

“The house rules are printed on the back of the yellow sheet, but I’m gonna tell them to you so there isn’t any misunderstanding.”

Phil nodded again.

“Twenty-five percent of your cocktail tips go to the house, thirty percent of extracurricular happenings go to the house.” Bud opened his mouth to continue, but Phil held her hand up.

“Um, what exactly are extracurricular happenings?” She was afraid of the answer.

“Lap, couch, or table dances.”

She swallowed hard. “I—ah, that’s not what I was told. I was told—”

“You want this job or not?”

”Yes, I do, but—”

“Then understand the bottom line of the club is to please the patrons. Which brings me to another house rule. If a guy wants to buy you a drink, you let ’im. Don’t backtalk, and don’t piss them off. If you have a beef, go to the floor manager. Mr. Masters takes care of business clean and fast.”

“Bu—”

The old man set his hands on the bar and cocked a gray brow at her. “No buts. Still interested?”

“Yes.” God help her.

He grinned. Reaching under the bar, he handed her a plastic bag. “Here you go. Be here by seven.”

Phil stood openmouthed.

The two pieces of fabric she pulled from the bag Bud had handed her wouldn’t cover more than a dinner plate, and a small one at that. “Make sure you wear heels. Stiletto type, none of those clunky old maid kind.”

Shaking her head, Phil looked up at the head bartender’s grizzled old face. She’d bet Bud had seen it all and then some. Despite his curt manner, there was something about his quiet directness she trusted. “Where’s the rest of the outfit?”

He smiled, showing a surprising set of white teeth, his old, tired brown eyes dancing. Pulling the bar cloth off his shoulder, he began to clean the smooth hardwood of the bar top. He didn’t speak for a long minute. “That’s it.”

Her jaw dropped for the second time. He shrugged and continued the circular motion, polishing the already gleaming mahogany to a higher shine. “Wear a G-string under it and you’ll get bigger tips. If you want serious bank, bend over all the way every opportunity you get.”

Her face warmed, but she slapped her mouth shut. Gritting her teeth, Phil silently cursed Ty. She could just see his laughter and the dark sweep of his eyebrows rise in a challenge.

She swallowed hard and gave the two-piece “outfit” another once-over. The top was a glorified bikini top tied at the plunging neckline. And the skirt? The short black pleats would barely cover what made her a girl. “Can I wear pantyhose?” she squeaked.

Bud stopped his circular motion and let out a long exasperated breath. “Sweetheart, the more skin you show, the better for business. You’re here to make a buck, right?” He resumed his cleaning, avoiding direct eye contact. “The more you make, the more we make. That makes the owner, Mr. Z., a happy man. When he’s happy, we’re all happy.”

She continued to stand, with the garments dangling in her hand, in quiet disbelief, wondering if she could squeeze into the contraption. “You want to wear hose,” he said, apparently taking pity on her, “make sure they’re the totally sheer kind with no control-top crap.”

A small, no, minuscule concession, and one she’d take. Phil nodded. Stuffing the “uniform” back into the bag along with her paperwork, she backed slowly out of the brightly lit bar area. She weaved through the dozens of glossy high-top tables stacked with high-back chairs facing the stage, then stopped and gave her new workplace a slow once-over. She inhaled sharply. It reeked of booze, cigar smoke, and sex, the dancers, simply a commodity.

A hot commodity that hadn’t depreciated since the Stone Age.

The shrouded sleekness of the stage silently pulled her. She allowed herself to go nearer.

At this time of day the circular stage centered in the middle of the “gentlemen’s club” lay quiet. The mirrored ceiling above the centrally mounted pole gleamed ominously in the low din of light. Two more poles cornering the center pole stood sentry farther back. She looked up at the deep ceiling. Rows of lights nestled into the black cavern. She could detect different colored filters and a large spot. She guessed the bar lights would dim when it came to showtime, putting center stage in the spotlight.

Intrigued despite her qualms, Phil trailed her fingers across the wraparound sit-down bar encircling the stage and the straight-back chairs neatly stowed beneath. She imagined dancing in front of dozens of men, driving them to the brink of orgasm, and a thrill prickled through her.

She backed away from the stage, startled by her thoughts. No way, she said silently. Had she really considered that? Never would she strip for a man in public and never for a dollar. She wasn’t desperate and she didn’t need the cash. Besides, she had her pride to consider, and more than pride, her modesty shuddered at the notion.

Her cheeks warmed at the thought of putting on the tiny cocktail outfit. But to strip? Naked?
Never.
The image propelled her right out of the club.

Walking out into the bright sunlight, she squinted, wondering how the hell she found herself in this situation. She’d never envisioned herself as undercover material and certainly not in this capacity. Her sole reason for becoming a cop was to get into IA and stay there, where it was safe and predictable, where she could make a difference putting bad cops away. And put bad cops away she did. She was damn good at what she did. Too good, apparently. Just as she was sinking her teeth into her next case, she was abruptly transferred.

“You need street experience, put in for something,” Captain Warren had told her. Of course she’d argued. He’d argued right back, then accused her of narrow-minded tunnel vision, a trait he would not tolerate in his squad. “Get the hell out of here, Zorn, see how the real world works. Then if you still have the stomach for IA, I’ll consider your transfer.”

How could she be kicked out for doing her job to the best of her ability? For crying out loud, she hung out more guilty cops than four precincts combined, and she got kicked to the curb for it? Wasn’t fair. She grumbled as she dug for her keys. Who the hell said life was fair, Phil? she thought.

She knew the answer, always had. But she would not stop righting past wrongs, especially when that wrong took her father’s life. Moisture stung her eyes. Her father, one of Lansdowne’s most highly decorated officers, brought down by a band of lying cops.

Anger swelled in her chest. Mac Zorn was a proud Christian cop, the son and grandson of cops. His distinguished career had been vilified by the Riders, an anonymous group of rogue cops.

She hadn’t been in IA long enough to worm her way into the top echelon. Had she, she would have located the sealed file and discovered the identity of her father’s accusers.

She headed for her safe comfy car, a late-model Taurus. Carefully she reined in her plots of vengeance. As she slid into the seat, Phil looked at the costume bag she gripped like a vise. The here and now washed through her. She needed to get into undercover mode.