His Southern Temptation (8 page)

Chapter Eight

If William Teague Elliott IV knew his baby sister was working the pole at the Jolly Gent, he would castrate Lucky and enjoy doing it.

Lucky knew this, just as he knew that someone was running drugs out of the back room, that he was drinking substandard watered-down whiskey, and that he was going to hell for thinking that Taylor’s tiny G-string bikini was the sexiest damn thing he’d ever seen.

Adjusting to accommodate the hardening in his jeans, he leaned back in his chair, stretching out muscles sore from the past few weeks of unaccustomed farm work. The life of a Marine wasn’t one of a desk jockey, but making a living out of the land was entirely different. His father made Lucky’s former drill sergeant look like a sweet little kindergarten teacher.

“Whoo hoo! Shake it Bambi!” A guy up front yelled out Taylor’s ridiculous stage name and shook his overly large gut and matching ass. The guy was harmless, not even trying to offer her a tip, so Lucky eased back in his chair. He shifted the brim of his ball cap down a little lower in an effort to hide the movement of his eyes as he switched between watching Taylor, the bar where they were serving underage patrons, and numerous pervs drooling over the dancers. Didn’t anyone watch porn in the privacy of their own homes anymore?

He scanned the room again in search of the bald guy. No sign of him, but if he was looking for Sarah then he likely hadn’t left. So far, the only leads on Sarah led straight back to this club.

He looked at Taylor, wishing this was the private show she promised and not in a room full of losers. As if sensing the direction of his thoughts, she made eye contact with him from across the room, flashed a sinful smile, and put a little extra shimmy in her shake. Heat shot up his spine, then down again, and settled in a pool of heat in his groin. Her smile turned smug—she knew what she was doing to him and the glare he shot in her direction told her she’d pay for that later.

The guy next to him, underage and wasted, nudged him out of his thoughts. Mr. Too-Young-To-Be-Here leaned over, his rancid, tequila-scented breath turning Lucky off that particular drink forever. “I don’t know where Bodean got her, but he needs to go back and get more. I’d love to peel off those clothes and fu—”

“Fuck off, I’m watching the show.” The little punk scurried off, tripping over his own feet, and narrowly missing a table full of redneck drunks who’d eat him for breakfast if he spilled a drop of their drinks.

Lucky swiveled back to face the stage, immediately noticing that Mr. Fat-Ass had inched closer to the stage and was close enough to grab Taylor’s ankle. He glanced at the one bouncer, a pathetic excuse for security, dressed in a Jolly Gent emblazoned T-shirt and currently looking at something on his cell phone.
Are you fucking kidding me?

Lucky stood, forcing his steps to remain measured and smooth, apprehension of what could happen coiled in his gut. Always keeping Fat-Ass in his line of sight, he weaved between the tables, skirting clumps of men who were in his way. The bouncer was oblivious. If anything happened to Taylor, Lucky was going to shove the phone up his ass.

Taylor searched the crowd, relief spreading across her face when she saw him, but it was quickly replaced by concern when her admirer reached out again and barely missed grabbing her ankle. Lucky pushed through the group, tighter and more crowded at the front, motioning for Taylor to step back from the edge of the stage. She dodged the grabby hands, artfully integrating the side step into her stage show, but teetering on the three-inch shoes required by every self-respecting stripper.

Taylor’s movement had the opposite effect on Fat-Ass—instead of discouraging him from getting up close and personal, it sent him off in her direction like a greyhound chasing the fake rabbit. Lucky watched as the guy tried to hoist himself up on the stage, not a pretty sight, but one that pushed Taylor perilously close to the opposite edge of the platform. This situation had all the earmarks of a quintessential Lucky moment, complete with a dumbass disrupting all of his best-laid plans and a lot of explaining in his future. In the language of his beloved Marines it was FUBAR—fucked up beyond all repair.

What he couldn’t believe was why he’d allowed himself to put Taylor right in the middle of the mess. He should have let her threaten him, pitch a fit, even go to Teague if she wanted, but he was beyond stupid to let a woman like Taylor anywhere near a place like this. One day he’d learn his lesson.

Forgoing finesse for speed, Lucky power-pulled off a couple of the guys in the front row and launched himself at the stage. At the moment the guy hauled his butt on the dance platform, Lucky landed right behind him, grabbed his belt, and gave him a big yank. It would have worked perfectly, except that Fat-Ass whipped round, nailed a beefy guy in the jaw and sent him flying backward into a crowd of drunks.

Lucky had been in many fights over the years, and this one was no different. Time slowed down and everything shone with perfect clarity. A bar full of drunk rednecks was a powder keg with a short fuse. Add to it the heightened testosterone due to half-naked females being nearby and the first beer bottle flying across the room was inevitable. Before he could blink, clumps of bodies traded blows, chairs went flying, and out of the corner of his eye he saw the piece of shit bouncer headed out of the side door.

Over the crowd, he could see Taylor still up on stage, the expression on her face strange, focused, but nowhere near the fear that should have been taking over her features. Crazy woman. When she should have been hauling butt toward the backstage area, she was busy watching the new floor show. He broke eye contact, following the path of her gaze, and instantly knew what had her so mesmerized—the bald guy was standing next to the open door and watching Taylor with avid interest. Lucky knew he was going to kick the guy’s ass for looking at her that way. That was a guarantee.

He was just as Taylor described him, and Lucky recognized his face. He knew this guy and racked his brain for context but came up with nothing. A loud yell erupted from the direction of the stage and Lucky turned to see the fight escalating and Taylor smack-dab in the middle of it. He looked back toward baldie just in time to see him slip outside.
Damn. He’d have to wait.

Covering the last couple of feet to the stage, Lucky hoisted himself up onto the platform, grabbing Taylor by the shoulders and hauling her close against his body. The sound of an air horn blast startled him, causing him to stumble. The momentum sent them tumbling to the ground. Lucky rolled, taking the brunt of the fall on his side while Taylor lay sprawled on top of him and gasping for air.

The noise in the room quieted down slightly, shouts of “stay on the floor” and “don’t move” weaving into the groans erupting from bodies unused to taking punches. The cavalry had come, probably summoned by the bartender and his handy-dandy panic button. Lucky wondered if they could scoot backstage and out of the building before anyone noticed. The last thing he wanted was Taylor hauled off to the police station.

“You okay?” He asked, mentally assessing his own injuries while running practiced hands over her form to check her out.

“I’m fine. But I think I broke a heel.”

“This isn’t funny.”

“Lighten up. I knew you’d take care of me,” Taylor said.

“If I’d been
taking care of you
I wouldn’t have let you talk me into this crazy plan. Now, let’s see if we can get you out of here before the cops notice. I think the path is clear to backstage.”

Shifting so he could help her off the floor, Lucky came face-to-face with a shoe. A government-issued, black polished shoe worn by most law enforcement officers. Tracing the line of the crease in the uniform pants, past the utility belt, gun holster, and shiny five-pointed badge, his journey ended with the face of a very pissed-off Sheriff Burke.

Oh, hell
.

“Lucky Landon, why are you always on the floor groping this woman?”

“Would you believe we were looking for her contact lens?”

“Smart-ass.” The sheriff was not amused, and he emphasized his point by unhooking his handcuffs from his belt while they scrambled to their feet. “I’ve known you your whole life and I don’t know why I’m surprised to find you smack-dab in the middle of any trouble. You can explain it all to me down at the station.”

The click of the cold metal around his wrists told Lucky it was time to start talking himself out of this. He was good at it. They hadn’t nicknamed him “Lucky” for nothing.

“Sheriff, I don’t think this is necess—”

The Sheriff ignored him, turning to Taylor with a shake of his head. “Miss Elliott, I understand you have a lawyer in your family. If I were you, I’d use my one phone call to get him down to the station.”

Lucky groaned. It looked like his luck had finally run out.

Chapter Nine

“Lucky, if this is your idea of showing me the highlights of Elliott, your technique needs work.”

Taylor leaned against the bars of holding cell number two in the Elliott City Jail trying to get Lucky’s attention. He wasn’t far, his back against the common cell bars, and she could have easily reached out and touched him. But she’d been told many times never to stick her hand in the cage of a wild animal. Tonight, he qualified for that description.

They’d been incarcerated for a little over two hours, thankfully separated from the other patrons of the bar, who were housed down the hall. She could hear them, yelling and bitching about the supposed violations of their constitutional rights, and she thought she heard someone whining and crying about being too young to be arrested without his parents being notified.

Lucky had been eerily quiet since Sheriff Burke had slapped the handcuffs on him at the Jolly Gent, and no amount of coaxing on her part had dragged him out of his funk. The only time he’d spoken was to update the sheriff on everything he’d observed at the Jolly Gent—the bald guy, underage patrons, possible drug business in the back room, and improper documentation for his workers. The sheriff had paused at the last one, casting a glance her way before shaking his head, thanking Lucky for the information and leaving the room.

“Hey.” She leaned into him, so close her breath moved the few strands of hair curling out from under his ball cap. She plucked at the overlarge sweatshirt and sweatpants the sheriff had lent her to wear and racked her brain for something to say that would alleviate the oppressive tension in the room. “You always said you wanted to see me in baggy sweats.”

He turned quickly, standing up and looming over her, the vehemence in his face catching her off guard. His hands fisted at his sides, white-knuckled, clenching and unclenching in a pulsing rhythm. She’d seen him irritated before, but never this angry. The change was disconcerting.

“Taylor, do you have
any
idea how dangerous that was tonight?” He stared at her, blue eyes blazing, and she was too shocked to answer him. “If any of those assholes had gotten their hands on you or had a weapon—”

His words broke off in a growl as he swiped the ball cap off his head and dragged rough fingers through his hair. His chest heaved and he gulped in ragged breaths in a clear effort to calm himself down and get some control. She let his breathing even out a little more before she reached for him through the bars. He left her hanging.

“Lucky, I’m fine, and you were there to protect me. I was never worried.”

“Well, you
should
have been.”

“I wasn’t.” Since he refused to touch her, she put her caress in her tone and hoped it calmed him down. “We had a plan and it was working out fine. Hell, even our preparation for what to do if trouble broke out went according to plan. Stop beating yourself up. I’m a grown woman.”

“Yeah? Well, then you should know better than to take such a crazy risk for nothing.”

“It wasn’t for nothing. I was trying to help you find Sarah.”

“How can you be so damn carefree about every single thing?”

“How can you be so cautious all the time?”

“Because I’ve learned that actions have consequences and someone always has to pay!”

She opened her mouth to respond but stopped when the sheriff, Teague and Beck entered the room.

Teague raked over her appearance, his deep frown causing a groove to form between his eyebrows. Suddenly, she was self-conscious standing there in garish stage makeup and dishwater gray, jail-issued clothing.

The sheriff stepped forward, pulling the keys from his belt and unlocking their cells, ushering them both out with brisk, impatient movements.

“You two can go.” Sheriff Burke didn’t look happy about letting them out, and he glared at Lucky over the rim of his reading glasses. “Your story checks out and I appreciate you giving me all the information you gathered.”

“Thank you, Sheriff,” they answered in unison. Taylor wasn’t sure if either of them could pull off a meek tone very well, but it seemed to pacify him for now.

“The bald guy, he matches the description of a guy who works for Eddie Wilkes,” Sheriff Burke said. “He’s a silent partner in lots of local businesses and we’re guessing he has an interest in the Gent.”

“Shit. That’s not good,” Lucky muttered as he rubbed his eyes.

“Who is Eddie Wilkes?” Teague asked.

“The closest thing Roanoke has to a mob boss. He’s a legitimate finance guy, owns banks and other things like that, but he also dabbles in drugs, theft, and the skin trade.” Lucky glanced at Taylor, the turn of his mouth becoming more rigid with every passing second. “Not a guy you want to notice you.”

The sweatshirt did nothing to stop the goose bumps from traveling over Taylor’s skin. She remembered the way the bald guy, Bruce, was looking at her up on stage and she knew what Lucky was thinking. She’d been noticed and tagged by one of Eddie’s goons.

The sheriff headed to the door, cutting a look between the chastened Lucky and the belligerent Teague. “If you boys are going to fight this out, get it out of my house or I’ll lock you up until the morning shift.”

With the adult supervision gone, Teague was quick to get to the point, as usual.