LEATHER AND LACE (BAD BOYS & GOOD GIRLS, #1) (4 page)

He settled down in the wooden swivel chair, and sorted through the pile of paperwork spread over his desk. The club was open every night, and Penrose took over on the days when he was back at Evermore. Pen dealt with the ordering and inventory, as long as he agreed to do the books after their last SNAFU. Picking up a note scratched out by Pen, he narrowed his eyes, trying to decipher the man’s hieroglyphic handwriting.
Something about the payroll
. His attention snagged on a crimson costume hanging behind the door and he scowled at Val’s dress for a moment.

God, how long had it been since he’d seen her?
Not long enough.
He’d gotten past their break-up when he’d confronted her on club money gone missing. She’d worked in the club boutique downstairs, and had been the S & L bookkeeper. But each month the club kept coming up short, and Pen started complaining about their account balance, and had pointed his finger at Val.

Caught red-handed with a load of cash in her purse—marked money from their office safe. At first she claimed she needed the money to pay some bills. Her story fell apart when he found moving boxes packed in the apartment where she lived, which he’d paid for in town. She drove a car he’d given her. Val made a good salary never offering to cover even a cup of coffee when they went out together. She’d laughed in his face and confessed to taking the money—saying it was her due for all she’d done at the club. Threatened to file a lawsuit for harassment if he tried to stop her from leaving town.

He’d had her ejected from the club and from the apartment. Paid someone to pack up her stuff and told her to go ahead. Take his ass to court. Afterwards, he hadn’t said two words to her, even when she’d taunted him to do something. Feel something. He couldn’t.

She’d sent an email months ago, saying that she’d forgotten the dress and to stow it, stating that someone would be by to pick it up unless he’d gotten rid of it. Like it was some challenge. Each time he caught sight of the red leather fetish dress, he considered setting a torch gun to it. But hell would freeze over before he gave Val the satisfaction that he cared enough to torch it. So stubbornly, he let the dress hang there refusing to give a rat’s ass.

Instead, he dove into his work. Like now, when he redirected his attention to the spreadsheet on the computer screen, tamping down the sting from the memory of Val’s laughter when she’d admitted to faking her way through playing the part of his sub.

He rubbed his hand over the stubble along his jaw, and shook his head, scrolling down the spreadsheet. Cursing under his breath at the amount of work required to balance the books, he started digging through the pile of invoices. Buckling down, he organized the bills and got his head into figuring out their finances.

It would have been easy to hire a bookkeeper for a routine business. But given some of their vendors included a retailer of satin sheets, a supplier of erotic lingerie as well as an online outlet that stocked the standard kink paraphernalia required for a sex club, he wasn’t keen on fueling gossip about the S & L. A high-class club meant no loose talk. They vetted members with a background check handled by a retired FBI agent in Dallas. Membership required a signed contract with a hefty annual fee. What went down at the S & L didn’t leave, not without threat of serious legal repercussions. Tight-knit and closemouthed is how he and Pen ran this place.

Except if he didn’t get the bills paid, they’d run out of clean sheets and towels for the coming week.

H
OURS LATER
, the sound of music and laughter filtering into Brandon’s awareness reminded him that the club had opened. He’d untangled the club’s finances. A stack of checks was written to cover vendors, and his bank account wasn’t suffering. He sat back with a satisfied grunt and stretched, unfurling his long legs and letting each boot come down with a loud
thud
against the floor to the side of the desk. Staring out the window at the darkened skies, he contemplated throwing back a shot of Jack. A knock sounded at his office door, a sure sign that things were heating up.

“Yeah?” he hollered, doing a neck roll as his door opened.

“Got yourself sorted out?” Sam the head bartender leaned against the doorway.

“Finally. What’s up?” Tonight he felt in a surly mood, and those types of nights never ended well.

Lately, nothing around here was easy and Sam’s normal shit-eating grin was gone. The bartender stood there and frowned. “Need your attention downstairs, on the double.”

“What happened?” he barked.

“Naw. This problem you’d better see for yourself.” Sam uncrossed his arms and made to leave.

Oh, fuck. That wasn’t good
. “Sam, stop being such a pussy.”

“Dude, say what you will. I’ve seen you in action and this ain’t one of those ‘go and shoot the messenger’ kinda deals. I did my part by coming and getting you.”

“Who in the hell is at the root of this
issue
?” He carefully skirted around authenticating an issue as a true problem. Without laying eyes on a situation—any situation—he’d learned early on, defining things had a tendency to make them real and never real in a good way. Cattle were livestock, not pets. Connections were acquaintances, not friends. And absolutely always sex in his bed involved a willing partner—nothing more.

“Marty’s got a situation.
One
you gotta see.” Only now did Sam let a wide grin overtake his face.

Jackass
.

“Marty? Is he covering someone?”

“Negative. He’s not working the door or the bar or the floor or security. This is a membership problem.”

“Issue!” Brandon pushed his Stetson back on his head and inhaled. “A membership
issue
. You got that?”

“Yeah. Issue. I also
got
to get back to the bar. We’re busy tonight.”

“Fine. See you downstairs, Sherlock.”

“Now you’re just being ornery,” Sam snorted.

Brandon sucked in a retort about dusting liquor bottles as payback. That shot of Jack sounded better and better. What the hell? He yanked open his bottom drawer and grabbed the bottle by the neck. He poured a liberal finger or two into his empty coffee mug. He drained the shot of whiskey and replaced the bottle in his drawer.

He trekked down the stairs, walking a direct line into the membership office run by Marty, a thirty-something injured bull-riding-rodeo-king. Marty had recently settled a huge lawsuit against an arena and needed something to do to fill his time. He wasn’t a loud talker. He kept his mouth shut and his eyes open, and knew how to size up everything from large animals down to fast-talking men and women trying to bullshit their way into the club.

The man was dead-on when it came to red-flagging potential troublesome club applicants. He’d been head of membership since the place opened, and Sam was right. He never veered away from the regulations and never needed help in revoking a membership. Not once had Marty ever needed to see him in a hurry.

There were only a few S & L rules, and each was black and white. No one could pretend forgetting them, they were so goddamn simple to memorize. The membership rule amounted to one: only he or Pen granted a membership. Anyone who broke a club rule was shown the door, and his or her membership cancelled. Three other club rules, starting with put your hands on another member without permission and you’re done. No guns, knives, or weapons of any sort on the premises. Keep your mouth shut about members’ names and the activities that occur within the club. No ifs, ands, or buts.

Up ahead he met the manager’s wide eyes. He waved Brandon over, but instead of staying put, Marty limped across the bar to meet him. “Over here,” he said and got his cane tangled up in one of the chairs. “Hold on.”

“What’s got you going?” He scanned the bar area. Nothing looked unusual. The tables were filled, the bar was busier than a hornet’s nest, and the staff along the halls were handling reservations and handing out keys.

Regular Sunday night buzz, plus Marty sweating.

They entered the membership office and Brandon stopped short. “How may I help you?” His eyes widened when the two blond heads turned around to face him. Mirror images. Esme and Selma. A twin bad dream come to life.

“We’re back,” one of the girls said, smiling wide.

He turned to look at Marty and grimaced. “What are they doing here?” he asked in a voice deadly low.

Marty pushed up the brim of his hat. “Not my doing. Guest cards. Must be Pen’s idea—?”

“Brandon! We need your help. He won’t listen to us,” one twin exclaimed while the other poked Marty in the ribs.

“Stop that.” His manager swung his arms. “Keep your hands to yourself. Do you understand me?”

One girl pouted. “We didn’t mean anything by it.”

Shit, this better not have anything to do with Pen’s previous texts. He exhaled sharply, silently cursing. “Let me see those guest cards.”

“See? We told you he was okay with us being here. Tell him, Brandon.” The twins took two hurried steps toward him.

He pushed his hands out in front of him as though he was stopping a charging bull. “No. That isn’t what I said. I haven’t got a clue how either of you were allowed inside.”

“I knew it,” Marty snapped. “You both lied, wasting my time, and now Brandon’s.”

“What?” The twins shrieked in unison and Brandon clenched his jaw.

Marty
thwacked
his cane on the side of the desk. “Stop screaming or I’ll throw you out myself.”

“Why would you do that, Mr. Keller?” Both women’s eyes were wide and their chins quivered. “We haven’t done a thing.”

He almost felt sorry for them—for a second. “Let’s all calm down. This is getting out of control.” Breaking untamed horses weren’t near as much trouble as these spoiled girls.

“Really? So we’re on for tonight. Take a picture of us, Mr. Keller.” One of them tossed her cell across to Marty, and then they both came at him. A cloud of floral perfume assaulted his nostrils as he was flanked by the twins.

“Girls stop,” Marty ordered and then tripped, landing in one of the office chairs. He sputtered, “Let Mr. McLemore go.”

“Oh, I understand,” one of them uttered. Even this close, he still didn’t know them well enough to tell them apart. That same twin said, “Can’t take pictures. Right?”

“We forgot about the confidence problem,” the other twin whispered with an all-knowing wink.

His neck tightened. “That’s
confidentiality policy,
and we haven’t gotten that far yet,” he replied, catching his manager’s alarmed expression.

Marty silently got up and took one-step, then another to stand behind the twins. Furiously, his manager made a cutting motion across his throat. Universal hand signal for stop pouring or in this case, shut the fuck up. Marty stopped when one of the girls glanced over her shoulder.

That same one announced, “We’re here for our night.”

“Night?” he echoed, his brain unwilling to attach that lone word to any information related to his club and these two. “You’re not spending the night here.”

The thought tore at him that these two young women, who were friends with his sister, could be standing in his club. He’d taken precautions to prevent having friends, family, and acquaintances show up unexpectedly. What happened to the rule that no one got in except by his permission or Pen’s?

“How’d you get the guest passes?” he demanded an answer to the question he should have asked when he first saw the twins standing down here. He pinched the plastic cards stamped with the club name and logo. They looked legit.

One of the twins tapped the card. “Right there. See. Signed by Mr. Penrose.”

He was certain his head was going to split open at the sight of Pen’s chicken scratch handwriting. He handed the cards back to Marty. “The two of you need to leave. This isn’t the place for you.”

“What do you mean? Our money ain’t good enough for you?” The Jamison twins stood shoulder-to-shoulder directly in front of him, their eyes narrowed in displeasure.

“Money has nothing to do with this issue.” As he was about to set Selma and Esme straight, the front door opened and the sound of guests entering drew his attention. A man and woman passed by the doorway and he nodded to them.

“Marty— ” He was about to tell his manager to escort the twins outside when a red dress snared his attention.

The dress clung to the curves of a woman with hair so black it was blue. Her flashing dark almond eyes were set in an enticing face that turned toward him as though sensing his interest. The woman was familiar and he racked his memory as to where... fuck,
when
?

She regarded him with a defiantly fixed stare, as though it were some contest to see who would look away first. Well, it sure wasn’t going to be him. Their gazes locked and a mixture of hunger and excitement rocketed up his spine. Something about this woman’s exotic features and endless curves tore into him—a key in a carnal lock that unleashed a fiery message that roused his every male instinct.

She arched a brow right before she turned her face away, and continued past the doorway, presumably into the bar. His pulse hummed from the brief connection. His forehead tightened, wondering who she was and why the hell she was wearing red of all colors.