Slater's Claim Read online

  There was a murmur of assent from Pigface. Punk, who never could keep his mouth shut, pitched in with, “You were definitely one of my top ten picks, Rattler. Maybe even top five.”

  Thankfully, Rattler ignored him, focusing on Nash. “I’d be honored,” he said, voice suspiciously husky.

  Nash put it down to lack of sleep and too much booze, rather than anything so human as emotion. “That’s unanimous, then. Congratulations, Rattler. Roxy will take care of your new patch. Next item of business—you wanna nominate a replacement Sergeant at Arms?”

  “Tanner,” Rattler said without hesitation. “He’s ready for it.”

  Coming from Rattler, that was a glowing endorsement. “Agreed,” Nash said. “It’s about time we gave him more responsibility. Punk, Pigface, any objections?”

  It was another unanimous vote. Even Skids barked his approval, tail thumping against Nash’s leg.

  Nash dropped Tanner a text telling him to get his ass to the clubhouse. No point wasting time in giving him the good news.

  “Okay,” Nash said once Tanner had replied to confirm he was on his way. “Anything else while we wait?”

  He hoped not. He planned to spend the rest of the day sleeping and being waited on by Shelby.

  “I’ve got one thing, Prez,” Punk said. “Slater’s company just took over security for a new strip club in Wakefield. He’s looking for a few decent bouncers, and I think we should get some of the prospects in on it. We’ll get a cut of their wages, it’s good experience for them, and frankly I think we could do worse than invest in a place like that down the line.”

  Nash nodded. Wild Blood had their fingers in a couple of businesses around Warren’s Mill, but it was a small town. Wakefield was a nice big city, with plenty of investment opportunities. Nash liked having multiple revenue streams for the club, and they did a lot of casual security work now, thanks to Slater’s company. It gave them a good presence in the area, showed people that Wild Blood were a boon for the community. Moving into strip clubs and night clubs was something Punk had suggested before, but the right opportunity hadn’t come along.

  “Let me talk to Slater about it,” he said. “It can wait a couple days.”

  After he’d slept off last night’s whiskey, checked in on Roxy and Elena, dealt with Tanner and Rattler’s promotions, and figured out how to keep his promise to Judge, then he’d think about strippers. That seemed fair enough to him.

  ****

  Two weeks later, Slater was standing outside the Hot House waiting for Punk and a few fellow prospects to arrive. The September heatwave rolled on, and the street outside the strip club heaved with women in flimsy, floaty dresses. Slater leaned against the poster advertising “rare and exotic delights” and admired the view. It was mid-morning, and synth-heavy dance music already pumped out of the Hot House’s open door. They weren’t open for business, but the club’s owner, Benedict, was auditioning new dancers today and had already been there a while.

  The auditions were one of the reasons Slater had arranged for the Wild Blood prospects to come for their own interviews today. If they got hired, they wouldn’t just be representing the MC, but ArcLight Security as well, and he didn’t want anyone who couldn’t keep their minds on the job involved. Anyone whose hands or eyes wandered was out.

  Just as he was starting to get impatient, Punk roared up, slinging his bike with reckless speed into one of the spaces outside the club. Before he’d even killed the engine, three prospects joined him on their own bikes. Punk hadn’t told Slater who he was bringing, because he was a dick like that, so Slater cast his eye critically over the threesome, intrigued to know who Nash had sent.

  Zeke’s presence wasn’t a surprise. He was one of the younger prospects, but he’d proved himself down in New Orleans, helping fix Wolf’s mess. Surfer-boy blond and handsome, he’d been lean before and had hit the weights hard on returning. He didn’t look quite as imposing as the big man next to him, Glass, but he looked capable of handling trouble. That wasn’t necessarily something Slater would have said a couple of months back. Doubtless Nash wanted to know if he had the mental toughness as well as the physical.

  Glass, on the other hand, looked capable of handling plenty of trouble—and causing it too. He was built like a small tank, and with his buzz-cut, broken nose, and skull-and-crossbones tattoos, he looked intimidating enough. He liked to fight too, which meant he wouldn't be afraid to throw down if it was needed. On the other hand, Slater didn't want someone who went looking for violence. He mentally marked Glass as a potential wild card.

  The third prospect was something of an unknown. Dayo hadn't been around long, he was young and quiet, and at first glance, he was an odd pick for this. Maybe Nash thought the job would bring him out of his shell. Slater was willing to give him a shot.

  Slater raised an eyebrow at Punk as he sauntered over with his crew in tow. “Nice of you to show up.”

  “Don't smack-talk me, prospect. Show some respect.” Punk mimed cuffing Slater's shoulder.

  Slater ignored him, turning to his three fellow prospects. “Any of you guys got previous security experience?”

  Dayo jabbed himself in the chest with his thumb. “My old man runs a string of nightclubs in Miami,” he said, his soft voice edged with a faded Jamaican accent. “I started working the door when I turned sixteen.”

  Slater nodded, pleased. Zeke and Glass both shook their heads “No problem,” he said. “The important thing to remember—”

  “Save the lectures, Professor Pedant,” Punk said, giving him a shove toward the club door. “It’s bouncing, not brain surgery. If they can’t pick it up, they have bigger problems to worry about.”

  Slater rolled his eyes but let Punk shove him inside Hot House, the other prospects in tow. Punk was a couple of inches shorter and about forty pounds lighter than him, and Slater knew from long experience Punk couldn’t budge him an inch if Slater didn’t let him … but he always let him.

  Right inside the front door was a desk and a cloakroom, both unmanned at this time of day. Past that was a doorway draped with a gauzy curtain in an ombre meld of hot pink and neon green that made Slater’s eyes burn. He shoved it aside to reveal the club, which was exactly as tacky as the pink and green curtain hinted. It was decorated with a loose jungle theme, with fake tropical plants everywhere and a mural of parrots and flamingos painted on the walls. The bar was draped in fake vines. The stage was lit with neon pink lights that glowed off the tanned skin of the woman currently prancing around up there.

  “They’re redecorating next month,” he felt compelled to say to the others, as if the gaudy mess was his personal responsibility.

  “I like it,” Glass said, although his gaze was fixed on the dancer, leaving Slater in doubt as to what he liked.

  Slater took them over to one of the tables near the stage, where Benedict sat frowning. He was always frowning. It didn’t seem to be anything to do with his mood. Short and round, with slick black hair and a witchy nose, he reminded Slater of a penguin. Slater grabbed a chair. Punk did the same, and the other three hovered respectfully nearby.

  “Hey, Nate,” Benedict greeted him, eyes darting away from the dancer briefly. “Seen that? What a fucking disaster.” He waved his hand at the girl.

  Slater spared a second to watch the girl writhe around the pole. She didn’t have much rhythm, true, but she had the kind of generous curves that meant guys wouldn’t care about her dancing. Glass was transfixed, for sure. The brunette could have been up there reciting the dictionary and he’d still have that slightly glazed look in his eyes.

  “Not my area of expertise,” Slater said.

  “All right, yeah, that’s enough!” Benedict yelled at the girl. “We’ll call you, okay?” He flicked his fingers dismissively at her. “Heifer,” he added under his breath.

  The girl scowled at him as she stepped off the stage, clearly having caught the insult. “Don’t bother. I can do better than this dump.”

  “You wish,�
� Benedict said, pointing toward the door with one hand and prodding at his cell phone keypad with the other.

  The girl curled her lip and strutted by, only for Glass to catch her arm. “Hey,” he said. “I’ll call you.”

  “Glass, you’re at a job interview,” Slater said, trying not to sound as irked as he really was. If this was a sneak preview of how seriously Glass was going to take things, Slater would send him home right now.

  The girl looked Glass over, smiled, and jerked her thumb at Benedict. “Little Napoleon over there has my number.” She sauntered out, hips swaying.

  Glass turned and gave Slater a smirk. “See? I can multi-task.”

  “Donna, send the next girl in,” Benedict yelled into his phone. “And if she’s not classy and sexy, you’re fired.” He hung up and smiled broadly at all of them. “We’re giving the place a make-over. Gotta start fresh on everything. Drinks, décor, dancers, the works. The last guys that ran this place… Christ. Well, look at this shit. I don’t even know what they are.” He pointed at the flamingos on the wall.

  “Ostriches,” Punk said helpfully.

  “Ostriches in a fucking strip club. Whose fucking idea was that?” Benedict shook his head.

  Slater bit his lip, not sure if he wanted to laugh or poke Punk in the eye. And then the next girl walked in, and Slater forgot all about Punk, Benedict, and the fucking flamingos. He forgot nearly everything except that rule about no wandering hands, and he wished he could forget that, because she was absolutely fucking perfect.

  Chapter Three

  She sashayed onto the stage like she owned it, long legs perfectly displayed in a pair of ragged denim shorts. Even without the skyscraper heels she wore, it was clear she was tall. Slater was six foot four. He liked tall women. Her glossy hair was dyed a dark, vibrant shade of magenta that glowed under the pink stage lights. She wore a simple navy tank top with a vintage-looking garage logo on it. The top clung lovingly to her generous breasts, the way good clothing should cling to a good woman. Slater licked his lips unconsciously, already imagining dragging his tongue over that creamy skin.

  “Nice,” Benedict said, echoing Slater’s thoughts. “Give us a show, honey.”

  The woman winked coquettishly at him, spurring an instant, irrational jealousy in Slater. She grabbed hold of the pole and began dancing.

  Unlike Glass’s girl, she had rhythm, her hips shimmying effortlessly to the beat of the trashy music. She didn’t have much skill with the pole, but she had an easy sensuality that caught the eye anyway. Frankly, Slater would have paid to watch her sit there and file her nails, as long as she did it in those shorts and heels. She twirled herself around with careless grace, like she was dancing for herself and not the men watching. Slater liked that.

  Benedict watched her, transfixed, chin resting in his hands and a goofy grin on his face. Slater did not like that, but he stomped on the feeling. It perturbed him. It was one thing to admire a woman, but this surge of ownership was something else, something that would get in the way of him doing his job here. He bit his lip and tried to watch her dance the same way he’d watch one of the club girls dance, with a detached appreciation.

  His stiff cock told him he was failing.

  By the time her song came to an end, he was shifting uncomfortably on his seat, the sound of squeaking leather drawing him the occasional sly smile from Punk. He gritted his teeth and refused to meet his friend’s eye.

  The woman struck a pose as she finished, hands on hips, head tossed back, and she looked expectantly at Benedict.

  “How did I do?” she asked.

  Benedict gave her a round of applause. “Not bad, baby, not bad. Need a little work on the whole, you know, pole stuff.” He made a vague gesture with his hand that could have meant anything. “But one of the more experienced girls can help you with that. How’d you hear about the job?”

  Slater didn’t think he imagined the slight hesitation in her answer.

  “Sammy suggested it,” she said.

  The name meant nothing to Slater, but Benedict’s eyes lit up. “Ah. Ah, okay. Ah. Nice. Okay, you got the job, then. What’s your name, sugar?”

  “Freya,” she said with a spark of annoyance. “Not baby, or honey, or sugar.”

  Oh, Slater definitely liked her.

  “Okay, doll, well, you go speak to Donna in the back and she’ll get you sorted out. You gotta pick a name, though. A flower name. ‘Cause this is the Hot House, get it?” Benedict scribbled something down on the notepad in front of him. “I’ll let Sammy know you’re on board, okay?”

  She nodded and left, disappearing through a door to the right of the stage. Slater watched her go with a quiet hunger. Maybe he needed to put himself on shift here, just once or twice. Couldn’t ask his boys to do anything he wasn’t willing to, after all.

  ****

  After Freya’s show, the rest of the meeting was an anti-climax, but Slater left it feeling satisfied. Benedict had agreed to give all three prospects a trial run, starting at the weekend. He intended to keep the club running until the refurb started, so there’d be plenty of shifts for the Wild Blood boys to get to grips with things. Although, as Punk had noted, if they couldn’t get to grips with bouncing they were all doomed.

  His fellow prospects headed back to Warren’s Mill once they were done. There was always something to be done back at the clubhouse, from cleaning meeting rooms to beer runs to accompanying club girls or old ladies out shopping. Slater watched them take off with a flicker of guilt that he wasn’t going too. Proving his commitment to the MC was tough when he couldn’t give as much time as the others. Nash cut him some slack because he valued what ArcLight could bring to the table, but Slater was keenly aware that he was already old for a prospect at thirty-three. The slow road to being patched-in ground at him. Punk, as his sponsor, assured him it didn’t matter, but Punk didn’t think anything mattered.

  Slater’s plan now was to head to the office for a few hours and catch up with his younger brother and business partner, Shane, then ride to Warren’s Mill in the evening and put in some hours behind the bar at the clubhouse. Serving drinks was a hell of a lot easier than running a security firm, especially one with as many branches as ArcLight. Slater and Shane had transformed it from a small, family-run business, to a sprawling empire that covered everything from construction sites to events. Their dad had dug his heels in the first time they presented their expansion plan to him.

  Old-fashioned values are what I built this company on, he’d said, frowning at them both from across his cheap desk in his cheap mobile office. I’m not turning into some corporate hack.

  He’d revised his opinion when he was able to buy his wife a new car for Christmas that year.

  When Jeff Slater died following a stroke seven years ago, the Slater boys had taken on full ownership of the business. Now they ran it in their father's memory. Its success was Slater's proudest accomplishment... But the business alone wasn't enough anymore. He needed something else in his life, a different challenge, a different passion. It was one of the reasons he'd finally given in to Punk and gotten involved with Wild Blood.

  Still, no matter what Punk said or how lenient Nash was now, Slater knew there’d come a time where the demands of one world outweighed the other. Until that time came, he’d keep trying to balance them.

  ****

  Freya slumped down on the sofa at the back of the dressing room and kicked off her shoes with a sigh of relief. She loved shoes. She loved crazy high heels. She even loved dancing in crazy high heels. But she loved taking them off afterward more. It was almost a post-coital feeling of satisfaction.

  The Hot House dressing room was much nicer than the club itself, clean and full of shining mirrors and racks of outfits. Glittery bikinis, feather boas, and sequined masks were strewn across the make-up tables and a creamy-floral scent hung in the air. Right now, Freya was the only woman in there, but she liked the evidence the other dancers had left behind—coats, lip glosses, hair brushes
. It created a cozy, girls-only atmosphere that Freya felt was missing from her own life nowadays.

  She pushed that thought away before it could cut too deep, focusing instead on her successful audition.

  So, okay. “Successfully auditioned as a stripper” had never been on her to-do list. It was a hell of a long way from “successfully applied for pre-pharmacy courses,” which was what she’d planned to do with her year. But Freya was adaptable. She had no choice.

  She didn’t dwell on that either. The important thing was, she had a job and, theoretically, it was going to make her a lot of money. Hopefully enough money to keep Sammy the Asshat happy and allow her to save something for that undergrad course. She’d always heard that strippers made bank. Stories of strippers paying their way through law school, stuff like that. She was counting on it being true, not just for herself, and certainly not for Sammy, but her family too.

  She wriggled her aching toes with a sigh. It was no good. Every thought led her back to the same sad mess, no matter how hard she tried to stay upbeat.

  The dressing room door swung open, and a statuesque brown woman with a cloud of tawny hair swept in. She looked regal in a dazzling red dress that showed off strong legs and heels that added easily another five inches to her impressive height. She fell onto the sofa next to Freya with a dramatic sigh.

  “Are you one of the newbies?” she asked Freya. “I was starting to worry Benedict wouldn’t hire anyone.”

  Freya nodded, offering the woman her hand. “Freya Markham.”

  “Sefina Mae,” she said, offering a name that conjured up images of tropical beaches and hibiscus flowers. “But it’s Jasmine here. Get it, because this is the Hot House and we’re exotic flowers.” She rolled her eyes. “You picked a stage name yet?”

  “I was literally only hired ten minutes ago. Benedict said I should pick a stage name, but I guess I should see what everyone else is using first.” Freya shrugged. She liked the idea though, as much as Sefina clearly thought it was cheesy. She could go and be Lily or Peony on stage, inhabit a different name, a different personality, and leave that person behind when she finished each night. It would give her a little separation from the whole thing.