Strip. Delta Dupree

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      “How ya feel?” Dallas asked. “Ready?”

      “Nervous as a freakin’ mouse with a pride of big cats on the prowl,” Bryce replied loudly. Killer’s DJ spun the latest tunes at maximum decibels.

      “Chill out. Keep your mind on the music rather than the crowd. Show a little arrogance. You’ll do fine and rock.”

      Bryce hoped to hell Dallas was right. Standing in the drafty hallway, he peeked through the curtain’s opening into the audience. He wanted to shit. A ton of women crawled all over the place, wall to wall. Tall ones, short ones, thick down to lean, superfine and quite a few…others. Dallas had said the latter group tipped the best if dancers gave what they wanted.

      He didn’t recognize any woman other than Galaxeé, luckily. Sure as shit, if a worker at the company showed up, word would spread faster than a computer virus through the office.

      Galaxeé had wandered backstage earlier, informed him of the dancers’ sequence, offered a few pointers, then wished him luck. She added an interesting request he had no problem fulfilling. In fact, he looked forward to it.

      Where was Rio?

      Then he saw her. Whoa. She was gliding down the stairs in filmy red, satin skin, and all the dick-enhancing visions of a sex-starved man. She lacked only a hazy fog billowing about her feet.

      Fortunately, he hadn’t tucked his long black shirt inside his black trousers. The length concealed his sudden arousal. Beneath the slacks, a sparkling ebony G-string put a tight squeeze on him. Bryce shifted the confining garment to accommodate the swelling. He couldn’t step onstage iron hard.

      He followed Rio’s movements as she greeted customers, flashing her brilliant smile, saying a few words. She eclipsed the group like an exquisite ruby among a display of costume jewelry.

      Real. And everything she wore, no doubt, was real. Glittery earrings, a single-stone pendant nestled in a set of hooters worth wallowing in, even her dazzling bracelet—most likely diamonds—glistened as she reached for a wine goblet handed to her.

      Bet some dumbshit dropped a few paychecks on her, probably one of the fifties guys. Some idiots can be so damned stupid. Be a cold day in hell before I give my money to any broad.

      Bryce squinted, zeroed in when she sat next to Galaxeé and crossed her luscious legs. What did she have on beneath that short dress, anything? He noticed she’d gained other’s attention as well. One server damn near broke his neck trying to get an eyeful. The son of a bitch.

      “See anything worthwhile?”

      Bryce recognized the baritone from a phone conversation he’d had with his sister. Interrupter Jason Simmons, this man. They’d never met face-to-face. “Who’s the big dude serving the woman in blue sitting in the center?” He angled his head around, gave Simmons the once-over: same height, slightly leaner, arrogance written all over his brown face and in his slanted brown eyes.

      “Cockroach.”

      “Been here long?”

      “Since we opened. Why? You want his job?”

      No, I ought to bust his nose, just as I plan to bust yours. “Thought he looked familiar.”

      Jason grunted. “Galaxeé’s onstage. I’m up, cowboy. Step aside. I’ll show you how things are done here.”

      Deep-seated, unadulterated resentment punctuated Bryce’s snarl. Fucker. He shifted to his left, let Simmons pass, and sneaked a peek at Rio before the curtains closed.

      He swung his gaze toward the dancer waiting behind the heavy, dark drapes, toward the same punk who had marked his sister’s face with a fist.

      3

      “Encore! Encore!” the crowd roared.

      Thunderous applause exploded as Orlando—skimpily dressed in a bush warrior’s loincloth, wearing straw ankle wreaths, a leafy headpiece made of sticks, and twirling torches—finished his exotic-dance routine and left the stage. He jammed once per set. On opening night, his arms had tired after back-to-back encores. He’d set the headpiece on fire by accident. Scared the life out of him and Killer’s owners.

      “Boys are hot tonight,” Galaxeé said. Bracing one foot on the floor, she sat half on, half off the barstool. “Did you see that little girl up front? I’m thinking she got in on a false ID. The child had her hands all up and down Orlando’s pretty legs. Mercy.”

      “You remember Myrtle Thomas, don’t you?” Rio asked. “That’s her daughter Afrika. She’s well over twenty-one.”

      “Texas Myrtle? Hell, we are getting old.” She bit off the queen olive from the decorative toothpick, then drained the martini and slid the glass across the bar top. “Luanne! I need another drink, honey. Get one for СКАЧАТЬ