Page 47 of Skin Deep

I wanted to go in to watch him, but the club didn’t open to the public until six. I’d have to spend an entire evening in that seedy joint, something I wasn’t looking forward to, especially if I had to do it alone. Part of me wanted to call Pax and ask him to come with me, but that would go bad quickly. The first time he looked at any of the girls on stage, I’d be dragging him out of there to fuck him in my car just to remind him he belonged to me.

This is ridiculous, I thought, tapping the steering wheel.Since when was I the possessive type?I’d never cared when Ken ogled every hot guy in Miami, and there werea lotof hot guys in Miami.

I kept telling myself that Pax wasn’t going to cheat on me, but only time would tell if that was true. Still, I wasn’t bringing him to a place like this. Not a dirty, shitty little strip club like the Foxhole. Besides, I wouldn’t be able to focus on work if Pax was next to me. I needed one of my brothers. Someone I could trust. Someone who wouldn’t mind spending an evening at a dive like the Foxhole.

I needed Xander.

With a sigh, I started up the car and pulled away from the Foxhole. “Call Xander.”

“Calling Xander,” replied my car’s pleasant, computerized voice.

He picked up after two rings, sounding groggy. “Ever hear of this new thing they invented? It’s called texting.”

“Can’t text. I’m driving,” I replied. “Were you sleeping?"

“No, I’m hungover.” He groaned. “And nobody uses their phone to make calls anymore. It’s literally the worst.”

“Get out of bed, loser, and put on something fit for a slimy strip joint. I expect you to meet me at Shepherd’s at eight.”

“You’re taking me to a seedy titty bar? And it’s not even my birthday.”

I snorted and shook my head. Typical Xander. “Don’t get too excited. We’re working. I’ll text you the details. And Xander… This place is owned by the vory, so be on your best behavior.”

“As if I’d ever give you anything less,” he quipped and hung up.

“Tellmeaboutthisnew boyfriend of yours,” Shepherd said later that evening as I sat in his kitchen. “Is he the one that put that bruise on your face?”

I frowned and rubbed the bruise on my cheek. “It was consensual.”

“A pity. I have a new recipe for blood sausages I was dying to try.” Shepherd smirked and unbuttoned the cuffs of his white dress shirt.

“Very funny, but you can’t eat him,” I replied, still unsure if he was joking. While I knew he had indulged in a little light cannibalism in the past, I didn’t think he still did that with his victims. Did he? If he did, I didn’t want to know.

Shepherd rolled his sleeves up to start cooking. I glanced at his arms and then down at mine with a frown.

Shepherd was probably the most conventionally handsome of all the Laskin brothers. He was the definition of tall, dark, and handsome, while I was average, blond, and middle of the road at best. Like me, he enjoyed exercise. Unlike me, he’d always found it incredibly easy to build muscle and bulk wherever he wanted. He’d never had to diet a day in his life.

My brother was also one of the few people I could trust to cook for me. I had a lot of trouble eating food made by other people, especially if I couldn’t see it being made, but for whatever reason my brain had decided it was okay to eat what Shepherd made without issue.

I sighed and considered the glass of cabernet sauvignon in my hand. It was a French wine, one that Shepherd was fond of, though I had yet to acquire a taste for it. I was more of a pinot noir man. Cabernet sauvignon was too bold for me, too demanding. It also tasted too much like sucking on the end of a grape-flavored pencil.

“He seems… honest,” I said eventually.

“Honest?” Shepherd gave me an appraising look. “Interesting first choice of words.”

“What else do you want me to say?” I sighed again and ran a hand over my face. “He has two little girls and he’s a widower whose wife was one of the ripper’s victims. He works in road construction and does vigilante work on the side.”

“Does he have money problems?”

I lowered the wine and made a face. “That’s not what this is.”

“I’m only asking,” he said with a shrug. “Far be it from me to accuse your latest romantic conquest of dating you for your money.”

“Pax has never asked me for a damn cent, Shepherd,” I said coldly. Though if he had asked me for money, I’d have given it to him without question, so maybe Shepherd had a point, even if his worries were misplaced. The differences in our socioeconomic backgrounds and class standing hadn’t been an issue, but maybe it should’ve been.

“I’m more concerned that you might feel like you’re rescuinghim,” Shepherd said, cutting the cooked chicken breast he’d prepared into cubes.

“He’s saved me in his own way,” I said quietly.

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