Page 70 of Lawless in Leather

What the fuck? Mal bristled and grabbed the arm of the floor manager standing beside him. “Shut this down. Now,” he growled. “Before I shut him down.”

The man nodded and hurried off. Mal watched Raina. She had blinked when Blair had proved himself to be a complete moron by asking that question but she hadn’t answered. Yet.

“Strippers take their clothes off and give men lap dances. There are lots of great dancers who strip out there but that’s not what I do, Blair. Burlesque is about sexual tension, not sex. And the way it’s done at my club, it’s about a lot more than that. Like female empowerment. And respect for women. The kind you apparently weren’t taught very well. Now, did you have another question?” Raina said in a steely voice.

Mal bit back a laugh as Blair’s face went red. Which didn’t mean he wouldn’t still have a thing or two to say to the guy about how to talk to women after the show. But Raina had taken him down quite nicely on air, and that was a good start.

Abruptly Blair put his hand on his ear and then nodded and turned to the camera. “And we’ll back right after this break. This is Blair Hansen and I’ve been talking to Raina Easton, choreographer for the Fallen Angels, the new dance squad that has been making waves over at Deacon Field. Don’t go away, your great morning is just getting started.”

Mal waited a few seconds until the movement of the crew told him that they were off air. He learned the signs in the previous two interviews. He started to walk onto the floor of the small studio but Raina met him before he could get too far.

She wrapped a hand around his arm. “Mal,” she said warningly. “You can’t punch out a journalist.”

“I’m not going to punch him,” Mal said. “Just explain to him that there are some questions that come with a price tag.”

He looked over her head at Blair, who was being fussed over by a makeup man. But he was looking at Mal and he must have got the message that Mal was trying to convey with his glare because he went pale under the heavy makeup he wore.

“Mal,” Raina said again. “Let’s go. We have to get back to Deacon. Game day, remember? He’s not worth the trouble. I took care of it. He was just trying to score a point and if you go and do something dumb, then he will have. So shake it off, big boy. He’s not the last guy you’ll hear call me a stripper, if you and I keep going.”

“Maybe not. And if he isn’t then he’s not going to be the only one who’s going to regret saying it.”

“Not a damsel in distress here,” she said. “Remember?” She tugged on his arm again. “Let’s go.”

Mal looked down at her. She didn’t look upset. Concerned maybe, but not upset. Concerned about him. Which meant that if he kept going, she was going to move to upset. Because of something he’d done. Which would make him the dickhead in this scenario. He took a deep breath and sent one last glare in Blair’s direction. “You’re right. Let’s go.”

Chapter Sixteen

“I’ll walk you down to the locker room,” Mal said as Raina pulled into the underground parking lot at Deacon. She had a space nearer the elevator now; Mal had insisted, claiming it was easier for the security team to keep their eyes on Rose if she had a prime position.

“You don’t have to. I’m going by the wardrobe room to do wing check first. Brady gave me a bunch of spare feathers in case any have come loose,” Raina said, killing the ignition and tugging her keys free. The wings, effective as they were, were a little high-maintenance, shedding feathers with alarming ease. Not wanting moth-eaten Angels, Raina had added feather-sewing skills to her arsenal. She glanced at Mal as she undid her seat belt. He seemed to have calmed down on the drive back to Staten Island but she wasn’t sure if he had really forgotten about that idiot TV host—who, she had to confess, she would have been quite happy to let Mal punch in the nose—or whether he was just acting that way to make her feel better.

“I’m going to the security office, it’s on my way,” Mal said.

Only if your definition of on his way was “one floor up and on the opposite side of the stadium.” But she didn’t think that arguing with him was the best approach right now. So she waited while he grabbed her bags—no point trying to dissuade him from that, either, right this second—and then she locked Rose.

“What do you think our chances are today?” she asked as they walked. Surely that was a suitable change of subject? Baseball. He liked baseball. He owned the damned team.

Mal looked down at her. “It’s okay, I’m over Blair the prick. You don’t have to cheer me up by talking about sports.”

“Hey, I like baseball, too,” she said, a little indignant. And a little annoyed that he’d seen through her ploy so easily. “And I work hard for this team.”

“Yes, you do. Okay, then, if you really want to know.” He started to talk baseball statistics at her. Comparing the performances of the Saints versus the Orioles and who was injured and who was in form. She nodded and smiled and pretended she understood all of it. Some of it made sense, but statistics ignored the heart of the game. The magic when a team gelled and started to play like many bodies with one mind. At least, she assumed that happened for sports teams just like it did for dancers or theater companies. And given she’d never been able to figure out why some nights were magical and every movement was easy and it all just worked until the air fairly shimmered with light when she was dancing, she had to also assume that no one had yet worked out what combination of chemistry and work and luck turned a baseball team into an unstoppable run machine.

The players were superstitious; she’d seen them tapping bats in the dugout or working rosary beads or carrying good-luck charms in the bullpen when she’d watched the Angels from the sidelines during the last match. On game days, Ollie Shields always wore his cap backward until he stepped onto the field. Then he turned it right-way around. And immediately back again when he stepped off.

Habit as a way of evoking performance. Which turned into superstition. She understood that.

Mal’s flow of information came to a halt as they reached the storage room where the wings were kept. Raina pulled out the swipe card that opened the door, but the reader beeped and the two little lights stayed obstinately red.

“That’s weird,” she said.

Mal took the card from her and swiped it again. Another beep. Then he tried his own. Another beep.

Frowning, he tugged at the steel handle on the door. Which swung open.

Raina’s stomach dropped. “That’s not good.”

“No,” Mal said. “It’s not.” He pulled out his phone and punched a button. “Chen, get down here, wing room. Stat.” He shoved the phone back in his pocket. “Stay here.” The door came fully open as he yanked at it.

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