Page 6 of Ready to Cash Out

“Trust me. They’ll know what to do, I said.”

He resisted the urge to say that he wouldn’t trust her to tell him the correct color of the sky that day, instead batting his eyes and drawling, “Can’t wait.”

“You have yourself a good time,” Camille said as she gathered up the paperwork to scoop back into the folder. “I’ll send you a copy later. Be seein’ you.”

“Bye.” Trev followed her to the door so he could lock up behind her. He checked the locks to make sure they were secured and then turned his attention back to his wardrobe. He had a few hours to kill before he needed to leave, and he still had to figure out what to wear. He wanted to make sure he looked extra delicious to ensure a lasting impression.

After all, tonight wasn’t going to be an ordinary job.

He had to entertain a gangster.

Chapter

Two

There was no way for Trev to know who Camille’s friend was or if one of the lecherous creeps currently drooling over him might be the Luchesi gangster he was supposed to impress.

At least they couldn’t touch him yet.

Trev was in a tall plexiglass box with a pole in the middle, slowly walking in lazy turns to show off his body. The box wasn’t big enough to do many tricks, but he could drop down into a squat to stick out his ass and give his admirers something to salivate over. It also allowed him to turn his back to them and roll his eyes as hard as he could.

He’d vowed that he would never do this again, and yet, here he was.

He’d painted his face for the gods, keeping his highlights bright but his eyes dark. He wanted his eyes to pop, and he wanted to look alluring, sexy, and a little dangerous.

That would probably please a gangster, right?

The Cannery had a small stage with a short catwalk, and plexiglass cages lined the walls on either side. It was a cramped black abyss of small plush chairs and even smaller tables lit with red neons. There was a curtained doorway beside the bar that led into a hall of private rooms where the real action took place.

The manager had stuck Trev in one of the cages closest to the door, no doubt meant to be a slight as it was not considered a prime spot.

As if that mattered.

There was a small crowd watching him, and he was happy to slowly caress his hands over his body through his black lace panties and matching bralette. His heels were black vinyl, eight inches, and he twirled gracefully around the pole, dragging his stilettos along the edge of the case.

If the manager had put him in the darkest corner with a burlap sack over him, Trev could have still had his pick of any man inside that club.

It wasn’t up to him of course, and the red tag hanging on the latch of his cage indicated that his company had already been purchased and he was merely waiting to be claimed. He could practically hear the other dancers gnashing their teeth since the lack of availability didn’t deter his flock of admirers.

He saw the same buyers he’d always seen at the Cannery: old men wearing ties, middle-aged guys in polo shirts and khakis, and younger fellows in sports team jerseys and hats trying to look butch. He couldn’t imagine any of these pitiful louts were actually gangsters.

Trev would have much rather been at home, eating Chinese with Juicy and his imaginary dog.

Wait.

There.

Three big men in expensive suits tailored to perfection walked in, and everyone cleared a wide path for them. They wore flashy watches and shiny cufflinks, and they exuded raw power and authority with a glance. As one of them adjusted their coat, Trev saw a gun tucked away in a shoulder holster, and he assumed they were all armed.

No weapons were allowed in the Cannery, not ever, but they must have made an exception for these men…

Which meant they were definitely gangsters.

Two of the men were nearly identical, maybe brothers, with slick black hair and rough grizzled faces made for radio. The taller of the pair had a neatly trimmed beard while the other was clean shaven. They looked like they knew what blood smelled like, and Trev avoided eye contact when they looked his way.

The third one, however, was a totally different story—he was fine as hell.

He was the tallest of the trio, big and broad, and his shoulders and chest strained the seams of his jacket. He didn’t just walk, no, this man lumbered like a giant jungle beast. His black hair was thick and curly, and he let it hang loose around his face. His nose had a slight crook to it as if it had been broken, but it only enhanced his rugged appeal.

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