Page 35 of Four Seconds to Lose

I should have warned Ginger against telling her that I owned the building. Fuck, I wish no one had ever found out to begin with! I know what I look like, having several of my dancers live there. And now Charlie, too.

Still, I’m relieved that she’s questioning my motives. That tells me she’s smart and less likely to get taken advantage of. I thought about swinging by her apartment after finishing up with China but decided against it. Ginger’s there, anyway. I asked her to stay—to help Charlie get settled in but, more importantly, to make sure she’s really okay after what happened earlier today.

I’ll get to see her again tonight, anyway.

I grit my teeth against the unwanted excitement that goes along with that thought.

chapter twelve

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CHARLIE

“One minute, Charlie,” Terry mouths, just like he did last night. I stand within the shadows, just like I did the first night, waiting for the first chords of my song to blast through the speakers—“Supermassive Black Hole” by Muse this time. Only tonight, I’m no longer on trial. I have the job. Despite my relatively modest outfit, my lack of crowd interaction, and my strange song selection, Cain hired me. I should be happy. I should be less nervous.

So, why am I seconds away from having pee run down my leg?

I instinctively curl my arms over my chest.

I’ve been at the bar for several hours now. Given that I have absolutely no experience behind a bar and, some would argue no business being anywhere near a bar, I stuck to cleaning, stocking, and cashing out. It was a good distraction.

But now I’m here, cowering. I’m about to get on that scary-ass roller coaster for the second time, even though I know just how scary-ass it is. Maybe it won’t be so crowded tonight. Maybe... Holding my breath, I peek out around the divider and see a sea of heads. They may have multiplied in the last ten minutes.

This is ridiculous. I’m playing a part. Charlie Rourke is a confident pole-dancing diva. That’s all this is. An acting role. Actors do uncomfortable scenes all the time. I am an actor and this is merely an uncomfortable scene.

That I will play over and over again.

Six nights a week.

For months.

Oh, God. I’m going to be sick.

I take a deep, calming breath and remind myself with a mutter, “You deserve this, you drug-trafficking wench.”

“How’s your stage-fright thing?” a husky voice calls out behind me.

“Ginger!” I shriek—partly in happiness, mostly in panic that she may have heard my little pep talk. By the smile on her face, I know she didn’t. I throw my arms around her neck, as I did the previous night. “I hate doing this,” I admit in a rare burst of weakness.

“Wow, you really do have bad nerves.” She chuckles as I peel myself off her. “You’ll do fine. You’re incredible up there.” Waggling her eyebrows, she adds, “I should know.” There’s a pause and then a tiny smirk curls her lips. “Cain’s watching.”

“What?” I feel my eyes widen as I spin and peer out again. Sure enough, I spot his lean frame hanging over the railing next to Nate, his gorgeous dark eyes on the stage. Quietly waiting. My heart starts pounding against my chest wall. “You said he never comes out to the club!” He wasn’t out there when I left the bar area to get changed.

And I know because I was watching for him.

She shrugs in an I-don’t-know-what-to-tell-you way. “He doesn’t. He never watches the dancers, Charlie.”

“Yeah, he also never sleeps with the dancers, right?” I mutter derisively, earning her questioning frown. With a sigh, I explain, “I saw him leave China’s tonight. It was pretty clear what our pimp daddy was doing over there.”

“Oh.” Ginger’s face scrunches up tightly as she waves me off. “He was helping her study for her GED. The girl is majorly dyslexic. She couldn’t string five words together when he hired her and now she wants a high school diploma. That’s all that was. Trust me.”

I look out at the suave strip club owner. Helping her study? Really? “She sure didn’t make it look like that,” I say and my doubt is obvious in my tone, though I feel a wave of relief course through my body.

“Of course she didn’t. China’s been in love with Cain for years. Any chance she gets to claim her fictional territory over him, she’ll take it. And, word of warning,” she adds, “don’t ever let Cain hear you calling him a pimp. That’s a sensitive spot for him. Your favorite, Rick Cassidy, called him that once, to his face. Cain beat his ass good. Nate pulled him off before he could kill the guy.”

I try to picture that reserved man out there pounding the crap out of someone. It’s hard. Even today, when he was dealing with my crazy neighbors, he was unusually calm. The only signal that he was ready to deliver a beating was the tensed hands at his sides.

“Why is he out there, Ginger?” The last thing I want to do is make Cain regret hiring me.

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