Page 15 of Wanting Mr Black

A crease line appears on his forehead, and he’s still not looking at me. “What else do you know?”

“How you had a difficult time in foster care …” I stall because I don’t even want to say the next sentence. “How your previous foster carer—”

His dark eyes snap to mine, and he cuts me off, “It seems as though you pretty much know everything.”

I frown. “Not at all. I think your mum …” I trail off as he gets up, grabs the dishes from the table, and heads into the kitchen.

He throws them onto the counter with a clatter, and then he turns and stalks into the hallway. “Come on. We’re going to the club,” he tosses over his shoulder.

Nine

The short drive to the club takes place in strained silence. Whenever I glance in Art’s direction, he’s staring straight ahead with a frown on his face. I’m annoyed that we’re already back in a situation where one of us is pissed off so soon.

And what did he think I’d been talking to his mum about?

She had come to his apartment because he’d rung her without realising after going on a bender. Of course we were going to talk about him. We weren’t going to discuss the weather, were we?For fucks sake.

The car rumbles to a stop on the cobbles outside the club. The black-and-gold sign is unlit, and the wooden front door is closed.In daylight, without the lights and illuminated sign, the façade looks drab and a million miles away from an alluring strip club.

I can’t help but feel a little nervous as I stare out of the window. “Will Tara be here?”

“I’ve no idea,” he says, climbing out of the car.

At least he answered me.

I get out of the car and shut the door. A hand catches mine.

“It doesn’t matter if she is.”

The tension from his shoulders has disappeared, and I instantly relax. For whatever reason, the frosty atmosphere seems to be thawing.

He keeps a firm grip on my hand as he slides a key into the lock, pushes open the heavy front door, and leads me inside. All the lights are on, and instead of music, I hear voices as we walk down the corridor. As we arrive in the main area of the club, a familiar burly figure – dressed in all black, as usual – heads our way. For the first time since I met Big Steve, he breaks into a grin at the sight of us together. His blue eyes flick from me to Art as the two men greet each other with a handshake.

“So, you two are good?” he asks.

Art squeezes my hand. “We’re good.”

I can’t help feeling the trickle of relief because for a few moments there, I wasn’t so sure.

“I’m glad you two worked it out.” Big Steve scratches the back of his neck. “I knew you would.”

“He’s an old romantic at heart; don’t be fooled by his gruff exterior.” There’s a twinkle of amusement in Art’s eyes as he looks at me, and then he turns his attention back to Big Steve. “I’ve brought Sophie here to look around. To get to know the real club.”

Big Steve pulls a face. “Yeah, it’s not all slick and sexy, I can tell you.”

As Art and Big Steve chat about security, I look around the room, and I disengage from Art and wander across to the main stage, marvelling at how vastly different the black stage and steel pole look in the harsh glare of the fluorescent strip lighting. Without all the lighting and music, it looks very unenticing.

A man and a woman are talking over by the front of the stage. My ears prick up as the woman raises her voice slightly. I presume she’s a stripper because she’s definitely got the body for it. Black faux leather trousers cling to her shapely behind, and a tight white T-shirt pulls taut over her generous breasts. Thick bright-red hair cascades past her shoulders, and she’s wearing black pointy-heeled boots, which make her a fraction taller than the guy. Apart from false eyelashes and red lips, she’s make-up-free. She’s gesturing wildly at the pole and the stage, and she seems to be arguing with him. He’s slightly shorter than Art but built like a brick wall, and the faded blue jeans and light-grey T-shirt he’s wearing look poured on. His light-blond hair is spiked up on top.

I must have been staring too long because he notices me watching them. He says something to the woman, who sits down on the edge of the stage in a huff and begins scrolling through her mobile.

I avert my eyes for a moment, conscious I’m being nosy, and when I look back, he’s heading my way.

A bolt of panic shoots through me. I’m just here to look around; talking to people wasn’t part of the deal.

The guy flashes me an ultra-white smile, and his piercing blue eyes sweep over me in a way that makes me feel instantly on edge. I don’t like him.

“Hey, are you here for the job?”

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