Page 6 of The Opposite Effect

“The clients at Maison’s speak fondly of her very often, but nomatter how much money I offer, she never accepts my proposition.”

My shoulders lift into a shrug. “Showing your body for money is one thing. Selling it is entirely different.”

When Keke scoffs, I turn my brown eyes to her and arch a brow. The longer I stare into her rich, chocolate eyes, the more her refined posture slackens. The persona she displays when working is a completely different Keke than the one you see behind closed doors. Keke is from Fredericksburg, Virginia. She rides horses bareback, drinks beer by the gallon, and when she comes, her voice reverts to its original country twang.Y’allincluded. How do I know this? We’ve messed around a few times in the past year.

Now don’t take my admission the wrong way. Keke may be the manager of a brothel, but she has never onceworkedin that industry. Like the pretty brunette who just finished her ribbon performance, Keke refuses to sell her body for profit. Her firm stance on the issue ensures her staff at Maison’s are treated with the utmost respect and dignity. For the industry she works in, that is no easy feat. Luckily for Keke and her staff, she’s backed by an exceedingly notorious man—Mr. Henry Gottle, Sr.—mob boss of New York City.

“Have you thought about asking her to do a routine at Maison that excludes a bedroom?”

Keke’s face brightens more with every word I speak. “Brax, you little devil. That could work. Get her in the door and convert her once she’s signed on the dotted line.”

“That wasn’t what I meant.”

Keke doesn’t hear a word spilling from my lips. She simply smiles and presses a kiss on my cheek before sauntering to the roped-off backstage area. Once she enters through the dark red velvet curtains, I swing my eyes around the space, seeking Damon.His rift with his big brother is the sole reason I’ve rocked up to a strip club at one in the morning on a Sunday.

While adding three hours to his back tattoo earlier today, Damon suggested we meet up for a few beers with his brother. Considering his brother is my best mate, I readily agreed. I had no clue at the time that his watering hole of choice was a strip club on the outskirts of town.

I will admit, though, my initial assessment of this establishment was a little off track. I thought it would be a seedy establishment with dingy lighting and cracked vinyl booths. It isn’t. The owner has pumped some serious coin into this place, giving it a nightclub atmosphere.

The booths are high-end with varnished wood trim and black leather upholstery. The lighting setup is impressive, with it being incorporated into the music pumping out of the speakers shackled to the ceiling. From the caliber of staff I’ve seen serving clients and dancing, the standard is high.Incredibly high.It feels more like I’ve walked into the dressing room of a Miss Universe swimsuit competition than a seedy strip club.

My aimless wandering comes to a halt when I hear “Brax!” shouted by a profound voice in the distance.

Cranking my neck to the side, I spot Damon in a booth in the back corner. Surprisingly, he is alone. I dip my chin in greeting to numerous scantily clad women as I make my way across the room. The scent of sweat-slicked skin intensifies the closer I get to the back of the club. Damon stands from the booth and greets me with a slap on the back and a man hug.

He grimaces when I return his gesture.

“Sorry, still fresh?”

He nods. “I haven’t drunk enough whiskey to lessen the sting of my new ink,” he replies, laughing.

“Where’s your brother?”

Just as the final syllable escapes my lips, I spot Ryan making his way through the throng of people mingling in the vast space. A smirk etches onto my lips when I see the disappointing glare Ryan is directing at Damon. Ryan and Damon are brothers cut from two entirely different cloths. Ryan was born and raised in Ravenshoe. The week after he graduated high school, he applied to join the police force. He was immediately accepted. He’s spent the last nine years working at the Ravenshoe Police Department.

Damon was also born and raised in Ravenshoe, but unlike Ryan, he left the instant he turned eighteen. Although it’s never been fully disclosed, there are rumors circulating that Damon and a certain member of the law enforcement office don’t see eye to eye. That may be the reason this is Damon’s first visit home in over eight years.

My brows lower when Ryan and Damon greet with a shake of hands. Anyone would swear they were strangers meeting for the first time, not brothers.

While issuing my greeting to Ryan, I mutter into his ear, “It’s been eight years, man. Time to let bygones be bygones.”

Ryan pulls back and peers into my eyes. “You know why he picked for us to meet here, don’t you?”

I smile. “Yeah, I know. But there’s nothing wrong with an off-duty detective spending his weekend looking at some fine ladies.”

Damon picked this establishment as he knew Ryan would hesitate to show up here. Ryan works hard at keeping his reputation as an honest detective sparkling clean. It is a well-known fact that certain business entities in this area pay for the privilege of keeping their establishments off the local enforcement radar. I’m pretty sure this is one of the clubs that kept Ryan’s dad’s bank balance in the positive during his twenty-year stint with the Ravenshoe Police Department.

Within forty minutes, I’ve downed three overpriced whiskeys,Ryan and Damon haven’t spoken a word to each other, and Damon has secured himself not one but two lap dances.

I nudge Ryan with my shoulder. “What’s the deal? Why is he back?” I gesture my head to Damon during my last question.

Although Damon and Ryan have personalities on opposite ends of the spectrum, their looks are nearly identical. Both have glacier blue eyes, cut facial features, and they’re extremely popular with the ladies. I’ve never had any problems pulling in the ladies, but my looks are often referred to as laid-back compared to Ryan’s. He has the cutthroat-businessman appearance, with his attire of choice being suits and polished shoes. My outfit selection rarely strays from ripped jeans and designer shirts.

Ryan tosses back a mouthful of the whiskey the waiter just sat in front of him before answering, “I don’t know. He sent Ma a message a few days ago saying he might head back this way in a few months. He turns up on her doorstep the very next day.”

My lips quirk. “You think he’s running from something?” I query, noticing a mask of concern slipping over Ryan’s face.

“Something or someone,” Ryan mutters before taking another gulp of his drink. He runs the back of his hand over his mouth before locking his blue eyes with mine. “So what’s the deal with you? I’ve seen you turn down three girls since I arrived. That’s not the Brax I know.”

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