Page 10 of Kings Against the World

It doesn’t come close to covering my ass.

But that’s the point. Being eye candy for the paying male customers.

I step out onto the club floor with the urge to tug down my cropped tee and cover my ass with my hands.

I’ve got the urge to walk the hell out of here altogether.

Sugar happens to pass by and winks at me with an encouraging smile. I’ve only known the blonde for an hour and she seems ditzy but she’s been welcoming.

All the girls have been.

The girls at Déjà Vu aren’t in competition with each other like at other clubs. Everybody has a different look and seems to have their own set of clientele and dedicated customers.

I inhale a deep breath, soften my expression, and then strut toward the bar. I’ve waitressed before. Posing as a bottlegirl at a strip club can’t be that much different. Some of the same skills are required—being pleasant, sometimes flirtatious, serving customers as fast as possible, and most important of all, observation and memorization skills.

Half the clientele at Déjà Vu is affiliated with Asa Boone in some way. Every moment is a chance to collect intel.

My first night at the club is uneventful. The hours drag by at a snail’s pace with only a handful of regulars coming by for their favorite girl on the stage.

“Tuesdays are always dead,” says Versace, another one of the bottle girls.

Wednesday’s not much better. I make only fifty-two bucks in tips, which is low for the hours I pull. My phone vibrates with messages from people at work. Duchovny and Rodriguez, my partner, checking in on me.

They have no idea where I am; they think I’m still in D.C.

By Saturday night, I turn off my phone altogether. It’s just another potential weak spot if somebody were to suspect me and search my person.

It’s perfect timing, because Asa Boone actually does turn up despite the big gambling tournament being canceled.

But just as I’m settling into my undercover alias, making inroads with Boone and the rest of his table, the most unexpected wrench is thrown into my plans.

Oswald Gallagher from the Steel Kings Motorcycle Club decides to turn up in Houston and then point out how he recognizes me from a previous case I’d worked on the Chosen Saints cult. He’s crass, loud, covered in tattoos, and thinks a mohawk is a great hairstyle to rock. He’s obnoxious and has no concept of discretion as he comes up to the counter and points out that he recognizes me.

It’s the worst possible timing as I’m servicing Boone’s table. I’m behind the counter putting together their drink order whiletrying to play it cool and pretend I don’t notice how a few of the men in Boone’s company start glancing over.

“Mr. Gallagher, what are you doing in Houston?”

His brows raise. “Thought I just asked you the same thing.”

I start scowling, my cheeks hollowing out, before I catch myself. “I’m working.”

“Since when do you work at a titty bar?”

“None of your fucking business,” I mutter under my breath. I leave Gallagher staring after me as I balance the tray in one hand and strut toward Boone’s table.

Their loud and raucous conversation drops off as soon as I’m at their table delivering their drinks. Ignoring the sudden strange energy, I smile and begin placing their drinks down.

“Double tequila for you, big boy,” I flirt at Jay Chmura, one of Boone’s righthand men.

Tall and heavyset with gelled hair and plenty of tattoos, he’s no stranger to the FBI. He’d come into the club last night and loved the attention I gave him (all because of his association with Boone).

It’s a different story tonight. He sits solemnly at Boone’s side and pretends we have no rapport.

Boone, who hides behind his dark shades, is watching every move I make. Most people would crack under the pressure of being the center of attention in such a circle. These are bad, dangerous men, and I’m like a guppy floating in shark-infested waters.

But I’ve never been one to back down. Even when the sharks start circling in the water.

“Can I get you anything else, gentlemen?”

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