Beneath This Ink (Beneath #2)(32)

I was officially too old for this shit.

After finishing my last tat, I’d been ready to head up to my place and call it a night. Alone.

But instead, my manager had called in with a family emergency, and now I was sitting in the office at Tassel, wondering why in the hell I’d thought buying a strip club would be worth the trouble. I reminded myself that the best lead I’d had in over a year had come out of this place. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t turning into a giant f*cking pain in my ass.

“That was my shit, and she wore it on stage without asking! I want half her tips from that set, because we all know her skanky ass wouldn’t have brought in nearly as much if it hadn’t been for my glitter G-string!”

What. The. Fuck.

“Bitch! Don’t you dare—”

“Both of you, shut it down,” I barked. Five minutes of this bickering was giving me a f*cking headache. “Get the f*ck out my office and back on the goddamn stage for your sets.”

I looked at Ginger, or whatever the f*ck the redhead’s name was. “Keep your mitts off the other girls’ shit. And if I have to deal with this crap again, you’re both out on your asses.”

“That’s not fair—” Glitter G-string started.

“Out. Now.”

They both turned and marched their mostly-naked asses toward the door. My dick didn’t even perk up and take notice.

I rested my elbows on my desk and dropped my pounding head into my hands. I had to find an assistant manager and quick. I did not want to be handling bullshit like this—ever again.

I dug my thumbs into my temples and rubbed. The pressure receded slightly, and a cold, hard fact slid into place: The reason my dick hadn’t perked up at the ass-tastic display I’d just witnessed was because there was only one ass I wanted to see.

Totally * whipped, and I don’t even remember tasting that *.

I cringed at the knock on the door. This interruption had better not involve glitter G-strings.

I pushed up from the desk, and one of my bouncers popped his head in.

“Need you out front, boss. Got a brawl.”

Other than the furniture that might get busted up, and the tips the girls were losing, the idea of a fight didn’t piss me off too bad.

I would never be too old for cracking skulls together. A little bloodshed never hurt anyone.

Until I stepped into the main room and caught a flash of a blond head ducking behind the bar.

No way. She wouldn’t be stupid enough to come here.

A chair swung toward my head. Any answers would have to wait.

I bobbed and weaved, letting the chair fly over my shoulder and coming up to land two solid jabs and an uppercut that put the * on the ground and the chair skidding across the carpet. I stepped toward the bar, but halted when a huge motherf*cker downed Nick, the biggest of my bouncers, and rushed toward the two girls cowering on the edge of the stage.

“Watch out!” The words and the voice grabbed my attention, and I glanced over my shoulder. A skinny f*ck with a broken beer bottle swung it at me and missed. He blanched when I charged him. Grabbing him by the upper arms, I tossed him aside. The crunch as he hit the floor would have been satisfying, except I didn’t have any time to enjoy it. Another jackass was heading toward the bar—where my little society princess was hiding. I dodged fists and elbows as I crossed the room.

I reached the jackass before he could zero in on his target. All it took was a single hit to the jaw, and he crumpled to the ground. I jumped over the edge of the bar, uncertain of what I would find behind it.





“What the f*ck are you doing here?” Con landed on his feet in a crouch. His voice was hoarse, and his chest heaved with exertion. From what I’d seen, he’d taken on about a half dozen really unfriendly looking guys, all by himself.

My eyes must have been the size of dinner plates. What I’d just witnessed was so far out of the realm of my experience I didn’t even know how to begin to process it.

It hadn’t even been a bar fight. I’d witnessed a strip club fight.

When I didn’t answer, Con gripped my arm and shook it.

“Vanessa, what the f*ck are you doing here?”

The adrenaline that had been pumping through my veins began to dissipate. Con’s hold relaxed, and his equally horrified and pissed off expression faded.

“Jesus Christ, you’re shaking,” he said.

I blinked several times before staring down at my arm. Con’s wide fingers were wrapped around it, his thumb skimming back and forth over the vein at my wrist.

I didn’t know what to say, but I opened my mouth anyway, and words tumbled out. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?” My voice trembled and had never sounded quite so small. I cleared my throat and tried again, “Are—”

Con’s head lifted as the sound of sirens filled the air.

“Shit. Time to go.”

He twined an arm around my shoulders and under my knees, lifting me off the ground as if I weighed nothing—which was certainly not the case.

“I can walk. Put me down.” I struggled in his arms, but he didn’t slow his stride as he crossed the room.

He jerked his head to one of the bouncers and paused at the threshold to a hallway. “You got this?”

“Yeah. No worries, boss.”