Four Seconds to Lose (Ten Tiny Breaths, #3)(52)

“I guess you’ll be stripping for us from now on, seeing as you’re a professional. Isn’t that right, Charlie?” A slight slur in his words tells me he’s far from sober.

Even better. I don’t know what kind of drunk he is and whether I can trust him to keep his mouth shut. But the fact that he approached me so openly tells me I can’t. With hesitation, my eyes flash over to Cain. I breathe a small sigh of relief. He’s still there, talking to Nate, his eyes trained on something else. It doesn’t look like he has noticed me with Bob yet.

If I stand here any longer, he surely will. Or Nate will. Or Ben. I can’t have any of them talking to my drunk, drug-trafficking partner.

I need to deal with this potentially explosive situation and fast.

Swallowing my revulsion, I offer Bob a fake friendly smile as I loop my arm through his and lead him to the one place I will have privacy until I convince him to turn around and leave. I approach the two no-neck bouncers guarding the V.I.P. room entrance, readying my lie, that Cain has given me the go-ahead.

And I pray that Cain isn’t watching my back right now.

The two guys—seemingly as wide as they are tall—look at me, then at Bob, and give me a single nod. I don’t waste another second, leading Bob into the first available room. Ginger gave me a tour weeks ago, so I know the rooms are all the same—clean, dimly lit, and simply furnished. Since then, I’ve visited these rooms only in my dreams, both on the stage and at night. Cain has always been the one waiting for me inside.

Being in here with Bob has turned the setting into a nightmare.

“What would Mom and Pop say about their little Charlie showing her tits onstage and traffic—”

“Shut up!” I snap, whirling around to face him. He must be drunker than I first believed. “For someone in the big leagues,” I air quote that, mocking him for his earlier scolding, “you sure shoot your mouth off.” I tilt my head toward the camera in the corner of the room, my brow intentionally arched.

Bob catches my move and dismisses it with a snort and a lazy wave. “Those are for show. None of these owners actually want proof of what happens in here.”

“This owner does,” I warn slowly, though I silently pray that he’s right. I also pray that the sound doesn’t work on the recording. I’m hoping the music pumping out over the speakers will muffle our words, in any case.

Rubbing his chin, a pondering look suddenly touching his face, Bob murmurs, “You know, Eddie’s been trying to connect with this guy for years. Seeing as you work here—”

“Not happening. Cain will have you thrown in jail before you get the proposal out of your mouth. He wants nothing to do with that world. You need to leave, right now.”

Bob’s face twists with displeasure. I gather he doesn’t like being told what to do. Just as quickly, though, it smooths over. “Sure thing, Charlie.”

Suppressing an eye roll, I turn toward the door, intent on leaving the room. A vice-like grip over my wrist stops me. “Don’t turn your back on me.”

I take a deep breath, trying to calm my nerves as I quickly assess the situation I’ve put myself in. Bob is semi-respectable when he’s sober. But he’s not sober now and, clearly, not at all respectable. He’s also a big, muscular drug dealer who may not have hurt me yet but could easily do so tonight, And for some reason, he now thinks he has the upper hand on me because he’s invaded my “real” life.

In a way, he does.

And my gut says he’s going to use it to his full advantage.

Swallowing, I explain calmly, “I have to finish my shift behind the bar. And you should go. I happen to know the bouncers here aren’t very friendly to patrons who lay hands on the girls.”

“Then it’s a good thing that no one’s gonna tell them, right?” He gives my arm a painful squeeze in warning. “As soon as I get a private show, you can do whatever the f*ck you want. On the house, of course.”

He’s drunk, I remind myself. His reflexes will be slower . . . “Okay, sure. One song. Sit down in the chair,” I agree calmly, trying to placate him.

The second his fingers release me, I run for the door.

Drunk or not, Bob’s not as dumb or as slow as I had hoped, and he was expecting my dodge. Pain shoots through my scalp as he grabs a fistful of my hair and yanks me into him, until my back is against his chest. He coils his fingers around my hair, pulling my head back until my entire body twists in an awkward angle as I look up at his face.

And then he slaps me across the cheek.

It’s open-handed but it’s with the back of his hand, and it’s hard enough that the sting brings tears to my eyes. I’m sure there will be a mark.

“You’re not afraid of me. You should be.” He jerks my head, earning another wince. “You think you’re protected? You think you’re safe?” A wicked chuckle escapes his lips. “I kind of like you, Jane . . . Charlie . . . whatever the f*ck your name is. You’ve got balls. Well,” His eyes drift downward as his free hand finds its way under my skirt, looping around the back of my tiny bikini bottoms, making as if to pull them off.

Breathe in, breathe out.

He leaves them on. “Metaphorical ones, anyway. But I don’t like that you think you can just dismiss me. I don’t like that at all.” He launches me toward the pole. I manage to grab hold of it before I lose my balance and tumble to the ground. Crossing arms over his broad chest and planting his feet solidly on the ground—clearly poised to block any more of my attempts to flee—he snaps, “Any time now.”