The Rebel of Raleigh High (Raleigh Rebels #1)(88)

“They’re running a brothel?”

Alex shakes his head, no. “The girls might meet or find a client here, but they cater to them at home. Or in a hotel room. Whatever. The owner, Monty, will fire any girl on the spot if he finds out she’s been screwing the customers on his property.”

“Right. So, we’re not going to stumble across anyone fucking in a hallway then.” Cue nervous laughter.

Alex winks, ushering me inside, through the emergency exit. “Don’t worry, Argento. As long as we stay above ground, I promise you there will be no fucking.”





30





ALEX





This place is and always has been a dirty little secret. It's been renamed a thousand and one times in a thousand and one ways. The bank; the grocery store; the post office. When a guy's wife asks him where he's been, he'll say he was at the game. When a woman has to explain to her husband why she smells of stale booze and cigarette smoke, she'll tell him she was pulling an extra shift on the casino floor. Very few people tell the truth and admit to spending time at the Rock, though. It's tantamount to saying: I cheated on you; I fell off the wagon; I stole the housekeeping money; I broke a promise I swore I would never break.

When the door swings open and someone new arrives at the Rock, the customers already at the bar or snuggled into the booths all hold their collective breath, heads turning in unison, squinting into the dark to see if (horror of horrors) it’s someone they might know.

We walk through the winding hallways, past Monty’s empty office, and through the ‘Staff Only’ door into the bar. Fifty pairs of eyes turn on us as the patrons take a beat to assess the newcomers. It only takes a half a second for the regulars to recognize my face.

In the far corner on the stage, a Led Zeppelin cover band is murdering “A Whole Lotta Love.’ On the narrow catwalks that protrude out onto the bar floor, two of Monty’s favorite girls are already down to their bikini tops and G-strings.

I’m so used to this place that nothing about it surprises me. What the hell is Silver making of all of this, though? I try to see the place through her eyes, to imagine what she’s thinking right now, but it’s impossible. I’m jaded and rotten down to my core, and Silver is a fucking innocent. She’s good. We’re too dissimilar for me to piece together what might be going through her head as Jasmine, the stripper closest to us sinks slowly to her knees, arching her back, eyes heavy-lidded, glossed lips parted, and she slides her hands beneath her bikini top, cupping her own breasts. When one of the loggers sitting at the edge of the catwalk drops three dollar bills in front of her, she teases the material of her bikini top aside, exposing her tits, squeezing them in her hands, her pierced nipples on display, and Silver tenses beside me.

“Moretti! What the fuck, dude!”

Ah, shit. I scan over the top of the crowd, searching for Paul, the owner of the loud, obnoxious voice that just called out across the bar. Takes me a second to find him behind the altar on the other side of the room. Taking Silver by the hand I steer her toward him, doing my best to keep my face as emotionless as possible.

When we reach the bar, Paul—one of Monty’s nephews, the tallest, skinniest guy I’ve ever come across—glares at me, anger simmering in his eyes. “You fucking kidding me right now?” he hisses. “You know you can’t be here unless you’re on shift. No underage drinking at the Rock.”

“Fuck you, Paul. I’ll come here whenever I want. And you’ll shut your goddamn stupid, ugly, dumb, moronic…” I can’t keep it up any longer. He’s already started to smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and once he starts, I can never keep my shit together. I laugh, dropping the act as he leans across the bar, holding his fist out for me to bump.

“What’s up, man?” Paul arches his eyebrow, jerking his head none-too-subtly toward Silver. I know it’s absolutely killing him not to openly point at her and demand to know who she is. Paul’s barely three years older than me, attempting to graduate college this year if he can get his grades up, but he acts like he’s still in high school.

“Paul, this is Silver. Silver this is Paul. No, no, I wouldn’t do that.” I grab hold of her arm before she can shake the hand he’s offering to her. “You don’t know where he’s been.”

Paul lowers his hand, throwing a bar rag over his shoulder. “Asshole. I’m cleaner than you.”

“Doubtful. Paul lives here above the bar, which means he probably pops anti-virals like most people pop daily vitamins. Monty’s not in?”

Paul pulls a face at me in return for the jab. “He went out on a run. Be back in a couple of hours. You need him?”

“No. Just saw he wasn’t in his office.”

“You want a drink then, or are you pretending you’re a good boy in front of your beautiful friend?”

“Hah hah, dickhead. No, I think we’re go—”

“Tequila,” Silver says, leaning her elbows against the bar. “Shots. Two, please. And Alex doesn’t have to pretend to be anything around me. I know who he is.”

My dick is immediately hard, throbbing against the inside of my thigh, partly because of the way her ass is sticking out, looking perfectly fucking biteable in her tight black jeans, but also because of the sassy confidence she's emitting as she watches Paul place the shot glasses down on the bar.