Page 6 of Painkiller (Sin Records #3)

T here’s a line to the club. Not a long one because this club is too expensive and exclusive for crowds. But standing in it lets more precious minutes slip away. It also makes a few men take my presence as an invitation. I thwart their advances with my best saccharine-laced rejections.

When I reach the front of the line and the very large man behind the podium asks my name, I’m stumped. “I was told to come here tonight,” I explain, trying not to sound like an idiot, “but I forgot to tell him my name.”

A dark eyebrow rises as he listens to me. “Who told you to come?”

My lashes drop, and my lips press together as I exhale a frustrated breath. “I forgot to ask that, too.”

He grunts, eyes raking over me. I imagine he hears this kind of thing all the time. Though maybe not from women, so I remain hopeful. “Just tell me your name.”

I think for a few minutes, then say the girl’s name whose audition I stole.

The heel of my hand comes up to my forehead as my frustration grows stronger when he shakes his head after swiping the screen in his hand.

But maybe… I mean, he did know I wasn’t Harmony.

He also knew I was a ballerina. Perhaps he knows my name, too.

It’s worth a shot, and at this point, it won’t hurt a thing. “Poppy. Poppy Carnac.”

His fingers dance over the tablet screen a few more times, then his dark eyes meet mine. “That’s it.” Relief comes immediately. He gestures for me to go in. “Wait at the bar, and someone will come get you.”

The place is packed. Men and women sit around the bar and at the tables as they wait to be called into the entertainment room, but I’m shocked to see male servers along with waitresses.

The women wear black leather boyshorts that might as well be spray-painted on, and hot pink push-up bras that turn their already impressive cleavage into a full-on spectacle.

The men wear the tightest leather pants I’ve ever seen—and I work with men in tights—with no shirt, displaying so many ripples the ocean is jealous.

My mouth twists when I realize there’s nowhere to sit. Not like it will be awkward to just stand at the bar with my coat on, looking like a Salvation Army reject in a room full of high-dollar sin.

Fortunately, my wait is only about ten minutes. The same man from earlier today collects me with a tap on the shoulder and a jerk of his head.

I stand and follow him without argument. Foolish perhaps, but I’m not in a position to worry about the potential for bodily harm.

We pass several doors, I suppose are offices or storage, until we reach… a wall? But it’s not a wall. My brows jump when elevator doors slide open, and I try to figure out where in the world it might go. The place doesn’t appear that big from the outside.

“Coming?”

My eyes snap to meet his smirking ones. I relax my expression and nod as I step into the car. He presses a button on the panel, and when he steps back, I’m surprised yet again. Two floors up and six floors down.

Where is all this space?

When the elevator opens, I’m led past more doors on the left and right until we reach the end.

He reaches the handles and shoves the doors open.

I start to follow, then pause when I see another man dressed in a black button-down with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing tattoos on his well-defined forearms, sitting behind a large oak desk.

“I don’t have all day,” the man booms across the room, dark eyes looking up to meet mine.

My escort releases a dry snort, tossing me a quick look. “And he wonders why people call him terrifying.” He lowers himself into a chair as if it’s just another Thursday around here.

And it’s starting to piss me off that he’s known who I am since the start, but the asshole hasn’t offered so much as a name in return.

I step into the expansive room, surveying privacy glass walls on each side and the dark hardwoods covered with a thick cream rug.

Two end tables from the same carved oak sit on either side of a heavy black leather sofa in front of one of the glass walls—windows.

On the other side sits a minibar with an assortment of crystal decanters and matching glasses.

Taking slow steps, I approach the desk and sit in one of the nail-head chairs that is positioned in front of the desk. Dark, penetrating eyes assess me as if looking for cracks in the pavement.

I force myself not to squirm under the scrutiny. Seldom do I find myself intimidated, but I’m sweating beneath my coat with nerves as I wait for him to finish his appraisal.

“I’m Dominic Lucchese,” he says after several long seconds. “You’ve met my brother, Will.”

My gaze slides to the man who led me here just in time to catch his smirk at my scowl. “We’ve spoken, but introductions weren’t made.”

“Now you know.” Will shrugs, completely unapologetic.

“You want to work in my club,” Dominic says, and his tone makes my attention snap back to him, feeling like a scolded child with a simple statement. He leans forward on the desk and clasps his hands together in front of him. My lips press together, and I nod. “Why?”

Why does it fucking matter?

That’s what I want to scream because it seems to be a theme in this place. Instead, I choke it back and lift my head a little higher. “I need money just like anyone else, and I’m not qualified to do much beyond dancing and waiting tables. Neither pays much.”

“Why my club?”

“A friend said your dancers make in a week what I make in a year.”

“Why do you need that kind of money?”

“I inherited a debt. If I want to keep a roof over my head, I have to pay it off.”

Those assessing eyes feel like they’re digging into…into my fucking soul. More sweat trickles down my spine.

Jesus, he’s intense.

“Are you a cop?”

I jerk back, stunned because, huh? “A what?” I glance toward his brother, who’s moved to the bar and is grabbing a crystal glass, but not pouring anything, looking annoyed. His gaze flicks to me. It’s quick, but I swear I see a glimmer of pity. Or maybe it’s condolences.

“Are you a fucking cop? FBI, maybe?”

“Uh…no?” I blink, thrown. I don’t mean it to sound like a question, but what does he mean? Am I a cop? What the hell kind of club is this?

“You don’t sound very sure. You wearing a wire?”

I look at Will for a sign that I’m being pranked.

Will exhales hard and scrubs a hand down his face. “Jesus Christ, Dom.” He throws me a look like Welcome to the circus before crossing his arms over his wide chest.

His brother only grunts, never taking his eyes off me.

I shake my head in disbelief, then compose myself. “Mr. Lucchese, I’m not a cop. I’m not wearing a wire. And I’m strangely flattered you think I could be one or that deceptive. Not something I get told often.”

He doesn’t blink. Not a twitch of his cheek at my joke. Pretty sure he doesn’t breathe.

This dude seriously needs to unclench.

“Wouldn’t matter if you were,” he says, finally leaning back in his seat and pursing his lips. “And I can’t use you.”

All of this for a no? The insane questions.

The soul-sucking glare. No! I dig deep despite the roll of my stomach and knot in my chest for every ounce of fire and confidence I possess.

“Why not? You were auditioning another girl this afternoon,” I demand, not caring that I just told him I stole that girl’s spot. He probably already knows anyway.

“Let me rephrase. I don’t need you as a dancer.”

“You think I can’t handle it? I promise you, I can not only handle it, I will be your most sought after dancer.” Arrogant? Maybe, but what do I have to lose? “Let me prove it. I’ll go out there tonight, and if I don’t attract any interest, I’ll leave and never come back.”

He looks at Will. I turn to see why, but the seemingly easygoing—or at least more so than his brother—is stone. Yet, I get the impression that some unspoken message is being exchanged.

“Do you know why my dancers make so much money, Poppy?” It’s the first time he’s acknowledged me by name. I have no idea, so I shake my head.

A cruel smirk spreads across his face. “I’ve already established that even if you were a cop, it wouldn’t matter, but just to be clear, anything you hear, see, fucking smell or taste in this place stays here.

If you tell anyone, I will know. It will make me extremely unhappy, and I promise you don’t want me unhappy. ”

Is this what he looks like happy?

Before I can shove my foot in my mouth, he flips a switch and the privacy glass clears. He jerks his head toward the window. Pushing myself up, I walk toward the glass, my heart thumping in my chest.

Staring below at the club, I swallow my shock.

“The men and women who work here make the money they do because they perform in whatever capacity the members want. Whether it’s out there in the open or in one of the private rooms, they do whatever is asked of them, and they earn every fucking penny I pay them.”

I can’t look away. Women straddle laps, doing far more than dancing. Men kneel, mouths buried between thighs. Lines of something snorted off asses and tits. The dancing? Just background noise for the real show.

It’s debauched, immoral…and so fucking hot my thighs clench together.

But could I do that? I swallow hard because the thought of being paid for sex makes me ill, but I don’t get a chance to respond.

“It doesn’t matter.” I turn around, facing him, wondering if I asked my question out loud or if he’s a fucking mind reader.

I’m a little inclined to believe the latter.

“The answer is the same. I don’t need you.

You can’t be what I need. Our busiest nights are Friday and Saturday.

I believe you have a performance starting tomorrow night. ”

Not allowing defeat to slump my shoulders is difficult, but I nod my acceptance. “Thank you for your time. I suppose I’ll try somewhere else.” I spin on my heels, walking toward the door.

“It won’t do you any good. Your schedule won’t be conducive to any club. The hours won’t allow for a lot of recoup time between your rehearsals and performances, either.”

This time, fighting back the disappointment is too much. A heavy sigh passes my lips as a soft sob rattles my chest. My eyes sting, but I don’t—can’t let it go. “You’re probably right, but I have to try.”

“Perhaps I could use you somewhere else, though. You won’t make a year’s salary in a week, but you’ll make it in a month. If you’re lucky, less, and it will still be more than you’d make at another club.”

A hesitant seed of hope reblooms, and I’m a little afraid to let it take root.

But I’m no longer worried about concealing the desperation I feel.

“I’ll do it.” The words tumble out too fast. But I mean them.

I have no pride left to protect. Only a deadline closing in and a life I’m not ready to lose. “Whatever you need.”

He nods approvingly, stands, and walks around the desk. “Just one more question,” he says when he stands beside me, forcing me to look up. “Are you squeamish? ”