Page 4 of Property of Rattler

Putting my ear to the wood, I hear a loud sob from behind it. I fucking hate manipulative women turning on the tears. I’ve no time nor the patience for cajoling her out of whatever snit she’s got herself into. One way or another, I’m forcing her out. And when I do, her ass has seen the last of this club.

Examining the lock, I see it’s one that needs a key to open it. I return to the bar. Joe’s busy, so I approach Gary. “Where’s the fuckin’ key to the closet?”

He shrugs. “I think she took it with her. Couldn’t find a spare. The key’s normally left in the keyhole. Ain’t anything worth stealing in there.”

Fuck it. Well, it just so happens I’ve got a lock-picking kit in my saddlebags, and the skills to use it. Coincidentally, it had been Freak who’d taught me those skills. I cross the main floor, reverse my steps, and go out to my bike. Having gotten the leather pouch, I return, but as I’m passing the bar, I see a commotion. The fuckin’ bachelorette party has stormed the stage, pushed Salome off the pole, and the bride-to-be is now twirling around it. Actually, to give her credit, she’s got some moves. Our legit stripper, though, is standing to one side, looking on, not at all entertained. Her face is red with anger.

I exchange a look with Gary. He seems in no mood to interrupt the bride’s impromptu performance, and, from the reactions of the pervert row, they don’t want us to interfere. In fact, they’re throwing dollar bills onto the stage in encouragement.

I, too, stand transfixed until someone grabs my arm. I swing around fast, only just pulling my punch in time as I see my assailant is Salome.

“Do something about it,” she snarls, turning her head pointedly at the money building up on the stage. “That’s my fuckin’ money.”

She’s right. It is. And now even the pervert row is getting angsty. Tomorrow’s bride might have the moves, but she’s not taking her clothes off. And they’ve all paid for tits and a glimpse of pussy.

“I’ll sort it.” I pull out of her grasp and head toward Gary.

“I know, boss,” he states with a sigh. Then, as he starts to make his way to the stage, he stops, holding his hand to his ear. “Fuck it,” he snarls. Then, as I’ve turned to go, he stops my progress with his hand and asks, “Rat? You wanna help me? I’ll take this, but we’ve got a problem in Room Two.”

I hadn’t bothered to go on comms tonight. I wasn’t even meant to be working. But he’s obviously got his hands full here, so I nod my agreement and, instead of returning to get Ames the fuck out of her self-imposed prison, head to the private room to sort whatever needs sorting.

The girl must get tired of her own company sometime soon, right? Until then, maybe the best idea is to let her stew until she eventually comes out on her own.

CHAPTER THREE

RATTLER

The problem in Room Two turns out to be nothing that’s too heavy to handle. Asshole misunderstood the rules, thought that as the Royals had a reputation for allowing full-on penetration, that it could be carried out in any of the private rooms, and with any girl he felt like taking. That’s not how this shit works. We’ve got a separate area out back for that very reason, and whether the individual girls offer that service is completely up to them. No pressure from us, no expectation.

It was those arrangements this fucker didn’t understand. At least he wasn’t trying to use physical persuasion. He was still using his words when I entered to find Angel standing her ground, being berated. One threat was that she’d lose her job if she didn’t put out.

I might not be one of the most intimidating brothers in the club, I’m fit, yeah, but unlike Freak, Tempest and Short, who tower above me, I’m only five foot ten and don’t have muscles for days. My build leans toward athletic. But the cut I wear is more than enough to make the asshole step back when I enter, and his belligerence takes a back seat.

He holds out his hand to me. I don’t shake it. It’s a fucking strip club. I don’t know where it’s been, or more to the point, what might be on it. Prick could have rubbed one out in the bathroom stalls and got his own jizz all over it. He looks like someone who might not wash his hands.

Undeterred, he launches into his self-righteous demands. “Man, I’m pleased to see you. This b…” he hastily corrects himself, “woman, refuses to service me. I paid good money to come back here, and all she wants to do is give me a lap dance.”

“And that’s the service you purchased.” I fold my arms while casting a glance Angel’s way, noting she’s unhurt and, if anything, looks slightly amused.

“A lap dance? Fuck.” He shakes his head, then sneers. “No way. I paid one hundred fifty dollars for fifteen minutes.”

“For a lap dance,” I repeat.

His shoulders draw back. “Royals is known for being an ‘anything goes’ club. I want my money’s worth. And a fucking lap dance doesn’t cut it. It’s not what I paid for.”

Another glance at Angel shows she’s examining her nails. Her complete indifference makes me want to laugh, but I refrain. Don’t want to risk my pretty face getting damaged tonight.

Lazily, I point to the only piece of furniture in the room. “What’s that?”

His brow creases as he follows my finger. “A chair?”

“It is, indeed, a chair,” I confirm with a smirk. “For lap dances.”

He takes a step toward me.

At Royals, we do indeed offer a full-service package, but in Arizona it’s illegal. And the Kings don’t want to be accused of running a brothel, so it’s obvious we don’t advertise it as an option and certainly don’t have it plastered all over the posters out front. A number of trusted regulars who understand whatwould happen to them if they ever gave away our secret know what we offer. Or the girls can make their own judgement call if they’re hard on cash and want to earn more, with our vetting and agreement, of course.

This fucker obviously came in hopeful on a rumour. Or someone’s opened their mouth.