Page 5 of Seduced By the Billionaire
“How old are you, honey?” he asked instead.
Brittany looked young, but was she too young to be allowed in here?
Brittany’s eyes sparkled. She bit her lip. “How old do you want me to be?”
He stifled a sigh. This was always the hard part. If she was of-age, she’d role-play. If she was under eighteen, she’d never tell him. And he’d bet his left nut that almost every girl in here was using a name that wasn’t listed on her birth certificate. Sure, Jenny sounded less “stripper” than Brittany, but if Desire was actually on that poor girl’s social security card, her parents had set her up for the pole.
“I want you to be exactly who you are, Brittany.” When she frowned, he amended, “I worry about you ladies. This can be a rough business. Lots of assholes.”
He wanted to ask about Jenny again, but that might raise red flags. The chief wouldn’t let another stalking complaint slide.
“I think you mean lots of asses.” She giggled and dragged her fingers over the bristly stubble on his cheek—what was it with these women and his five-o’clock shadow? “Can I give you a dance, baby?”
Unlike Desire, his gut told him that Brittany actually wanted to writhe around in his lap for reasons that had nothing to do with the job, but he shook his head. “No thanks. I might have a heart attack if you get too close.”
She dropped her hand and bit her lip again—a trained behavior, not a natural one. Trying to be sexy. To Ronan, it just made her look nervous, and no woman should be nervous if they wanted you. Ronan had had enough enthusiastic participants in his bed to know the difference.
“Word is, you’re more into the food than the girls.” Brittany leaned closer, her voice a sultry whisper. “Is that true or just…”
She snapped back to standing, eyes wide as she turned away from him. Ronan blinked. The dancers on the stage stopped moving, too, their faces swiveling in an almost cartoonish choreographed display. Then he heard it—screaming.
Jenny?
Ronan was out of his seat before he registered his intent to move, the whiskey hitting the floor. Brittany squealed and stumbled backward as Ronan flew across the room, drawing his weapon, scanning his surroundings for bad guys, for guns, for danger. Nothing but the flashing neon lights. Even the screaming had stopped, unless it was being drowned out by the relentless bass line.
He almost hoped it was the music—a lack of screaming could be a very bad sign. What was he going to find beyond that swinging door? A robbery in progress? Waylon on the prowl? Had someone attacked Jenny or one of the dancers?
Ronan shoved his way through, gun drawn, alert for threat. But he saw no burglar. Nor did he see some handsy scumbag with his fingers up Jenny’s skirt—that might have made him lose his shit. No, just a small room, the off-white walls tobacco-stained, black mold darkening the top left corner.
To the right, an open door led to a small office. On his left stood an open archway, a row of rusted lockers beyond. Straight ahead was the exit to the back alley, the door wide open, streetlights glinting off the oily cobblestones.
Ronan lowered his gun.
Jenny stood in the left corner near the locker-room archway, her arms crossed as if she were cold. An older man stood in the doorway to the office, eyes narrow, jowly neck sagging like his face was melting, the top button on his pants undone—zipper halfway down. Ronan might have guessed that he and Jenny had been together in the office if not for her bloody hands, a stark contrast to Waylon’s unstained physique.
Ronan finally drew his gaze to the floor.
The man was tall with a blond crew cut, muscled shoulders more swimmer than bodybuilder. A tattoo of a snake slithered from his left wrist up beneath the sleeve of his yellow AC/DC T-shirt.
But the yellow stopped at the shoulders; the back of the shirt was soaked in crimson. Jagged slashes tore through the fabric, revealing gaping wounds in his flesh. Beneath him, a puddle of blood pooled, inching across the linoleum like a sluggish amoeba. It was spreading too slowly—far too slowly. And the wound on his back, positioned precisely where his heart should be…
Ronan stepped around the puddle and crouched at the man’s side. He pressed his finger beneath his jawline. No movement. No breath.
No heartbeat.
Ronan pushed himself to standing and edged to the open back door, hand on his weapon. The alley was empty.
He turned back to the others, glancing first at the club’s sleazy owner, a man he was certain belonged behind bars. “What happened here, Waylon?” He didn’t respect the man enough to use his last name.
The old man blinked, grabbed his zipper, and fastened the button on his jeans. “I came out ’cause I heard screaming. He was like this when I got here.”
Ronan turned to Jenny, but she didn’t seem to notice. Her eyes were locked on the corpse. Though she was pale, her breathing remained steady—she didn’t appear to be in shock. Instead, she almost looked to be examining the body. Fascinated instead of repulsed—unbothered by the blood on her hands, the crimson streaks on her thighs where she’d tried to wipe evidence from her fingertips.
Ronan’s hackles rose, his pulse throbbing in his temples, the acrid taste of dread hot in his throat. The blood on Jenny’s hands told one story, but her eyes… He could not for the life of him determine what they were saying.
And he couldn’t afford to be wrong.
Not again.
