“This is not how I planned to spend my Saturday night,” I hiss to Niki as we’re paraded toward the stage.
“Speak for yourself,” she replies with a grin, already playing to the crowd.
As we’re maneuvered onto the raunchy runway, I crash directly into a solid wall of muscles and expensive cologne. I look up and lock eyes with none other than Cooper Knox, who appears equally surprised to find himself on stage.
“Fancy meeting you here,” I say, despite the fact that we’re surrounded by half-naked Mrs. Clauses and an audience screamingtake it off.
Cooper’s expression darkens as he frowns, and I’ll admit, it’s a vexingly good look on him. “I can say the same.” His eyesdarting to Watson, who’s being paraded around like a furry little king by one of the dancers. “What exactly are you doing here?”
Before I can turn the question around and point it at him, glitter rains down from somewhere above us and Watson barks with unbridled joy. But it’s what I see just past my happy-go-lucky puppy that has my blood running cold.
I get the feeling that explaining why I’m interrogating suspects at my uncle’s strip club might be the least of my problems tonight.
Because across the room, at the VIP entrance, I spot Uncle Jimmy himself—and he’s heading straight for us with the determined look of a man who’s just discovered someone’s been playing detective instead of assassin.
CHAPTER 17
The bass thumps through the floorboards beneath my feet, vibrating up my legs as Cooper and I lock eyes amid the chaos ofSanta’s Naughty List Review.
Red lights sweep across his face, painting him in alternating shadows and crimson highlights that make him look both dangerous and absurdly attractive.
The smell of cheap beer, cheaper cologne, and nachos creates a heady perfume that’s distinctly Red Satin—a scent I’d hoped to never associate with my hot boyfriend. But here we are.
I grab Cooper’s arm and yank him toward the steps at the side of the stage just as Uncle Jimmy cuts through the crowd.
We hardly make it off the last step when Uncle Jimmy reaches us.
“Effie,” he booms, clapping me on the shoulder with enough force to make my knees buckle. “Nice to see my favorite niece taking the initiative.” His eyes flick toward Cooper before sliding past him to where Loretta still sits at her table, now looking pointedly in any direction but ours.
“I see you lured your next beneficiary here.” Uncle Jimmy’s smile has all the warmth of a great white sizing up a seal. “Finishthis project before the clock strikes midnight on Christmas and I’ll make sure your stocking is full of some serious green.”
He turns his attention to Cooper, extending a hand as if they’re meeting at a church social rather than a strip club with an entire troop of half-naked Mrs. Clauses gyrating in the background.
“Detective Knox. Congrats on the almost nuptials. Better luck next time. I was really looking forward to that cake.”
Cooper’s hand engulfs Uncle Jimmy’s in what I suspect is a grip tight enough to crush walnuts, though my uncle doesn’t flinch.
“Thanks,” Cooper replies with a tone suggesting he’d rather eat glass than continue this conversation.
Uncle Jimmy gives us both a nod before melting back into the crowd and heading for the VIP section, leaving behind the scent of expensive cologne and impending doom.
“And I was really looking forward to what was supposed to happen before the cake,” I mutter with the taste of bitterness coating my tongue.
“Me, too.” He leans in. “Would you care to explain why Jimmy looked at my sister when he mentioned your next project?”
I watch the horror dawn across Cooper’s face as he connects the dots—one hitwoman plus one lucrative project due before Christmas equals a very dead Loretta Sorry-to-See-You-Go-so-Soon under the tree. The muscle in his jaw ticks like a time bomb.
I’m pretty sure that Cooper knows about my moonlighting activities after I saw my face in the middle of a murder board up in his office. We haven’t had the awkward “so you murder people for a living” conversation yet, but we have since adopted a “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy regarding my burgeoning career as a would-be assassin.
It’s the kind of compromise that relationship counselors probably wouldn’t endorse, but it’s been working for us. Until now.
“I’m sorry,” I shout over the music, which has switched to a dubstep remix of “Little Drummer Boy.”
Cooper’s eyes widen to the point they might pop out of his skull. “You’re sorry? Please tell me you have no intention of wrapping up that little project before the fat man comes down the chimney.”
“Okay, I’ll wait until after,” I tease, although my attempt at humor clearly misses the mark as Cooper looks like he’s on the verge of a coronary event. “What? He did just offer to line my stocking with some serious cash.” I shrug, and Cooper’s frown deepens despite my financially sound argument.
He grabs my elbow and steers me toward an empty table in a relatively quieter corner of the club. A waitress materializes right on cue and deposits a heaping platter of nachos before disappearing back into the red-tinted darkness.
