Rogue (14 page)

“I guess I can spare a few minutes,” Marc said, flashing a dazzling smile.

My hands curled into fists as she spun on her stupid, dangerously high heels and sashayed—yes,
sashayed,
swinging ass and everything—into the main room, curling a finger over one shoulder at Marc to beckon him forward.

How the hell does he do that?
I thought as we followed Corinne to a booth against the back wall. Somehow, Marc had
gotten a potential witness to
beg
him to question her. Over drinks. Without losing even a shred of dignity.

Yet I’d have to pretend to want to take my clothes off for money in front of a room full of strange men, just for a chance to drag some information out of the bartender. Fat chance.

Marc slipped into the curved booth, and Corinne bent to whisper something into his ear, her hand resting on his shoulder. Only she didn’t really whisper anything. If she had, I’d have heard it. So whatever she did must have involved her tongue, rather than her voice box.

A warning look from Marc kept my mouth shut, but it didn’t keep my fingernails—my short and unmanicured but very practical fingernails—from digging into my palms.

“Jeff, bring these gentlemen something to drink,” the red-clad whore, excuse me,
exotic dancer,
called out on her way to a door marked Employees Only on the other side of the room. “And I think the girl with them wants a
word
with you.” Somehow, she made that sound dirty, in spite of the fact that I was supposed to be applying for the very job she already had.

I shoved Marc over and sat next to him, repressing the overwhelming urge to express my displeasure aloud. Unfortunately, we were in public, in a manner of speaking, and I had no choice but to stick to the story Marc had made up for me. But he would pay later. Boy, would he pay.

“What’ll it be?” Jeff called out, leaning on the bar with both palms flat against the polished surface.

“Whiskey and cola,” Marc called, raising one eyebrow at Kevin, who’d taken a seat across the table from us. We had no rules against drinking on the job, because it takes a great deal of alcohol to impair a cat’s judgment or coordination. And that was pretty damn convenient, considering that teeto
talers didn’t stand a chance in hell of blending into the crowd at a strip club. Especially a New Orleans strip club.

“Michelob,” Kevin said, just as hidden speakers crackled from somewhere near the painted-black ceiling and grungy background music blared to life.

Only once the music was playing did I realize it had been missing before. That accounted for the uncomfortable,
exposed
feeling I’d had since walking through the front doors. Well, that, and the fact that I was in a strip club.

Not that the nudity bothered me. But the blatant advertisement for sex with perfect strangers made me a little uncomfortable, and while I knew there was a difference between nude dancing and prostitution, I was a little fuzzy on the legalities. And hoped to stay that way.

Less than a minute after the music began, the first real patrons came through the front door, a gaggle of men about my age, in neat civilian clothes with identical military haircuts—clearly a sample of our country’s finest on leave from the nearby naval air station. They chose a table near the raised dance platform and sent an emissary to the bar to order their drinks.

As the bartender reached beneath the bar for a bottle, the background music screeched into silence, and bright lights burst to life at the foot of the stage. Seconds later, new music came over the speakers, louder and faster than the previous sample, and within four beats, Corinne pushed through a heavy black curtain and pranced onto the platform, almost completely covered by her red hooded cape. For the moment.

Immediately, the young men up front began hooting and laughing, daring one another to call Little Miss Hood closer.

“Here you go,” Jeff-the-bartender said, less than a foot
from my left shoulder. I jumped, startled by his sudden appearance. I’d been so distracted by the spectacle of the only striptease I’d ever seen that I hadn’t noticed a
human
approach. That was just sad.

Jeff set a short glass full of dark liquid in front of Marc, and a foaming mug of beer in front of Kevin. “Enjoy the show, guys,” he said, then turned his attention to me.
All
of his attention. He dismissed Marc and Kevin the way Corinne had dismissed me. Selective vision must be contagious.

“You change your mind about that job?”

I glanced at Marc to see whether he intended to make me go through with the fake interview. He did. He shoved me half off the bench with a not-so-subtle thrust of one hip.

“Uh, yeah,” I said, standing awkwardly to keep from falling to the floor.

Jeff grinned and took a second opportunity to appraise my…um…
qualifications.
He nodded, much as Corinne had, and gestured toward the bar. “Step into my office.”

From the corner of my eye, I saw Marc tense, and knew he would watch me wind my way among the tables to make sure I wasn’t actually going into another room. He’d make me play along, but he wouldn’t let me out of sight. Or out of earshot.

I followed Jeff to the bar and took a seat on the backless stool he pulled out for me. To my surprise, instead of returning to his post behind the bar, he sat on the stool next to mine and swiveled to face me, his smile broad and a little too eager.

“The best part about my job is the preview of coming attractions. You’re not shy, are you?”

I blinked at Jeff, then turned to face Marc, anger no doubt blazing in my eyes. “I’m going to kill you,” I mouthed, but he only chuckled.

The joke’s on you,
I thought, swiveling to face the bar again.
It’ll be a long time before I feel like taking my clothes off after this….

J
eff’s eyes wandered down from my face as he waited for my answer, and to my extreme frustration, I didn’t feel justified complaining, because my assets were a legitimate part of the application process. So I said the first thing that popped into my head, just to draw his gaze back up.

“I need the money.”

“Then you’re in the right place, um…. I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”

“Julie.”
Better than Jane Smith, right?

“Okay, Julie…” Jeff grabbed a clipboard from the bar and slid it toward me along with a pen. “Let’s get the paperwork out of the way first.”

Paperwork? For strippers?
My eyes widened as he peeled back the layers of documents to reveal an application, a W-4 form, a release form in case of personal injury, and an official-looking page outlining what the customers were and were not allowed to do, some of which were transgressions I’d never even
considered,
and flushed just thinking about.

After a lifetime of casual, nonsexual nudity among my fellow werecats—after all, I was
related
to most of the members of our household—I found the idea of flaunting my body for cash…
distasteful,
to say the least.

Jeff noticed my shell-shocked expression, and possibly the awkward way I held the clipboard, as if the metal clip might bite my fingers off. “First time?” he asked, forehead wrinkled as if in concern.

I nodded, lifting one thigh from the now-sticky vinyl, so I could cross my legs at the knees. It felt like a cross-your-legs kind of moment.

“Well, then I’ll need to see you dance, of course. Do you have your own costume?”

I shook my head, and he smiled at the bewildered look on my face. “That’s okay. We’ll put our heads together and come up with an act for you. Are you allergic to feathers or double-sided tape?”

My blank look must have clued him in to my confusion.

“You know, personal adhesive?” His eyes wandered back down to my breasts, and suddenly I understood.

Personal adhesive? Eewww!
Spinning around on my stool, I leveled a furious gaze at Marc from across the room, but he just smiled and waved.
You’re gonna pay,
I mouthed, and he laughed, clearly enjoying my humiliation. Vicious bastard.

“Is that a ‘no’ on the feathers?” Jeff asked, and I nodded mutely. “Okay, we can do fur. You don’t mind fur, do you?”

It was all I could do not to laugh in his face. “No, I don’t mind fur, and I’m damn fond of claws,” I said, more for Marc’s benefit than Jeff’s. In the booth, Marc spewed whiskey out his nose, spraying Kevin from the forehead down.

“Claws…” Jeff mumbled, clearly picturing an outfit I had
no urge to ever see. “I never considered putting claws on the cat costume. Kellie never thought of that.”

Kellie?
I shuddered at the realization that they were not only preparing to replace the missing stripper, but that they were ready to give away her outfit. I couldn’t put on a dead girl’s costume, much less dance around in it.

Jeff went on, oblivious to my reaction. “But then, she had long nails, kind of like claws. But for you—” he took my left hand in his and examined my ragged nails “—fake claws might be just the thing. Not too long or sharp, though. You want to turn the customers on, not scare them off.”

That’s what
you
think….

“Okay, go ahead and fill these out,” Jeff said, standing as he glanced over the growing crowd in the club. “When you’re done, we’ll go back to my brother’s office and you can show us what you’ve got.” He grinned. “Normally we’d do that first, but something tells me you know exactly how to keep a man’s attention.”

Indeed I did. Get a tight grip on his balls. A man’s attention never wandered far from his crotch, especially when it was in mortal jeopardy.

Stifling a smile, I nodded and picked up the pen, and Jeff went back behind the bar to help the other bartender keep up with a rush of drink orders.

What the hell do I do now?
I thought, twirling the pen between my fingers. Marc would have already known Jeff’s full name, rank, and serial number, whatever
that
was. At least, he would have if Jeff wore a skirt. Or a G-string.

A change in the music caught my attention, and I glanced at the stage to see a tiny Asian woman dancing in a brightly colored dragon costume that could, at best, be described as abstract.

Across the room, I found Marc and Kevin seated on either side of Little Red Riding Hood, now wearing a mostly see-through red nightie. She sat sideways on the semi-circular booth, angling her back to Kevin to give her full attention to Marc. Kevin didn’t seem to care. He sipped his beer while he watched the dragon lady shed layer after layer of shiny scales.

By all appearances, Marc seemed glad to have Corinne’s attention all to himself, and if I wasn’t already certain of his disinterest in human women in general, I’d probably have fallen for his performance myself. After all, enforcers typically dealt with violent, angry strays, not beautiful, willing women.

I’d never seen Marc flirt with anyone else before, but he did it well.
Very
well. Fortunately, I was secure enough in myself and in our relationship to know that he was just doing his job. Marc thought of his appearance—his beautiful face and sculpted physique—the same way he thought of his teeth and claws: as just two more weapons in his personal arsenal. And he would never hesitate to use any weapon at his disposal if he deemed it necessary. Which made me wonder how far he’d be willing to go….

As far as it takes,
a soft, treacherous voice spoke up from deep within my heart.
He’d do anything for the Pride, and you know it.

Corinne had one hand on his bicep and one foot hooked around his calf beneath the table, and Marc seemed to be eating it up. He looked directly into her eyes, a courtesy I was pretty sure strippers rarely got at work, and leaned close to her, as if to better hear what she was saying over the loud music. That was just for show, of course. He could hear her perfectly well. Hell,
I
could have heard her if I’d concentrated. But I didn’t, because while I knew he was only acting, doing
his job for the good of the Pride, I had no desire to hear another woman tell my boyfriend how hot he was.

If I wanted him to know, I’d damn well tell him myself.

Then, as I tapped my pen on the bar, Marc began questioning Corinne. I knew when that moment came, even without listening for it, because her hand fell from his arm and her eyes dropped to the bright red drink on the table. As she spoke, presumably answering his questions, Corinne picked at the fingernails of one hand, her forearms resting on the table. Her expression had gone from cheerful and flirtatious to sad and worried. Which meant Marc was doing his job.

Inspired by his success, I glanced at the clipboard in front of me, considering my next move. How was it that Marc had gotten information out of his source, while I’d only gotten paperwork?

Fortunately, it wasn’t too late to play the boob card against Jeff. Surely that would be easier than testing a patch of my skin for an allergy to double-sided tape.

But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t flash my flesh in exchange for information. For my life, yes. I’d been down that road three months earlier, and vowed never to travel it again. And I wasn’t willing to break my vow for mere information. I didn’t fault Marc for flirting in the name of duty, but neither could I follow his example. That would be demeaning myself, and using Jeff, and I just couldn’t do either.

I’d have to find another approach. An approach that left me with my clothes—and my self-respect—intact.

Slowly, an idea began to form. I’d already made up a name, so why not make up a story to go with my new character? What if Julie hadn’t really come to Forbidden Fruit looking for a job? What if she’d come for something else?

When the rush was over and Jeff came back, I was ready.

“You forget how to spell your name?” he asked, nodding at the blank application as he set a bottle of spring water on the bar in front of me.

“Thanks.” I stared at the bottle as I opened it and took a long drink, intentionally—and hopefully obviously—avoiding his eyes as I recapped the bottle and set it back on the bar.

“Something wrong?” he asked, ducking his head into my line of sight to catch my eyes.

I gave him a hesitant, self-conscious smile. “I, um, I’m not really here for a job.”

Jeff arched one eyebrow and grabbed a handful of peanuts from a bowl on the bar. Leaning into the corner formed where the bar turned at a ninety-degree angle, he popped one of the nuts into his mouth, chewing while he watched me. “Okay, I’m intrigued. What
do
you want?”

Smiling, I let genuine relief show on my face. I’d been counting on his curiosity, which wasn’t really such a risk. Most guys will take any chance to prolong a conversation with a pretty girl. Jeff wore no wedding ring, and I’d already gathered that he liked women, so the odds of him showing interest were in my favor.

Score one for
my
approach.

“Information,” I said as I let my smile fade into a serious expression, with just enough anger to lend authenticity.

“Information? That’s a new one.” He paused to chew on a few more nuts, and I kept my eye contact bold to show determination. “What kind of information?” he asked, his mouth still half-f.

“I want to know who my husband is fucking.”

Jeff choked on his mouthful, coughing to clear his throat. When he could breathe again, he laughed out loud, admira
tion showing in his eyes, hopefully for me, and not for my “husband.” He dropped the remaining peanuts back into the bowl and brushed salt from his palms, glancing pointedly at my left hand. “You’re not wearing a wedding ring.”

“Would you, if your wife were screwing someone else?” I spat, maintaining eye contact to reinforce my sincerity. “Besides, I seriously doubt Robby wore his when he was here. Turnabout’s fair play, right?” I shrugged, and tilted my water bottle back for another drink.

“So, who’s your husband, and why do you think he’s cheating on you?” he asked, leaning back to work on another handful of peanuts.

“My husband.” I sighed, as if settling in for a long story. “Robby Harper, computer programmer and wanna-be stud. We’ve been married less than a year, and he’s already looking for a little something extra on the side.” I paused and gave a bitter laugh. “Well, as of last night, I guess he’s not just looking anymore.”

“And you know this because…?”

I glanced up sharply, letting a little bite seep into my tone. “Because he didn’t even bother to shower before he came home. I could smell the bitch on him.”
Oops.
“Her perfume,” I added quickly, as it occurred to me that humans probably couldn’t smell one another’s personal scents the way cats could. “I think he met her here, and I want to know who she is.” I made a show of glancing around the room, eyeing the dancer strutting around onstage in a Princess Leia bikini before turning back to Jeff.

He nodded in understanding. “I don’t know many of the regulars by name, so you’ll have to tell me what he looks like. But I can tell you right now that he probably wasn’t with one
of
our
girls. My brother runs this place by the book, and girls who break the rules don’t last long.”

I dismissed his opinion with a careless wave of my hand. I already knew I wasn’t looking for a stripper. But Julie Harper didn’t. “He’s about five ten, with short brown hair and dark eyes. They’re nearly black, actually.”

Jeff frowned and shook his head. “I don’t usually get close enough to the customers to notice their eye color, and other than that, you’ve just described a good third of our regulars. Anything else about him I might remember?”

I chewed on my bottom lip as I thought. “Yeah.” I shifted on the bar stool, where my bare thighs were stuck to the vinyl again, and turned to face the booth where Marc and Kevin still sat with Corinne. “See those guys sitting with Little Red Riding Hood?” I turned around to see Jeff squinting into the dimly lit main room.

“Yeah.”

“The one on the left is a friend of Robby’s. They usually come in here together. Until last night, I thought they were going to the gun range.”

Jeff nodded and popped another peanut into his mouth. He chewed, then swallowed while I waited, growing more nervous with each passing second. Then he nodded again. “Yeah, I remember your husband. He comes in a couple of times a month. Usually gets a lap dance from Ginger, the redhead in the coconut bra and grass miniskirt.” I glanced around the room, trying to locate “Ginger,” as Jeff continued. “But Ginger doesn’t work the day shift, and yesterday your hubby was here for lunch. First one through the door. I remember because he left with the only female customer we’ve had all week. We get a few who come in on Friday and
Saturday nights with their husbands and boyfriends, but we hardly ever get women in for lunch. And they almost never come alone.”

My heart pounded. He’d seen the tabby. And he remembered her. “Robby left with this woman?”

“Yeah. Maybe…an hour after we opened? Something like that.”

I leaned over the bar, fighting not to appear too eager. “Do you know her name?”

“Nah. I’d never seen her before yesterday. She drank a club soda, though. Ordered it with this really thick, sexy accent. Spanish, maybe.”

“Do you remember what she looked like?”

Jeff frowned, as if I’d just asked him if sugar was sweet. “I’ll
never
forget what she looked like. She was
hot.
”

I rolled my eyes, prepared for a bit of exaggeration in his response. After all, he’d offered
me
a job as a stripper. How high could his standards be? “Got anything more specific than ‘hot’?”

“Yeah, sorry.” And he actually looked sorry. Or at least sheepish. “She was about your height, maybe a little shorter. Dark, exotic skin. Long, curly hair, not quite as black as yours, but still pretty dark. Pale gray eyes. Weird-pale, but beautiful.
Her
eyes I noticed. I remember when she left because I’d been about to offer her a drink on the house, then I looked up to see her heading out the door with…well, with your husband.” Jeff shrugged apologetically. “Did that help?”