Overworked and jaded, Kayla is convinced she’s had her fill of bad boys when her boyfriend’s debts catapult her into a stranger’s arms.
A woman with a reputation, Kayla has long given up on true love. She’s thirty-three going on ninety-four, mother of one with a boyfriend who makes no secret of settling for her. When she’s not doing the books at the local strip club, she’s warming up the stage. Holding off the loan sharks is par for the course, until the night outlaw biker, Booker O’Connor, rolls into town.
Suddenly the bills come due and, in an act of desperation, Kayla’s boyfriend offers her up as payment for his debts to the motorcycle club. But their new leader has a reputation of his own.
Booker’s the real deal, from prison ink to bullet scars. No matter how sexy he may be or how much she’s growing to hate her boyfriend, Kayla has been with enough bad boys to know that she should fear callused hands and dangerous smiles. Striking out on her own seems like Kayla’s best option, but the Hell Hounds aren’t known for backing down quietly. She doesn’t expect Booker to give chase, much less discover that she doesn’t mind being caught by a man who can finally give her what she wants.
Reader Advisory: This book contains references to prostitution and sexual coercion.
Publisher's Note: This story has been previously released as part of the Wild Angels anthology by Totally Bound Publishing.
General Release Date: 16th January 2015
Kayla had long given up trying to make out the melody that brayed from speakers duct-taped to the ceiling. She gripped the pole with one hand and swung in a lazy arc, parting her knees suggestively on the descent. Beads dangled from her thong, caressing her thighs and catching on the hollows of her hips. Anything to draw the eye.
She dug her fingernails into the steel in an effort to resist smoothing out the tassels.
The fantasy she was weaving wouldn’t sell if her clients knew how much her outfits itched or what blisters she got from the stilettos she wore on stage.
She tipped forward, kneeling to roll her hips. The friction of thin air did nothing for her, but she moaned anyway. That, too, was part of the fantasy.
The lights were low in the club, but still she noticed the smattering of patrons watching her. None rushed to slide money into her thong. It was still early and Kayla’s routine wasn’t elaborate enough to merit the tips. She was the starter—there to whet appetites before Heidi or Lou were ready to take to the stage.
At the far end of the club, a door swung open, letting in the dizzying glare of a late afternoon sun. The light was blinding. Kayla distinguished a couple of broad-shouldered figures before her vision fogged.
Probably transients, in for a drink and a show before they got on the road again. Not the kind of patrons willing to waste their cash.
Chair legs scraped the tile floor down the stage, the loud screech curbing the swell of bitterness before it could snag hold.
Kayla glanced over. A thickset guy sporting an unfortunate buzz-cut waved a four-fingered hand. His buddy—younger, lankier, his chin like the point of a triangle—leered. Their faces were unfamiliar to Kayla, but their leather kuttes raised a few flags.
Shit. Zach had promised he’d steer clear of the Hounds.
She was relieved when the music finally wound to a close and she was free to lever to her feet, job done. Zach couldn’t say she wasn’t pulling her weight, though he might have a few pointers to improve her routine.
“What? That’s it?” one of the new arrivals heckled.
The heavier of the pair snorted under his breath.
“First course comin’ up,” Kayla replied sweetly. Her six inch heels and two-foot tall stage gave her a sense of altitude, not superiority. She was still naked but for her skimpiest bra and thong, rhinestones swishing against her thighs.
All in a day’s work.
She breathed a sigh of relief as she stepped off stage. At least in the back office, she had only one fragile ego to coddle. First stop was the dressing room, to change out of her costume.
“Zach wants you,” said Lou, smacking her shiny lips in the mirror. “What do you think of the color? Too trampy?”
Kayla tugged a hand through her hair. She craved a shower to wash away the stick of too many stares. “What’s the routine?”
“Arabian nights.”
“Again?”
Lou met her eyes in the glass. The improbably steep slant of her cheekbones seemed even sharper thanks to the judicious use of blush and bronzer. “Did I mention your boyfriend wants to see you? He’s the one who changed up my set. If you’ve got a problem—”
“No problem,” Kayla interjected, shrugging into a silk peignoir and cinching it tight at the waist. “Arabian nights sounds great.” For the third time this week.
Zach only ever changed the set list when he had a personal affinity for the routine.
Kayla locked down the thought. She couldn’t afford jealousy.
Helena Maeve has always been a globe trotter with a fondness for adventure, but only recently has she started putting to paper the many stories she's collected in her excursions. When she isn't writing erotic romance novels, she can usually be found in an airport or on a plane, furiously penning in her trusty little notebook.
Reviewed by Multitasking Mommas
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