The lowlife clientele slinking in seemed like a mixture of locals and tourists. They all looked as if they’d served time. None of them appeared to take bathing too seriously.
As they reached the front door, a big bouncer stood grunting out a “request” for the cover charge over the raucous music. Ten bucks with a two-drink minimum. The guys in front of them pulled out a big wad of cash he’d bet they had obtained in less-than-legal ways.
As he and Sean each pulled out a bill and ran in the door, the smoke, stale beer, sweat, and glitter assailed him. Goddamn it, this place was the worst sort of dive.
On the sagging stage, someone named Whipped Cream, who wore two little pasties designed to look like her namesake, was taking her final bows. Her mother definitely hadn’t given her that name—or that shade of ruby-red hair. She didn’t look like she had all her teeth.
The deejay sounded bored as he told the audience to give it up for the woman. The smattering of applause broke into chatter. A few bills littered the stage as Thorpe studied the girls serving drinks, hoping . . . But he didn’t see any waitress who had Callie’s face, build, or innate grace.
Fucking son of a bitch.
Sean looked around, too, obviously worried. “Where the hell did she get off to now?”
Thorpe didn’t think Doreen would have been dumb enough to call her cousin and tell him to warn Callie. “I’m hoping she’s in the restroom. Or getting someone a drink.”
“If she’s already become a customer favorite, I doubt she’s serving drinks,” Sean managed to growl out with his teeth grinding. “If that’s the case, she’ll probably go on when the night’s in full swing, toward the end of her shift.”
In twenty minutes or less.
Damn it to hell, he was right. “We don’t know her stage name, so we have no idea who to ask for.”
“Unless I barge into the back with my badge and drag her out of here.”
The idea had merit. Thorpe looked around, trying to gauge what the management’s reaction to having an FBI agent in their midst would be when a waitress came by for their drink orders. Truth told, he didn’t want anything, but ordered a bourbon and water, knowing he wouldn’t drink it. Sean asked for a vodka tonic, then motioned her down to him in a moment between the music.
“I’m wondering, pretty lass, if you’d mind to give me a wee bit of information.” Sean slipped into his Scottish accent and smiled at the acne-prone waitress, who looked barely legal and totally dazzled. The fed flashing a bit of cash sealed the deal.
“I’ll tell you anything. My bra size is a thirty-six D. They’re real.”
They weren’t, but Thorpe wasn’t going to bother debating the girl’s assets.
“You’re right fetching, that’s for sure. But I’m inquiring about the new bit of fluff. For my friend here.” Sean gestured to him.
The waitress made a sour face and rolled her eyes. “All the customers are, like, totally insane over Juicy. It’s not as if she’s got a magical pussy.”
Juicy?
Thorpe cast a glance over to Sean, who looked ready to disagree with the waitress, but he managed to force another smile onto his face. “Juicy, you say? Tell me more. My friend is quite interested.”
“That one is antisocial. She’s pissed all the girls off. Whipped Cream and Sparkle Swallows both can’t stand her. Two days here, and she’s already got more fans than everyone else. Now if you two want nice . . .” She smiled, showing off slightly bucked teeth.
“What does she look like?” Sean asked.
“Blond, blue-eyed, stacked.” The girl sighed. “But she’s not special.”
“When does she come on?”
The waitress opened her mouth to answer, but the deejay’s voice over the speakers drowned her out. “She’s new. She’s exciting. She’s your wettest dream. Give it up for Juicy!”
Sean stiffened, looking like his fury had climbed ten notches. Since Thorpe felt like strangling the deejay and killing everyone who stood between them and the stage, that suited him just fine.
And if Juicy and Callie were one and the same, slipping away unseen with the girl in tow had just become impossible.
The music cued, and Britney came on with some damn suggestive lyrics. Then the curtain parted, and out strutted the next act. Despite the bright lights glaring, all the makeup, and the skimpy costume, Thorpe knew instantly it was Callie.
She definitely wasn’t waitressing.
Tingles zipped down his spine. He itched to wrap his fingers in her silky hair. Even being in the same room with her made him titanium hard, so if he hadn’t known in every other way that he’d found Callie, his reaction made it damn obvious.
As he watched her onstage, the waitress stomped her foot and huffed off. He barely glanced at the other girl. Callie held him rapt as she gyrated for the crowd wearing a schoolgirl uniform, complete with a plaid skirt. Her blond wig hung in long pigtails. The whistling and catcalls ramped up, and she pasted on a come-hither smile. But her eyes . . . they didn’t invite. Because he knew Callie, he could read that expression. She looked both unnerved and scared out of her mind.
Beside him, Sean cursed a blue streak and leaned forward, gaze drilling into her. Thorpe felt the man’s displeasure. It mirrored his own. Rage bubbled and turned, and he knew that Callie would feel every inch of their disapproval the second they got their hands on her.
“Her file doesn’t indicate that she’s ever stooped this low,” Sean snarled.
Thorpe didn’t take his eyes off her. “I don’t think she’s ever been this desperate.”
Sean nodded grimly, and they watched her slowly reach for the top button of her blouse.
Tensing before she even had it undone, Thorpe wondered if he’d survive the next three minutes. He fidgeted in his seat, eager to storm the stage, take her down, and let her feel the full measure of her consequences. “What’s the fucking plan?”
“It would be better if we didn’t make a scene,” Sean bit out, gritting his teeth. “But the minute this music is over . . .”
“We’re going to grab her ass and haul her out of here. I’m all over that.”
“I was counting on it.”
Callie slipped the top button free, then another, and a third. The seconds ticked by, one after the other, in a horrific show that slowly revealed her milky flesh and had all the men in the room shouting that they wanted something “Juicy.” Every muscle in Thorpe’s body screamed at him to stop this travesty, even as his head silenced his inner Neanderthal and told him to keep his ass in his seat. They couldn’t make a scene.
With a sexy little spin, Callie whirled away and let the white shirt slip off her shoulders. She looked back at the audience with an exaggerated wink. Even terrified, there was something unmistakably special about her. She had a sweet quality and a goodness that her difficult life hadn’t killed. But the girl still exuded sex from the sparkle of her eyes and the pout of her glossy lips, all the way down to her swaying hips and pink-tipped toes peeking out from black patent stilettos. Denying just how much he wanted her wasn’t possible anymore. He’d never met a woman he couldn’t resist—until Callie. Thorpe feared that walking away from her again would be like trying to swim against a raging tidal wave.
To the beat of the music, Callie flipped up her illegally short skirt and flashed the audience her sinfully small thong—and her ass cheeks—before the plaid fell softly over her backside again. The whooping and whistles revved up. A bouncer nearby stood mutely and watched.
“Show us your tits!” someone near the stage shouted.
“Gimme a piece of that luscious ass,” another demanded.
The idea that these dregs now had Callie in their spank bank made him feel somewhere between nauseated and homicidal.