Chapter Three

Backstage, Lance, the newest member of the Hunks, stood bent over his black cowboy boots. “I can’t do this.”

“You can.” Rafe gripped the ginger-haired entertainer by the shoulder and hauled him up. “What did I tell you?”

The twenty-year-old dressed in jeans, a blue western-style shirt, and a black cowboy hat sucked in a breath and straightened. “You said to find three women in the crowd and make a connection.”

“Exactly. One in the center and one on each side of the room. Block everyone else out and pretend that you’re just dancing for them. Mid solo, pick someone and bring them on stage. Put all your energy into pleasing her. Check out Flynn.”

The blond dancer was currently performing shirtless in a pair of flesh-colored leg tights that left little to the imagination.

A brunette stood, arms spread, tied to poles in the middle of the stage. She remained mesmerized by his ballet-style moves choreographed to a hip-hop version of Beethoven’s Für Elise.

Flynn danced up behind the woman. He stroked her from her shoulders to her wrists to unknot two of the many pastel scarves binding her to the poles.

“Okay. Got it.” Lance took off his hat and tossed it on one of the large, plastic hay bales stacked against the wall. “I’ll be back.” He bolted down the hallway and into the dressing room.

“Hurry up. You’re on next.” Tension hummed through Rafe. His temples pounded. They didn’t have time for this.

Shannon walked up beside him. “I’ve got an update on the Hunks.”

“Are they pulling into the parking lot?”

“They’re still twenty minutes away, maybe more with downtown traffic.”

Traffic. Of course. Just what they didn’t need. “When Lance finishes, I’ll promote the bar then announce a fifteen-minute intermission. That should buy us some time.” He glanced out at the audience.

Alexa sat alone at the table, front and center, facing the stage.

He hadn’t imagined seeing her walk through the club earlier. She was even more beautiful than he remembered. When he’d danced for her months ago, she’d tempted him into violating one of the rules of the show. It was something he’d never done during his entire seven years as a male entertainer—he’d kissed her on the lips instead of on the cheek. Champagne and strawberries.

A long, cold shower that night hadn’t helped him forget how she’d tasted or how her dress had ridden up when she’d straddled him in the chair, revealing more of her satiny smooth skin. Recalling her soft caresses as he lay in bed alone that night had made him ache. Hell, his cock was starting to swell, even now. Once the rest of the Hunks arrived, one of them was bound to single her out for a special solo. She’d sit on some other guy’s lap tonight. He wasn’t sticking around for that.

Besides, he had to get back to club business. He’d run the entry stats to see if they could let in additional people and not violate the fire code. After that, he’d check in with Xan. Then he’d visit the booths and talk to the VIPs. Any mundane, normal task that would put distance between him and Alexa.

Shannon glanced to the hallway. “Lance’s face was almost green. How did he make it into the group if he’s so nervous about dancing alone?”

“I have no idea. When I was running things, the new guys popped their cherry on a solo two weeks after they were hired. If they couldn’t cut it, I let them go. Lance has talent. When I laid out the new steps for the intro, he got it on the first try and taught the routine to the other three. If it were up to me, I’d get him involved with the choreography side of things. Maybe he’d gain confidence and eventually learn to handle a solo. Right now, he’s just taking up space.”

“Sounds like you miss being in charge of them.”

“No. I’m glad I don’t have the responsibility of coming up with new material, managing the performance schedule, keeping the guys in line. They wore me down to the point where I didn’t enjoy being a part of it.”

Before he’d quit the Hunks five years ago, he’d also started to mentally check out during performances. The shows had become repetitive and boring to him. Most nights, he’d fought to keep his mind from wandering to his side hustle as a handyman and the next remodeling or repair job.

He’d leveled up by hiring a small crew. Running it full time once he quit the Hunks had seemed like a smooth career transition. Then Shannon had approached him about her friend wanting to sell Club Escapade. Despite having to let go of the handyman gig, and nearly emptying out his bank account, it had felt like the right risk. No, he didn’t miss performing, but earlier on stage, the rush had come back, especially when he’d spotted Alexa staring up at him.

Shannon smirked as she took in his black construction-style boots, jeans, and bare torso covered by a black leather vest. “Well, everyone out there is definitely in love with you. Sure you don’t feel like stripping down to your briefs for old times’ sake?”

“I feel like putting on a shirt.” He’d slipped one on after the opening, but when he went back out to announce the first performance, the women wouldn’t have it. They’d insisted he take it off, and he’d obeyed the primary rule of satisfying the audience: Give them what they want.

Flynn untied the last two scarves binding the woman, then he swept her up in his arms.

The music faded, and wild screams and applause rose.

Flynn set down the woman, who was flushed and smiling, near the steps leading off the stage.

The semi-clear screen lowered. A bar-back they’d commandeered dismantled the props while the DJ entertained the crowd.

Rafe snagged Flynn as he jogged by carrying the scarves. “Get Lance. He’s in the dressing room.”

“On it.” A moment later the blond performer popped his head out of the room. “He’s not going to make it.”

Prickles of irritation spread over Rafe. “Bullshit. Tell him to man up and get out here.”

Flynn shook his head. “Not happening. Trust me.”

Shannon glanced pointedly from Rafe to the cowboy hat Lance had left on the hay bale.

The Hunks running late. Shannon insisting he drag his ass on stage. Alexa in the audience. It had to be part of some fucking evil conspiracy. He massaged the tightness in the back of his neck. A performance, especially an extended one, would give the rest of the group time to arrive. He could also put his own demons behind him. This time when he finished his last set forever as a male entertainer, he’d leave everything behind, including his preoccupation with Alexa.

Minutes later, he stood on stage behind the semi-clear barrier in front of the fake hay bales. He wore the hat.

The DJ cued up a track with a slow, melodic electric guitar chord. The strains of the rock ballad mixed with the twang of a country beat grew louder.

Goose bumps prickled on Rafe’s arms. The song was an old one. He’d barely been a year old when it had come out. He’d discovered it at sixteen on a recording in a cassette player amidst the junk in the garage of the house in Michigan where he’d lived with his father. A label with his deceased mother’s name had been attached to it. Three years later, as one of the only possessions he had of hers, he’d grabbed it before he’d walked out.

Rage threatened to surface as the memory of his drunken father dogging his steps and hurling insults at him as he walked to his blue Honda, intending to leave home for good, returned full force. His father had told Rafe that he’d fail, and that when he came crawling back to Boland, he wouldn’t be welcome. Whenever he danced a cowboy-themed solo, he insisted on the DJ digging up the song. It was a strong reminder of the day he’d left Michigan for Miami. And he’d never looked back.

The barrier lifted to rising fog.

He cleared his mind and concentrated on the routine.

The low and slow sway of his pelvis earned him enthusiastic squeals. Rafe made eye contact with a cute brunette. He winked at her and peeled off his vest. She fanned her face. On the other side of the stage, he skimmed his fingers down his chest and abs. A curvy blonde’s mouth fell open with a look of awe. The buzz of excitement crackling in the room fed his drive to please. He worked the crowd, focusing on moves that made the audience wish they could get their hands on him. Or that he was touching them.

Rafe dropped down and jackhammered his hips to the floor.

Every woman stood, shouting louder, eager for him to continue—except Alexa.