WILD WEST BOYS
...Ridin' West for the holidays...
Publication Date:May 4, 2010
Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
ISBN: 978-1-60504-730-0
Available in print!
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“I look like an X-rated Mrs. Claus!” Holly North did a double take at her brazen image in the full-length mirror.
“That’s the point.”
“I don’t think Santa would approve.”
“Au contraire. I have it on good authority Santa loves naughty girls way more than nice girls. You should see what they get for Christmas.”
“I can’t wear this. My nipples are practically showing.” Holly yanked up the red leather bustier.
Ivy jerked the bustier back down. “Leave it. Customers want to believe they’re getting a free peep show.”
Holly gaped at her friend, Ivy Lane, owner of Sugar Plums, a “gentleman’s” club—aka a high-class strip joint. She gestured to the skintight leather pants, the shelf-like bustier that displayed her boobs like Christmas ornaments, and the four-inch poinsettia-red stilettos. “No man out there is going to buy that I’m the infamous Mistress Christmas, regardless if I’m wearing the costume.”
“It’s all in the attitude, sweetums.” Ivy frowned and tugged the black leather pants to Holly’s hipbones. “Actually it’s in the hips. Swivel ’em, baby.”
“Great.” Holly stared at the exposed section of her stomach where the bustier and the pants gapped. She turned sideways. Truthfully, she didn’t look half-bad. Pilates three times a week kept her belly from jiggling like a bowl full of jelly.
Still…as she stared at the smoky-eyed, half-naked stranger in the mirror, she wondered if she should’ve skipped that last glass of mulled wine. How could she even consider parading in public dressed this way?
“Just cop an attitude. Rule number one: sell yourself,” Ivy intoned. “Stop acting like an accountant.”
“But I am an accountant.” Ivy was her best pal—and top client. When Holly had impulsively stopped by to drop off quarterly tax forms, Ivy had pleaded with Holly to cover Mistress Christmas’s shift. Not only was the real Mistress sick, half of the bartenders and bouncers were out sick too.
Since Sugar Plums was a Christmas-themed strip joint, the club was especially swamped during the holidays. And since Holly was a sucker, she had a hard time saying the word no to her desperate friend.
But a teeny part of her was excited to break out of the boring mold and act bold and daring.
“You are a damn good accountant, Holls. However, you are also one gorgeous woman.” Ivy slathered on the flattery as thick as Tom and Jerry batter. “You shouldn’t hide this hot, curvy body under tweed, wool and prim looks. Shake it. Flaunt it. I guarantee my customers are gonna eat you up.”
Holly’s eyes widened. “But you said I wouldn’t actually have to get on stage and dance. I can’t strut around like a holiday dominatrix! What if someone recognizes me?”
“Trust me, I barely recognize you.” Ivy sighed. “Anyway, you don’t have to strip. And it’s not like I expect you to do lap dances. We’ll announce you, you’ll walk across the stage and then you’ll mingle with the customers.”
“That’s all?” she asked skeptically.
“Yep. You can come back to the dressing rooms and chill between Divinity’s and Candy Cane’s sets, if you want.” Ivy rummaged through a cardboard box of props, muttering to herself.
“Aha!” She waved a red velvet mask at Holly. “Put this on. It’ll give you an air of mystery and a measure of privacy.”
“Fine.” Holly slid the mask over her face, careful not to smear the artfully applied makeup or jostle the tinsel threaded through her hair. The minute that sinfully soft velvet caressed her skin, Holly’s modesty miraculously vanished.
Wow. She didn’t look like Holly North, respectable accountant; she looked…like a complete sexpot.
Oh yeah. This could be fun. Freeing.
Getting in the holiday spirit, Holly smiled coyly at Ivy in the mirror. “Hand me the red lipstick. Do you think I should dust snowy glitter across my cleavage? Or would that be too much?”
Detective Nick West sipped his Artic Ale and scrutinized the interior of Sugar Plums. Classy joint. Dark, but clean. The place could use a few more bouncers—security was a bit lax in his opinion.
The sound system pulsed and the strobe lights flashed in time to music heavy on the bass line. Although the stage was empty, the place was packed with single men, outrageously priced drinks in hand, their hungry gazes glued to the trio of brass stripper poles center stage as a disco ball spun, casting a kaleidoscope of color across the white walls.
To the left was a screened-off area that Nick assumed was for lap dances—not that he knew about those firsthand. Strip clubs had never been his thing, even in his younger years when he was raising hell in Wyoming with his notoriously wild McKay cousins. And luckily, early on in his career, Adult-oriented businesses or AOBs—weren’t on his patrol assignments.
To the right was another small but open room, which housed the video lottery machines. Several overweight guys sat in front of the glowing blue screens, in a daze, poking buttons and feeding money into the greedy bill slots like junkies.
What a waste. A spark of anger reminded him why he was here. Last week his friend Rudy Donner had spent an evening at Sugar Plums. During a lap dance, the stripper known as Mistress Christmas had drugged his drink and lifted fifteen hundred bucks from his wallet. Rudy didn’t remember much besides waking up in his car, cold, hungover and dead broke. Poor Rudy had been too embarrassed to press charges.
So Nick decided he’d check the place out on his own time, off the clock. He’d get up close and personal with the mysterious Mistress Christmas. If she pulled the same shit on him, well, he’d slap a pair of cuffs on her faster than she could say, “Merry Christmas, Officer.” And his cuffs weren’t the velvet-lined novelty type she was probably used to.
The music ended abruptly. An air of expectation filled the room and all eyes focused on the door on the stage.
A throaty female voice boomed over the stereo system. “Let’s get this party started! First up tonight, for your pleasure, we have the talents of Divinity, followed by Velvet and lastly, the ever-popular Candy Cane. To get this party going, I’d like to introduce Mistress Christmas.”
More whoops resounded.
“Mistress Christmas isn’t dancing this evening.”
Boos ensued.
Nick frowned and a suspicious feeling rolled through him. What kind of strip club was this that the headliner wasn’t dancing?
“Now don’t get your jocks in a knot, boys. Instead, of shaking her Christmas bon-bon, she’ll be out front mingling with all of you, sharing her special brand of holiday cheer. Let’s give Mistress Christmas a big Sugar Plums welcome!”
Wolf whistles, catcalls, and wild applause rang out as the lights dimmed. The door opened and out stepped a vision of pure sex on stilettos.
Willow Gregory woke up and realized covering her head with a pillow did not muffle the pounding inside her skull.
She shifted slightly on the damp sheets. The pillow tumbled away and a shaft of sunlight nearly fried her retinas. She squeezed her eyelids shut and muttered, “I’m in hell.”
“A hell of your own making,” a masculine voice drawled.
Willow shrieked and jackknifed, twisting her body toward the sexy rumbling sound.
Ooh big mistake. Sharp pulses lanced her brain like pointy metal spikes. “Ow. Ow. Ow.” She peeled her eyes open, one squinty lid at a time and saw a tempting feast of bronzed male flesh less than two feet away from her.
Holy moly. If her head weren’t inside a jackhammer she’d believe she was still in dreamland.
Her gaze moved across the man’s thick wrist and ropy, muscled forearm to his ripped biceps, then over the cup of his shoulder to the middle of his chest. His bare, wide, oh-so-lickable chest. His bare, wide, oh-so-lickable chest with an oh-so-delectable tattoo.
She studied the column of his throat, noting the golden stubble dotting his square jaw. Her eyes passed over the dent in his chin and the deep-set dimples bracketing his smirking mouth. She met his gaze. Amused hazel eyes surrounded by sooty lashes were as unforgettable as the rest of him.
Yeah? If he’s so unforgettable why don’t you know his name?
“Good mornin’ sunshine,” he said, his voice tinged with a husky twang.
His smirk became a lethal grin. “How’s the head?”
“Like it’s got an ax imbedded in it.” Willow winced. Ow. Even talking hurt.
“That bad, eh?”
You have no idea. I also have no idea who you are.
He shook his head and the ends of his curly blond hair brushed his collarbones. “There’s a reason they call those shots cherry bombs.”
“Cherry bombs?” she repeated, immediately regretting the reverberation inside her brain.
“Cinnamon schnapps layered with blue Curaçao and topped with a maraschino cherry. Very patriotic. But that didn’t mean you had to drink them all, Miss Firecracker.”
She cringed at his use of her former title. “Huh-uh. I handed over my crown, my responsibilities and my title last night.” And good riddance.
“Your successor might’ve gotten the crown but, sunshine, you’re still wearin’ the sash.”
Oh crap.
Please tell me I didn’t…
Willow’s chin fell to her chest. She wore the white satin beauty pageant sash. Nothing else. She yelped, wincing at her own high-pitched squeak as she snatched up the balled sheet in an attempt to cover herself.
“It’s a little late for that, doncha think?”
She snapped, “Who are you?” when she really wanted to demand, “How the hell did I end up naked in your bed with the mother of all hangovers?”
“You really don’t remember?” he said with a silken purr. “All you did? All you said to me?”
“No. But if you were any good I should—”
He briefly placed his finger over her mouth. “Ah. Ah. Ah. Don’t go there. It ain’t gonna end well for you.”
She paused. Did this fall under the “don’t ask, don’t tell” heading? She honestly had no experience with this kind of “morning after” situation.
“What?”
“Did it end well for you?” she blurted. “Did we have sex last night?”
“No. But it wasn’t for lack of trying on your part.”
“My part?”
“Uh-huh. I said no. Several times. I might’ve said yes if I’d seen you strip to nothin’ but that sexy sash.” He rubbed his meaty hand over his mouth and let his gaze drop to the aforementioned swath of fabric.
Her cheeks flamed.
“But I prefer the woman I bed to be coherent, not babbling about spending a year toeing the line and then demanding I ‘man-up’ and do my civic duty to help you make up for lost booty time.”
Aghast, she whispered, “I said that?”
“Yep. After the sheriff left and I got you calmed down.”
“Sheriff Mayhew was here?”
“Not up here, but downstairs.”
“Downstairs…?”
“In the bar. LeRoy’s Tavern. And it’s a good thing the sheriff knows your daddy, ’cause otherwise you woulda landed in jail.”
A spear of pain shot from her head to the base of her spine and she lowered to the mattress to quell the dizziness. “What did I do last night?”
“Got cherry bombed.”
“No kidding.”
“What do you remember?” he asked.
“I remember crowning Miranda Sue Maffini the new Miss Firecracker. I remember having a celebratory drink or five with the losing contestants in the back of somebody’s pickup. Then we were supposed to meet up here. So I walked from the town hall…then it’s sort of blurry.” She hesitated. “Was I with anyone else?”
“Not that I recall. You were by yourself the second you strolled in. Didn’t seem happy about it either.”
A glimmer of memory appeared. Sitting alone in a big booth. Mortified she’d eagerly fallen for the “we’ll meet you there” line of crap. Embarrassed and feeling like a loser. Acting like it was no big deal that she’d ordered a round of expensive specialty shots for her new no-show friends.
So she drank them all herself.
The night was a blank after that, which didn’t seem like such a bad thing, given the pathetic, friendless state of her life. “I’m in the apartment upstairs from LeRoy’s Tavern?”
“Yep.” The bed shifted as he scooted up.
Willow lifted her shoulders and studied the guy’s all-too-smug, all-too-handsome, all-too-close mug. “So if I’m at Dave’s place, where’s Dave?”
“On vacation.”
“Who are you?”
Two hundred pounds of warm male was right in her face. “My name’s Blake West. And who am I?” He swept a chunk of hair from her cheek. “Since I’m managing the bar while Dave’s fishing in Jackson Hole, that makes me your new boss.”
“I may be hungover, but I’m not stupid. I don’t work at LeRoy’s Tavern.”
He flashed her a dazzling smile. “You do for the next two nights, according to the sheriff.”
“What!”
“Might go three nights, depending on how fast you fill up your tip jar.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about you being a very bad girl last night, Miss—”
“—don’t say it: don’t even think it,” she warned.
“I thought you’d be proud of the title, bein’s you’re still wearing the sash.”
Willow ignored his sexy grin. “That part of my life is over and it doesn’t matter. So tell me, Blake West, how bad was I?”
“On a scale of one to ten?” He paused. His golden green eyes twinkled. Twinkled. “Fifty.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“The proof is right downstairs. You smashed a barstool into the wall after Norbert Fossum pissed you off. Broke the table too. You did about six hundred dollars damage.”
“No way.”
“Way. And part of the reason the good sheriff didn’t toss your cute butt in jail was on the condition you work off the debt, not pay it off.”
“Why?”
“Said he wants you to learn a lesson about the high price of, as you phrased it, cutting loose.”
Shoot. Willow could imagine herself saying that. In fact, if she thought real hard, she could almost remember shouting it to the rafters after she realized her so-called new friends had stood her up. “And if I refuse?”
“Sheriff Mayhew reinstates the charges of drunk and disorderly, the destruction of private property and you hash out the details in court.”
She’d always admired the sheriff’s unconventional punishments to keep the peace in their town—until now.
Behind bars or tending bar…was there really a choice?
“Why’s he doing this to me?”
“Sunshine, you did this to yourself.”
He had a point. “So what are you getting out of this besides free labor? My humiliation?”
“Your humiliation? What about mine?”
“Yours?”
“Yes. You working to pay for damages means I don’t have to tell my buddy that I let some smokin’ hot beauty queen distract me to the point she wreaked havoc in his bar on my second night in charge.”
Silence.
Smokin’ hot beauty queen? Wow. Did he really mean her?
His eyes narrowed. “I recognize that scheming look from last night.”
“I am not scheming! I don’t have a scheming bone in my body.”
“Right.”
Why wouldn’t he doubt her? If everything he’d claimed she’d done last night was true? “It’s just…I can’t believe I did something so stupid.”
“Everyone makes mistakes.”
“Well, prepare yourself for quite a few more because I’ve never bartended.”
“More used to knockin’ ’em back than making them, are you?” he drawled.
Willow glared at him.
Which caused him to smile and set those damn dimples winking again. “No worries. You won’t be mixing drinks. You’ll be slinging them.”
“Awesome.”
Blake’s gaze trailed down her body. Not a covert glance from beneath his sinfully long lashes, but blatant masculine appraisal. When he deigned to look at her face, his eyes were heated and dark. “Oh yes, indeedy, you certainly are.” Then he shoved aside the blanket and stood.
Unlike her, he wasn’t naked. However, he looked damn fine clothed. And was there anything sexier than a hunky bare-chested man filling out a pair of hip-hugging jeans to perfection? Her head protested the exertion of imagining Blake West wearing nothing but his dimples.
“…out of hot water.”
Willow looked up. “What did you say?”
He smirked, recognizing she’d been ogling him. “I said I figured you’d prefer to go home and get cleaned up.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet. I expect to see you back in the bar in two hours.”
“What time is it now?”
“Noon. The bar opens at two.”
“How late am I working?”
“Until close.”
She groaned. A twelve-hour shift. Chances were good she’d still feel like dog doo-doo twelve hours from now. Chances were even better her new “boss” knew that.
Holding the sheet close, Willow peeked over the edge of the bed. No sign of her clothes. She scanned the floor. Nothing. Ditto for the dresser next to the window.
“Something you need, sunshine?” Blake asked sweetly.
“Umm. Where exactly did you put my clothes?”
He grinned. “I didn’t put them anywhere. You did.”
“This is not funny. Where are they?”
“Now, that’s the question of the day, ain’t it? Look up and to your left.”
Willow carefully angled her head skyward. Her red bra and lacy thong dangled from one side of the ceiling fan, her denim skirt and red tank top from the other.
Fantastic. She flopped back on the mattress. Must’ve been a heckuva strip tease. How was she supposed to retrieve them without jumping on the bed like a naked, drunken monkey?
Thirty seconds later, a soft thump landed on the mattress. Willow turned her head to see her clothes wadded into a ball. “Thanks.”
“I’ll leave you to get dressed.”
“Will I be wearing a uniform today?”
“No. Just a white shirt and jeans. Or a skirt.”
At least she wasn’t expected to parade around in a Hooters-type get-up.
“Your purse and keys are in the living room. Don’t know what you did with your shoes.” His eyes narrowed again. “Remember. Be back here in two hours. Or I send the sheriff after you.”
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© 2006 - 2012 ~ Lorelei James.