Three Kinds of Trouble by Anne Malcom

Chapter Two

Life returned to normal after Hades was stitched up on my sofa.

Hades.

Though I’d managed to get his blood out of the cushion and off my sofa—thanks to some hydrogen peroxide and ammonia—I was not able to rid my home of his presence. Of course, having a member of a deadly motorcycle gang bleeding in your living room was not something you just forgot. Then his other two ... friends? Brothers? Comrades? Demigods?

No, that was not something you forgot, especially with the roar of motorcycles being the norm whenever I was in town. But I did my best to get on with things since the club, Hades and his demigod brethren were definitely trouble, and trouble was not what I needed. Trouble was the one thing I was staying away from.

It was supposed to be a fresh start, this town. Somewhere Sirius and I would be able to put down roots after years of drifting from state to state like a fucking tumbleweed. And I liked it here. Loved it. I adored my little house in the desert, liked the fact that Julian at the coffee shop already knew my name, my order and my weakness for almond croissants. And there was the fact he was Australian, so he knew how to make coffee that was “nothing like that dirty water you Yanks drink”. On top of that, it was the nectar of the gods and something similar to liquid cocaine. Since I hadn’t done cocaine or any other kind of drug in five years, I was glad to have something that almost measured up to it since I worked long hours and didn’t sleep often. Hence me having a slight cocaine problem five years ago. Well, it had started when one of the girls at the first club I’d worked at had given it to me when I started having a panic attack about going on stage.

It had helped.

A whole fucking lot.

It helped me take my clothes off in front of strangers and made the reality of what I was doing somewhat softer, less sordid, less humiliating. I was struggling with a lot of other crap then that made me uncomfortable in my own skin, made me clothed in self-hatred no matter whether I was dancing naked on a pole or not.

Now that I was clean—well, I still drank wine and tequila because I wasn’t that well-adjusted—and I had gone to a therapist to unpack all of my issues, I could get up on stage sober. I could dance, I could take my clothes off and I could give sleazebags lap dances while feeling okay about myself. Good even. Powerful. I knew that my job wasn’t what a lot of people in polite society thought to be acceptable, but a crap-ton of people from ‘polite society’ were also clients who needed an escape from the stifling confines of societal rules.

Two years ago, on a whim, I’d started a YouTube channel for no other reason than I wanted to share my experiences working as a stripper and because I wanted some kind of creative outlet. I hadn’t expected to make a cent from it, but I’d done it right because that’s just how I worked. I took an online course on filming, branding and editing. I spent a small fortune on a fancy camera and lighting then arranged an aesthetically pleasing background that suited my ‘brand’: a neon sign of a naked woman’s outline dancing on a pole, a bookcase full of steamy, feminist romance books and a rack of the outfits I wore on stage.

I filmed ten videos before uploading a single one. Then I created a schedule and truly started. I talked about my favorite makeup that lasted through the night. How to get the perfect bikini line shave. My favorite perfumes. How stripping on my period always got me the most tips, because despite what they said about the act of menstruation being dirty and forbidden, some carnal part of them loved the fucking smell of blood against expensive perfume.

The title of my channel was ‘Stripping Stripped.’

I had five thousand subscribers my first month, ten the month later. Now I was at almost half a million. I made good money off my videos. Uploading one every Wednesday, without fail, I earned thousands a month without any sponsorship. I talked a lot about sex, taking care of intimate parts of your body, how to be safe in the industry. I also did interviews with sex workers, cam girls and porn stars. So yeah, I was doing pretty fucking well.

I was proud of myself. I came from nothing, wasn’t educated enough to go to college and I was full of emotional holes, so I used what I had. Now I earned more in a year than most fucking doctors. My car was paid off, and I bought my house with a fifty percent deposit. I invested in cryptocurrency because I knew that my body would inevitably start to sag, then I wouldn’t be able to strip any longer. Or before that happened I wouldn’t want to strip any longer. And eventually, I wouldn’t be hot anymore, my subscribers would get bored with me or I’d get tired of doing videos around the same time my body started to sag.

Whichever came first, I would be taken care of. By me. No one else.

But for the time being, I continued to pull into Fate in my Range Rover, walked through the doors in Jimmy Choos, and shook my well-toned ass for money.

Despite being a small town, Garnett’s local strip club was not seedy. The lighting was low, soft. Not to hide a crumbling and stained interior, but to go with the décor. Velvet sofas and armchairs in shades of black and gray. Lamps on every table. A bar with a marble countertop that gleamed. Doors leading toward private rooms which were even more expensively appointed—and constantly monitored to make sure that the girls were never in danger and never doing anything illegal.

Fate operated like a high-end club in L.A. or New York, not a small town in New Mexico. But this particular locale was in a unique location in the state, only forty-five minutes away from a luxury celebrity resort in the desert. And a lot of the celebrities who went there were sexual deviants with a lot of money and a lot of kinks. Not only was our club the closest, it was also the best.

And then there was the fact that the town was home to the New Mexico chapter of the Sons of Templar MC. Before I arrived here, I’d never heard of them. After my first night working, I knew exactly who they were. Muscled, dangerous alphas in leather.

Trouble.

But they were always respectful at the club, tipped like Rockefellers and never got drunk and violent. Surprising, considering what I expected from bikers.

I expected beer bellies, sloppy drunks, exploring hands and blatant misogyny. I’d been nervous around them, even though the other girls spoke so highly of them. The ones who had patronized the club had hit on me, but once I refused their advances, that was it. No anger, no violence, nothing I had come to expect from a man who was refused something he felt entitled to.

It was nice, refreshing.

It took effort to say no to these guys. Not a beer belly to be seen. But I had because I knew they were trouble.

They still tipped well, making conversation when I was around the club bar either before or after my shift. So I wasn’t surprised to see the leather out of the corner of my eye while I was chatting to Kallum who was behind the bar. It was early, so I was hanging around the bar in a leather mini skirt and a leopard print halter top that was more of a bra than a top. It was quiet, which was how Kallum and I were able to have this conversation.

“Are you sure you don’t mind?” he asked.

I frowned at him. “Mind? You’ll be lucky to get him back when you come home.”

He put his elbows on the bar and leaned forward, close enough so I could smell his aftershave over the fragrance of the club which was soft, sweet, enticing. Kallum’s aftershave was spicy, leathery and pretty enticing too. If you were into that kind of thing. “What about Sirius? He won’t feel territorial or protective?”

I laughed. “Sirius? Remember when you came to my house, and I texted you to let yourself in?”

Kallum grinned, turning his sculpted, masculine face boyish. “He was so scared he ran away and hid behind you,” he recalled, his blue eyes twinkling.

I laughed at the memory. I’d gotten the black lab from a shelter three years ago, thinking he would be good protection. Until the second I got home and he hid underneath the bed for an hour after he was frightened by a bird that had found its way into the house. I loved the little coward.

Kallum’s dog, Loki, was a small Papillion, an absolutely ridiculous pet for a muscled strip club owner to have, but he adored him, and so did everyone here.

Kallum was going to take care of his mother in Arizona for a couple of days after she had surgery, needing someone to watch Loki. Kallum was a good son. His mother had moved him and his two sisters from Puerto Rico after his father died, working three jobs to support them, to give them the kind of life she hadn’t had. But despite working three jobs living in L.A., she hadn’t been able to give her children the opportunities that came with wealth and whiteness. That had made Kallum angry. He’d wanted to provide for his mother and his sisters, be the man of the house. So he fell into a life on the wrong side of the law. He made a lot of money, but his mother had refused to take a cent and kicked him out of the house. He’d continued on that destructive path for several years after that.

He went to prison for armed robbery the day before his twenty-first birthday. His mother forgave him and visited him every day she could. She loved him unconditionally. And because he loved her unconditionally, he made a promise to never break the law again. He also made a promise to himself to figure out a way to allow his mother to retire. A legitimate way.

And he had. After being paroled, he worked his ass off so he could buy his first strip club. Then his second. Then his third. He made them classy, expensive and took care of his girls. His mother wasn’t exactly thrilled at her son’s choice of career—she’d hoped for a doctor or a lawyer, but that hadn’t worked with his record—but it was within the law, and he paid for both of his sisters to attend college.

He told me all of this one night after closing, when we’d found ourselves drinking whisky together after I’d had a bad night with a grabby client. Then I’d told him a little of my life story.

We’d been close since then. Friends. Just friends. Because despite his bone structure, his muscles and his kind heart, I wasn’t attracted to him in that way. Even if I was, I didn’t sleep with my bosses. Ever. Plus, he was completely and utterly in love with Carmen, a dancer who had worked here for the last three years.

Carmen was a sweetheart, a knockout and totally oblivious.

Kallum’s attention had been wholly on me for the duration of our conversation. Until about two seconds ago. Now his attention was focused in the direction of the front door, his eyes shuttered. His form stiffened, creating an air about him that reminded me of his violent past and his ability to turn into a dangerous man if the occasion called for it.

I turned, too, curious as to who could be entering the club this early in the night, setting Kallum off. We weren’t technically even open yet, only a few lonely regulars nursing drinks quietly at their tables. Dante was on the door but was probably too busy trying to flirt with the dancers coming in the back entrance to check the front door.

And even if he had been at the door, he wouldn’t have said no to this particular patron.

Hades.

Thinking his name was ice in my bloodstream.

It had been over a month since the first time I saw him. Since he was bleeding on my sofa. I figured that the overall drama of the situation made it starker in my mind. That my romantic and dramatic soul had changed the details, changed him to make him more attractive, less intimidating ... just less.

But he was more.

More everything.

Taller.

More imposing.

Tattoos etched into his skin yet leaping off it at the same time.

His shadow didn’t follow him, it seemed to fucking cower before him. His hair was longer, curling up against the nape of his neck, mussed beautifully. I’d thought his skin was pale because of the blood loss, but it was exactly the same. Creamy, beautiful, flawless. Too fucking flawless. His features were all angles, his cheekbones high and sharp, eyes piercing and dangerous. Especially since he was wearing all black. A long black tee underneath his cut, one that hugged his body, hinting at the abs I knew were underneath. His shoulders were large, broad and attached to arms that were fucking perfection.

His jeans weren’t tight, but they molded to his powerful thighs, his long legs, and the whole look was finished off with black biker boots. He looked like sin and sex.

And trouble.

I sucked in a harsh breath. His eyes were on me, unwavering with their intensity and unmistakable in their irritation. He did not want to be here, and he did not seem at all pleased by the sight of me. Which was unnerving for me, especially here, especially since I was wearing a barely-there mini skirt, a barely there top, and no bra. My hair and makeup were already done for the night, and I was going for a Bridget Bardot look, so my honey blonde hair was teased into voluptuous curls that tumbled down my back, my smoky eyes smudged to accentuate my blue eyes. I’d applied blush high on my cheeks so they looked rosy and plump. My lips were covered in a nude lipstick, seriously overdrawn so they looked like I had filler when really, I was much too scared of needles to take the plunge.

So yeah, I looked hot. It was my job to look hot, and I was used to men being impressed. It had me off kilter that Hades was not impressed by me, not in the slightest.

Kallum sighed behind me. “These fuckin’ guys, think the rules don’t belong to them,” he muttered not loud enough for Hades to hear.

Kallum had a relationship with the Sons of Templar because they were some of our best customers. And because the Sons of Templar ran this town. If they didn’t like him or the club, they’d make sure that he was shut down and run out of town. So he was cordial with them, friendly even. But once we’d become friends, once he trusted me, he began to make it known that he was not a fan of the Sons. At all. Which was unusual because most of the town loved them, even the most conservative of people. The MC kept the town clean, free from violence and drugs, and gave back to the community.

Des, the closest thing to a boyfriend I’d had in a while, even liked them, and his values were definitely conservative. Then again, he had no problem with my job, so maybe he wasn’t the most conservative.

I wondered if the Sons reminded Kallum of his past life and that was why he didn’t like them. Obviously, I didn’t have much time to think on that since Hades had almost made it to us—his long legs making huge strides—and Kallum had his back up, ready to go into some kind of alpha male protection mode.

I reached out to grab his hand, to stop him from rounding the bar and having some kind of standoff, one that might result in him breaking his no violence edict he’d stuck with for about three years now. Three years ago, some client put his hands on Carmen in the parking lot as she was coming in. Didn’t particularly like that she had been continually refusing his advances. Broke her nose. Kallum beat the guy half to death.

One of the Sons—Hansen, I think it was—happened to be around at the time. He’d been able to stop Kallum just before he literally beat the guy to death, then he had a little chat with the police, somehow convincing them not to press any charges. The man in question was transferred to a hospital out of town and never seen again. Come to think of it, maybe that was the weird, alpha male, pride-based reason that Kallum didn’t like the Sons … maybe he felt like he owed them something or whatever.

Not that that was something to be thinking about right now.

“It’s okay,” I whispered to Kallum, his gaze still plastered on Hades. “I ... I know him,” I continued, my back burning from the gaze of the man I knew was now standing mere feet away.

Kallum’s eyes flared, and he finally moved his attention to me. My hand was still on his. “You know him?” he repeated.

I nodded. I hadn’t told a soul about what happened that night with Hades and the Sons. Not Des, not even Marilyn, my best friend here. Des would’ve gotten too worried about me, coming up with some crazy idea to come and move in to protect me, and I couldn’t have that.

Marilyn would’ve caught the glint in my eyes, the shake in my voice, and known it was due to more than the trauma of the event itself. She was some kind of intuitive witch. The smallest tells and she could read my fucking mind. Even the things I didn’t know I was thinking.

And I definitely couldn’t have told Kallum what happened. He would’ve fired Dante because of it, and then I’d likely have Dante out for revenge. I didn’t need any of that. It’d been better to keep my mouth shut.

“Yes, I know him,” I said, louder this time. “Not in any kind of way you’d think,” I added when his brows furrowed, and his hand flexed around mine. “I just helped him out with something once.”

This did not quell the frown on Kallum’s face, but I gave his hand one more squeeze then let him go, turning around before I lost my nerve.

Hades was standing there, watching. Watching the two of us. His jaw was sculpted from stone, his body held tight, eyes narrowed, fury etched in his features. Not just the irritation I’d seen as he walked in. No, fury.

At what, I didn’t know. It was terrifying up close. Powerful enough to rattle my bones, making me feel as if the ground was slipping from underneath my feet. I swallowed, tilted my head up ever so slightly, then pasted on a crooked smile.

“Hey,” I greeted him, intending to sound carefree, friendly and not at all terrified. Or turned on. Instead, my voice came out all breathy and weak.

He didn’t reply to my greeting, not verbally, at least. His eyes once again flickered behind me, to where Kallum was still leaning against the bar, most likely watching.

“We’re, um, not open yet,” I explained after we’d been silent for what felt like a long time. It was uncomfortable, thick and loaded, that silence. I’d never felt like this around a man before. Unsure of myself. Of how to stand, how to fucking breathe.

“Not here for that,” he replied with a clipped edge to his tone.

I gritted my teeth. He made it clear that he would never be here for that and it was structured as an insult. “Well, what can I do for you then, Hades?”

His name felt heavy, tasting metallic as it came out of my mouth. His eyes alighted with something as I said it. Something that made heat bloom in my stomach. But it was quickly gone, my body going rigid at the way his expression closed off.

His eyes flickered over me in a way that communicated that he found me lacking. It hurt, that dismissal. I’d strived my entire life not to let the opinions, gazes or insults of others affect me, to not let any of it chip away at my confidence. Considering where I’d come from and the life I’d lived, I thought I’d done really well at gaining my self-respect from inside rather than out. Men did not dictate whether or not I felt good about myself, I’d made sure of that.

Or I had until this very moment. Until this man.

“You look like a girl who likes to party,” he said. The words themselves weren’t technically an insult, but the way he said them was.

You look like a slut.

When tears prickled the backs of my eyes, I tilted my head up and bit the inside of my lip so they didn’t fall. Another thing that I’d never let a man do: make me cry.

My hands were fists at my sides. I ached to scream at this asshole, tell him that feminism existed and that a woman could look however the fuck she wanted to look, could do whatever the fuck she wanted to do with her body and do it all without a man’s opinion or input.

But instead, I took a deep breath. Then another one.

It was not smart to get into a screaming match in my place of work. The place I actually liked working at—despite Dante’s presence. Kallum was a great boss. The girls were lovely. The clientele weren’t all complete sleazebags, and the pay was aces. As cool as Kallum was, I doubted he would approve of me screaming at a member of the club made of the biggest tippers. Plus, he was watching carefully from behind the bar.

Beyond that, I figured screaming at someone in a Sons of Templar MC cut was not at all smart. Although I wasn’t scared of them, of him, I wasn’t stupid enough to think that wouldn’t invite trouble.

And trouble was what I was meant to be staying away from.

So no screaming. I pasted on my biggest, sweetest, fuck you smile and bore my eyes right into his.

“Sure, I’m a girl who likes to party,” I replied, my voice high, saccharine-sweet and the same brand of fuck you as my smile.

And I did love to party. He didn’t need to know that my version of partying was dancing around in my underwear to the Spice Girls with a glass of cheap wine in one hand and a hairbrush/microphone in the other.

I did not need to correct his opinion of me, though. It didn’t matter. That’s what I was trying to tell myself, at least.

“The club has parties weekly,” he continued. His arms were folded across his impressive chest, standing stock still.

I nodded. As a dancer in this club and a resident of this town, I knew all about the club parties. A couple of the girls danced at them. By invitation only. The club paid well, the members tipped even better. Plus there was the fact that the members were hot as balls and many of the girls I worked with were very keen to become an ‘Old Lady.’ It was an honorary title around here, despite the club being involved in a lot of illegal shit.

Allegedly.

As of yet, none of the girls had managed to get themselves into an Old Lady position, though many had managed to get themselves in a whole bunch of other positions that were apparently very pleasing.

Veryfucking pleasing.

I did my best not to think about any of those positions with Hades in front of me. It helped that he was looking at me in a way that communicated he was not interested in me in that way. In the slightest. Which was unusual for me. I was an attractive woman, not vain, but it was a fact. I’d used that fact to make a living. Men, as a rule, were interested. Most men. But clearly not all men.

Sure, it could be that I wasn’t Hades’s type. But that did not explain why there was something hostile about the way he looked at me. As if something very particular about me pissed him off.

Which made no sense, since the only interaction we’d had pretty much involved me saving his life, covering up a crime and getting a stain on my sofa. If anyone should be acting pissed off right now, it should’ve been me.

But that wasn’t really my style, and Hades was pretty damn intimidating. So I nodded placidly at his statement about the club parties, not sure whether it was a question or not.

A muscle in his jaw ticced at my nonverbal response. “You have a standing invitation to any one of these parties,” he said, voice cold. As if it had been painful for him to extend the offer. “Obviously, you’d be paid well, as I’m sure you’re aware. But because of your particular ... history with us, you’d be given a bonus of sorts.”

A bonus. Otherwise known as a payoff. A bribe. I was insulted by the fact that he felt comfortable offering one to me, assuming I must’ve looked like a woman who was comfortable taking and spending blood money.

I tilted my head ever so slightly. “I’m not going to tell anyone.”

Something moved in his eyes.

“About that night,” I clarified.

“I know you’re not going to tell anyone,” he replied.

My stomach dropped. There wasn’t any warning in his words. No threat there. Confidence. Surety. I wasn’t going to tell anyone because if I tried to, they’d know.

“This isn’t about that,” Hades grumbled. It was very clear he didn’t want to be having this conversation. “This is about the club showing our gratitude for what you did.”

This was their way of saying thank you. His way of saying thank you. Without actually saying it. I wondered if it was impossible for men like him to verbally thank women like me—or women in general—for saving their asses when they were meant to be badasses who did the saving.

Maybe that’s why he didn’t like me. Because I made him feel emasculated or some such nonsense.

“You don’t need to show me gratitude,” I gritted out.

Hades’s eyes glittered. “Yes, we do.”

I bit my lip. There was iron in his tone. That was all I was going to get. Not a thank you that he was obviously incapable of giving since he was making it clear he didn’t respect me. Though he had no right not to respect me, considering he didn’t know anything about me beyond what I did for money, how I dressed, and, oh, that I was willing to help a bleeding stranger in the middle of the night.

That was his problem. His issue. This hostility had nothing to do with me. At least that’s what I was desperately trying to tell myself. This guy was an asshole, and no matter how badly I wanted to knock him down for his lack of respect and genuine gratitude, it wasn’t worth it.

I nodded. “Okay. Thank you for the offer,” I said, forcing my voice to remain even, fighting back the tears that burned behind my eyelids.

“You’ll come?”

My fingernails bit into my palms as I kept his gaze. As much as I wanted to ask him why he gave a fuck whether I was going to come or not, I kept my expression stoic.

“Sure, I’ll come,” I lied.

His eyes searched my face, as if he was measuring my words, sensing the lie. But then he nodded once and turned on his heel and left. I watched his large form retreat. Watched the reaper on the back of his cut move. Vowed that I would not get myself tangled up in the trouble connected with that cut, with a man like that. Which should’ve been easy, since he’d made it clear he wanted nothing to do with me.