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Nothing But Trouble
A Vegas Vixens Novel
By J.L. Hammer, Alycia Tornetta Entangled Publishing, LLC
Copyright © 2014 J.L. Hammer
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-63375-140-8
CHAPTER 1
Las Vegas, Nevada
November 2013
Frankie Delenski slid another glance toward the tinted entrance doors of Glitz Gentlemen's Club. Dread bubbled in her stomach. Any minute now, Domino, the loan shark, would stride in and she'd be nothing more than a chalk outline. She tried to swallow, but her saliva lodged in her throat. The bouncer admitted two regulars—off duty cops. Liquored up cops were the worst since they had the law at their disposal. She'd seen them chatting with Domino on more than one occasion.
The first was short and tubby with a buzz cut. He never spoke to the girls, just liked to watch. But the other, the pale, tall one with dark hair and a widow's peak, named Harris, had a habit of getting cozy with the dancers, promising them the world, and then knocking them around. Once, a dancer had reported him to the police after he'd gifted her with a black eye, but no big surprise, her accusations had been ignored. The girl had quit—even left Vegas.
Frankie had enough problems and did her best to steer clear of them. She inhaled a long calming breath and almost choked on the cigarette-infused coconut-scented air.
With a twist of her body, she adjusted the sequined bra that dug into her ribs. Floor to ceiling mirrors adorned the walls, black leather couches hugged the darkened edges, and seductive purple lighting showered over two dozen tables surrounding the stage. "Pour Some Sugar on Me" by Def Leppard pumped through the speakers over a crowd of mostly businessmen, who were catching an eyeful of barely-clad girls. Frankie couldn't count how many songs she'd dumped from her MP3 player because the tunes would forever conjure up slicked girl derrieres sliding across a stage. A dancer hung upside down on a brass pole and, with a kick of her legs, ended her show in splits.
A man patted Frankie's bare thigh. "Why don't you come sit on old Smokey's lap and give me a little kiss?"
Frankie fought the urge to jerk away. She'd already been talked to by the manager about being friendlier with the guests. With unemployment at an all-time high, work was hard to come by and the last thing she wanted was to lose her job as a drink server. She remembered the advice from Ginger, the bartender. "Pretend these men are a piece of fudge cheesecake and you haven't had a chocolate fix in a month." She glanced at his mustard-stained "Smokey the Bear" T-shirt. Nope. Not even the power of chocolate could make her flirt with this guy. An image of what their baby would look like slammed into her mind—a crying bundle with her long platinum hair and his pendulous jowls.
Schooling her expression, Frankie replied, "It's so tempting with you being the mascot of fire prevention and all, but I'll have to pass."
"Your loss, honey. I need another rum and cola and two Buds for my friends."
She gave him a nod and shook off the moist imprint of his pudgy fingers, making a mental note to douse her leg in hand sanitizer on her next break. She pocketed a tip from a now-vacant table, shifting the car key still in the pocket of her Daisy Dukes. Her mind wandered back to Domino. Why couldn't he be reasonable? Two more weeks. That's all she had asked for to make her payment. Okay, it was already two weeks late, but times were tough. She didn't care how much she owed him—she'd never give him what he'd asked for in lieu of money.
Just in case Domino came after her, she'd decided to be prepared. In her locker she'd left a backpack with a change of clothes, a little cash, cell phone, and some other necessities. She would have to hightail it out of Vegas and head for the hills until she came up with a way out of this mess.
The two off-duty cops, dressed casual in jeans and T-shirts, took a seat in her section at a high-top table near the stage. Inwardly she groaned. Why me? For a moment she was tempted to just ignore their table. Yeah, right. et back to work before you get accused of slacking off. Frankie approached Harris and his partner. "Gentlemen, what can I get you?"
A dancer took the stage in a swath of black leather, bumping and grinding to Michael Jackson's "Dirty Diana." Fog rolled across the black specked stage, and the strobe lights flashed in sync with the drum beat. Officer Tubby licked his lips, his eyes never leaving the stage, but Harris' steely gaze settled on Frankie, or more like the tops of her exposed breasts thrust out from the push-up bra.
His mouth lifted in a one-sided smirk. Harris might have been attractive once, but a hard life was etched on his forty-something face. "What's your name, darling?" A guitar solo blared through the speakers.
"Not happening." The words came out before she could stop them. Her stomach constricted.
He frowned, leaned closer, and said with a raised voice just above the music. "Did you say Abby?"
His gaze returned to her breasts so she didn't bother to deny he had the wrong name.
"Can I get you anything from the bar?" She fought the temptation to use the drink tray to cover her chest.
He gave her a wink or maybe if she was lucky he just had something in his eye. "Abby, your lovely face is like a ray of sunshine after my shitty day."
He needed to take a poetry class. Frankie just stared at him, fighting not to squirm.
Apparently he got the message she wasn't into chit chat and glowered. "Single malt scotch on the rocks." He gestured with his head. "My buddy will have the same ... and a bit of advice, Abby, I tip real well when my waitress gives good service."
His friend snickered but never peeled his eyes off the dancer provocatively posed on her knees before him.
Frankie nodded and then strode away, pausing to let a dancer escort a client through the red velvet curtain into the lap dance room. What a snake. Harris can stuff his tip. She decided then and there she would start looking for another job, maybe a temp agency, dog walker, anything had to be better than this. She wove through the throng of males and flinched at the piercing sound of a whistle from an overzealous patron. Whatever the dancer was doing made the salivating men go wild.
Frankie sighed. Who was she fooling? Drunk, drooling men tipped well, and like it or not, walking cute fluffy dogs wouldn't pay the bills. She placed her tray on the polished counter of the bar and waited for Ginger to finish pouring a draft. The lights inside Glitz laser beamed across the mirrored walls. For a moment, she clamped her eyes shut.
Ginger approached and even her heavy makeup couldn't cover the dark rings under her eyes. "What can I get you?"
Frankie raised her voice over the loud music to give her drink order and then asked, "How's Bobby?"
Ginger teared up as she set two Buds on the serving tray. "Same. Every day is a blessing and a curse."
Pain pierced Frankie's heart. Ginger's son Bobby was only two and had leukemia.
Ginger brushed back her curly brown hair and flashed a wobbly smile. "But the doctor said he found this experimental medication. Cross your fingers. This is the best chance we have."
Frankie gave her friend's shoulder a squeeze. "Bobby is an amazing little boy. Think good thoughts. It will work."
"Thanks, Frankie."
The rum and cola had just made it to her tray when Frankie spotted someone entering the club. She squinted and counted three silhouetted forms. Her gaze dropped to the man in the middle—white hair, black brows, aged face, and strong Italian nose. Domino! He toyed with his cufflink as he scanned the faces in the bar. She dropped to the ground. The man next to her on the barstool beamed, probably thinking he was getting lucky. In a rush, she crawled the short distance to the restroom door only to stop short of a pair of jean-clad legs.
"Well, this is more like what I was talking about when I mentioned good service."
Frankie scrambled to her feet. Her skin crawled as she met the hungry look in Officer Harris's eyes. "Just lost a contact. I serve drinks, that's all. Got it," she snapped, knowing she would most likely regret her outburst, and rushed past him. Thankfully he didn't follow, but right now Domino posed the bigger problem. Her heart rate kicked up, imagining what he would do to her if she didn't escape. The trek down the hall in five-inch stilettos seemed to take forever.
Just as she neared the door to the employee locker room, she bounced off a soft, rounded body walking out of the office. "Sorry, excuse me." She attempted to slip past him, but his hand circled her wrist.
"Frankie, nice to see you."
Zeroing in on his face, she choked back a groan. "Hello, Dr. Chops." A regular of the club, Dr. Chops loved to talk. He constantly offered the girls a half-off special on all their dental work. His full mouth spread into a smile, his gold tooth gleaming in the overhead light.
With his free hand, he patted down his thinning hair. "I'm glad to see you made an appointment for next month. You can't neglect—"
"Sorry, Doc, can't talk now." She tugged her wrist from his grasp. Feeling an invisible bull's eye searing into the back of her head, she tossed a frantic glance over her shoulder. Domino's gaze latched onto hers, and his lips turned downward in a spot-on Robert De Niro. Her knees started to wobble, and her pulse revved up. With a wave of his hand, Domino motioned to one of his bodyguards. Frankie screeched, shoved Dr. Chops out of the way, and bolted out the emergency exit.
* * *
Eight hours and a few hundred bug splats later, Frankie strode back to her rusted '65 Mustang parked at a gas pump. It was unnerving to know she had just maxed out the emergency Visa she kept in her glove compartment. She inhaled a deep breath. The whiff of gasoline almost made her gag. The heels of her black stilettos clicked against the asphalt as she passed a man with a weathered face pumping gas into his truck. His mouth dropped open, taking in the Daisy Dukes on her slender five-eight frame. His expression mirrored both the clerk and the grandma buying a day-old donut inside the minimart. What? Hadn't the people in the sleepy town of Dolores, Colorado, ever seen a stripper on a Sunday morning before?
Okay, so she really wasn't a stripper, but this bra had set her back eighty bucks. Not that she'd ever worn it in public before. Uneasiness made her hands shake. This outfit was drawing way too much attention to her. If only she'd had a chance to grab the backpack with her stuff. After filling her tank, she hit the road, but not before her Mustang gave a farewell backfire to the gas station gawkers.
The crisp mountain air blew through the open window and kept her awake enough to focus on the road. Goose bumps rose across her flesh and her long hair whipped around her face. The Mustang hugged the curves of the narrow highway. She was driving too fast. But with only fifty or so miles to go, all she could think about was reaching the safety of her uncle's place in the picturesque town of Telluride. Tension knotted in her shoulders. Domino would be tearing Vegas—and probably her trailer—apart. Frankie sighed. She didn't want to think about what he would do to her doublewide.
She flipped on the radio and turned the dial until the static ceased. The end of a country song gave a final twang before the DJ chimed in with the news. "Stormy weather in the forecast. No surprise there." The newscaster continued, "The Las Vegas police are still searching for leads in the murders of two exotic dancers last month. The two girls, in their twenties, were found in Dumpsters with their throats slashed. There was no evidence of sexual assault. Anyone with information is urged to contact the Vegas Police Department—"
She clicked off the switch. A shiver ran through her. The first victim had been a dancer just across the street at a rival club. The detectives had interviewed Frankie and all the other girls at Glitz, but no one had seen a thing, or at least nothing they'd ever admit to the cops. Then, a second dancer from a club five blocks away was found murdered only a few days later. Worrying about being killed by some crazy person was just another reason Frankie's nerves were frayed. Thankfully, the owner of Glitz started having all the girls escorted to their vehicles after work.
Frankie exhaled a tense breath and tried to relax. Heading along the highway, she was struck by the beauty of the Dolores River as it snaked through the jagged tree-topped mountains. She only passed another car or tucked away cabin every few miles. The isolation of the area made her antsy. A body could be tossed into the tall prairie grass and no one would discover it for years. She shoved that thought out of her mind and focused on the storm clouds gathering in the sky. Lightning flashed and a roll of thunder rumbled. She jumped.
Fat drops of rain hit the windshield with a scattering of plops. Quickly, she rolled up the window. Then, water burst from the sky onto the land below. Frankie eased off the accelerator. The windshield wipers swished back and forth, but the worn rubber did little to clear the blurry road ahead. She squinted and leaned forward, praying she wasn't about to drive off a cliff. All of a sudden, a black blob filled the road. She screamed and slammed on the brakes. The tires screeched, but the Mustang shot forward like a lubed pole dancer. With a jolt, the car fishtailed. Then, her stomach lodged in her throat as the world spun. Her head jerked sideways, striking the window. Bolts of pain shot through her skull.
The rust bucket crashed into something solid, started to tip, and then decided against it, and with a final crunch, stopped. Her heartbeat pounded erratically in her temples. Frankie blinked, trying to clear her double vision. Touching the goose egg on her forehead, she cringed. Her beloved Mustang had crashed into a patch of junipers on the side of the mountain—the rear end tilted at an odd angle. She inhaled a shaky breath. After taking a moment to calm herself, she shifted the engine into reverse. She pressed on the gas only to hear the engine rev—but the Mustang didn't move. Then, to her dismay, the engine sputtered, belched, and died. She groaned and covered her face.
A crash of thunder shook the car. She squealed. Without a doubt she'd go down in history as the first person struck by lightning wearing a sequined bra and a spray tan. If only she hadn't left her cell phone in the locker at work, she could call for help. She remembered seeing the roof of a cabin and a fenced pasture nestled in the trees about a quarter mile back. She flung open the car door and stood in the mushy grass. The rain poured down in sheets, and within seconds, she was soaked. She pushed her soggy hair out of her face, noting the rear of the Mustang had landed in a ditch.
"Mooo."
Frankie whipped her head around. She narrowed her eyes at the black cow standing in the road. "Do you see what you did, you stupid discount hamburger patty? I need a tow truck. I should have just run you over. At least I could have sold you for dog food, and then I could pay for the tow and buy a God—gosh darn shirt!" She'd almost slipped and broken her vow not to cuss, which just made her madder. Grumbling to herself, she locked up the car. After what seemed like an eternity walking along the road with rain pelting her in the face, the cabin came into view.
"Finally!" She fought the shiver that cut through her and trudged across the mud and knee-high prairie grass. She stumbled and fell. After pushing herself to her feet, she wiped her muddy hands on her bare thighs and kept going. The storm fought her every step. Lightning splintered across the sky.
"Judas Q. Priest!" That was too close. She could have sworn the electric current had actually lifted the fine hairs on her arms. She ripped off her heels and fled, hopping over a downed wooden-railed fence. Her heart thudded in her chest as she approached the off-white cabin with a green railing. A faint light glowed behind the curtains. Smoke swirled from the chimney and disappeared into the darkening sky. She didn't slow her stride until she reached the wooden stoop. She banged on the frame of the screen door and took shelter from the cold rain under the covered porch. Someone had to be inside. With a balled fist, she banged harder.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Nothing But Trouble by J.L. Hammer, Alycia Tornetta. Copyright © 2014 J.L. Hammer. Excerpted by permission of Entangled Publishing, LLC.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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