Page 6 of Knox Unleashed
My father would have a stroke if he saw us standing this close. Especially if he saw the way Knox just followed my lips as I spoke.
Especiallyif he knew just how that made me feel deep inside.
The air shifts between us. We’ve both said our piece.
And yet…
I know what my father said in his defense at the investigation into the shooting of Knox’s brother. That they are organized crime gang members, that he feared for his life and had no choice but to draw his weapon when Drew—Riggs—pulled his. And I know the judge agreed. But I’m still no closer to understanding thetruthof what happened that night.
Some days, I want to ask Knox what he knows. To hear the other side of the story.
I want to know, from Knox’s perspective, if it happened the way my father said. Because I know firsthand his capacity for cruelty.
And while I can’t stop my father from coming onto this property in his squad car to maintain the pretense that he still has a relationship with his daughter, I have never set foot in my family home since the day I left.
I swallow. “If you’re done shouting at me, I’ll get going. It’s been a shit-tastic day. You are the fifty-eighth thing to go wrong. And I need to get groceries, along with half of Gator Flats, beforethe hurricane hits, just so I don’t have to resort to making three granola bars last for the next few days.”
“Maybe you should think about getting some more hurricane prep done here too.” Knox glances to the bait shop. “While the loss of you wouldn’t be an issue, plenty of people in the town rely on the store.” He gives me one more look over. “Well, try not to block any more traffic.”
“I didn’t do?—”
“Bye, Maren.”
And with that, he spins on his heel and walks back to his bike.
3
KNOX
Ididn’t pick the name of the strip club.
My brother did.
The large sign above the door saysIron & Lace. His argument was we’re the Iron Outlaws, and the girls would be mostly dressed in sweet lacey things. Not sure I love it, but it stuck.
I kill the engine on the bike and take in all the vehicles in the parking lot. Despite the incoming storm, it’s packed. We might be a very small town, but our strip club is one of the best in Florida. The flashy Bentleys and Cadillacs and high-end trucks are evidence of that.
We hire hot girls. I’m not just talking ones with a hot rack. They’re curvy and pretty, understand customer service, and never confuse why they are here with being on the lookout for a husband.
The club provides security, and there is no such thing as a freebie. Even for my men. And we do everything to keep the girls safe. We have private dance rooms, but there is no fucking in them. You might end up seeing a bit more skin, but that’s not an invitation. Cocks stay in denim at all times.
Any mischief, and we have security buttons on the wall that causes a light to flash outside the door. That red light goes off, and security will grab you and throw you out of the club on your ass…no questions asked.
Music pulses through the walls. It’s bass heavy. Slow. Something a girl can grind to.
The building itself used to be an old two-story seafood warehouse, but now the outside is matte black with narrow tinted windows for privacy. You want to see the girls, you gotta step inside.
The lower level is the club, the upstairs are dressing rooms and showers for the girls, and offices for both North and Lock.
When I open the doors, the cool air conditioning hits me with blessed relief. The scent of expensive cologne and whiskey and vanilla body oil hangs in the air. The lighting is low, and shades of amber and red wash across dark wood and black leather booths.
There’s a long bar to the right that I’m happy to see is deep with customers despite the early hour.
“Knox,” Madame Amy says, waving her hand. I stole her from one of the brothels in Nevada after a trip out of state. Loved the way she ran a clean house. Kept the girls straight. Stopped them from destructive behaviors and shit. Kept the men under control.
She’s a ball-busting domme who can force order as well as any drill sergeant. Yet, she’s dressed in a fitted pant suit. There’s nothing beneath the tuxedo-style jacket except some tape to keep it in place. A wild collection of silver chains hangs between her breasts and she’s wearing her usual killer heels.
Only once did I ever try to ask her how old she is. And she handed me my ass about my manners. Vandal thinks she’s in her mid-thirties. North thinks she’s more like mid-forties. Her world view and confidence make me think North is closer to the truth.
