Page 7 of Knox Unleashed
“Busy for a weeknight,” I say.
“Double the usual.” Amy grins. “I sent a couple of the girls to the big hotels by the highway. Heard there was a tech conference hosting an event there, so I got them to put a couple of flyers out and about. I bet seventy percent of these guys are from there.”
“Smart move. Like the way you think.”
She nods. “It’s why you pay me the big bucks. You here for business or pleasure? Because Lou-Anne and Millie are both free right now.”
“Not tonight. Gotta wrap up some business. North and Lock upstairs?”
She looks to the staircase. “Got here about five before you.”
I tip my chin in thanks and head upstairs. As I do, I think about Maren Caldwell and the way the afternoon sun made that auburn hair of hers look like it was on fire. And yet, those pale blue eyes of hers are like ice.
The kind of contrast that makes a man want to stop and stare.
When I was younger, and the grief still raw, I considered killing her to make Caldwell suffer. My logic was that if I’d lost my only brother, why shouldn’t he lose his only daughter in return.
If I have to live with grief, why shouldn’t he?
But maturity means I know that’s ridiculous bullshit.
And how the hell could I when that face of hers is all softness and quiet confidence? Her cheeks are always flushed like someone just kissed her. Even that mouth of hers, no gloss or lipstick or anything, makes me want to push her to her knees and force my dick into it.
I’m a dirty bastard for thinking of her the way I do.
She doesn’t look like she belongs on that dock. Never has. She dresses like she does, in that pale blue Magnolia Bait and Marine polo shirt that hugs her tits like some designer custom-made it for her. Talks like she belongs too, always on about seasonality, and fuel costs, and coming up with new ideas to make the store keep growing. She’s profoundly capable of running that business with only one eye open.
But there’s something wistful in her eyes that tells me she’d rather be a million miles from here. That, in another life, she’s someone entirely different to who she is now.
And I shouldn’t be walking up these stairs wishing she were someone else too.
When I get to the office, North is leaning with his ass perched on the edge of the desk. Lock is using a note counter to make sure the piles of dollar bills in front of him are neatly organized and bundled.
“Is it all there?” I say, entering the room.
“To the dollar,” Lock says. “I think we can safely say it’s been a pleasure doing business with the Hondurans.”
“Weapons are easy money for us,” I say. “You update the books?”
The strip club makes good money for us under Madame Amy’s watchful eye. But it’s the way the club washes illegal money for us that makes it most useful. Our cut of our latest deal will get washed through these books by systemically adding a random amount to the club take every day over two weeks. Lock simply washes it in, adds it up, and away we go.
“You sticking around, Prez?” North asks.
“Undecided. Got some shit I need to do that might take me back to the clubhouse. We need to start locking down for the hurricane.”
North nods. “I’m gonna start doing some of that here, tonight.”
“Take care on the ride back,” Lock says. “Winds are getting up.”
“Yeah. You too. Catch you guys later.”
I head back downstairs and make a slow circuit of the main floor. Destiny is on the main stage, and that woman is so flexible, she always either makes me wish we didn’t have rules about not fucking the staff or reminds me just how old and battered my body is.
The strippers are on some roll about being called dancers, now, but I prefer to call a spade a spade. Plus, there are some things I don’t feel the need to be dragged into the present about. These women get paid above-average salaries for what they do; they double it in tips because of the caliber of clients we bring in. They get health insurance and never have to have sex with any clients.
I do my part in keeping ‘em safe and protected and well-treated.
Gonna call ‘em strippers until I’m dead.
