And all I’ve told him is lies.

Biting the inside of my mouth to keep my alarm from showing, I look out over the crowd as I decide how to answer. If he told me right now that I could work those rooms, could I?

I was alone in a room with Sal when it happened. He said it was standard to remove your pants for a search. Hiding my panic, I laughed in his face and told him I wasn’t new to this. Then I asked him if he demanded that of all the men who came to visit him, too. Sal flashed a wicked grin—complete with crooked, stained teeth—before gripping the back of my neck and slamming my body over the table, asking me if I wanted to go about this the easy way or the hard way.

I’m still not sure which way he went about it.

I remember holding my breath and watching the door, waiting for the other guy—the one I normally dealt with—to come back. He’d always been respectful to me, as far as drug dealers go. He wouldn’t allow this.

Sal didn’t rape me in the traditional sense, as surprising as that is, given everything else he did to me. Sometimes I still get flashes of his rough, callused hands as they delved into my body. When I didn’t react—not a sound, not a tear, even when I should have cried out from the pain—I guess he got bored. Like a cat batting around a mouse that doesn’t run. He called me a cold bitch and turned his back on me to check the delivery, giving me time to pull my pants back up. At the time, I was relieved that he let me go without taking full advantage. Most men would have.

It wasn’t until after I ran to my car, after I drove to the drop site, after I burst into tears in front of Sam, that the shock wore off and the worst part of it all hit. The part where I emptied my stomach of the vileness but didn’t feel purged. Where I stood under the scalding-hot water until my skin was raw but still could not feel clean. Where I put fresh clothing on and still felt naked. Where I curled up into a ball until the sleeping pills kicked in, only to wake up squeezing my thighs together, feeling like his dirty fingers had just been there.

The actual event with Sal, while horrendous and humiliating, lasted no more than thirty seconds. But the feeling of complete and utter filth lingered for weeks. “Charlie?” Cain’s voice calls breaks into my thoughts.

“I just can’t do it.” The truth slips out of me before I can control it, and I feel Cain’s eyes bore into the side of my face.

I’m surprised when a warm hand curls around my arm, the pad of his thumb running up and down my bicep affectionately. Turning, I find Cain’s normally expressionless face pinched with worry. “If you ever feel like you can do it, promise me you’ll come talk to me?”

I nod in response. I know without a doubt that Cain would certainly not make me feel vile. Cain would make me feel really, really good.

And now I’m pretty sure I know why Cain didn’t allow me to work the floors. Ginger was right. It isn’t about being overstaffed. He knows I haven’t worked one of those rooms and he’s doing his best to keep me away. To keep me safe.

I’m living a life where safety is a luxury, where the only family I have risks my well-being without thinking twice. Yet it took this man—a stranger—mere seconds to decide that he would protect me.

Beyond my frustrated physical feelings for Cain, I feel a pang of something new. Something unwanted. Something that Sam would never approve of.

It’s only amplified by Cain’s next words. “You know that you can come to me for anything at all, right, Charlie? I will help you however I can.”

Pursing my lips together, I nod as I struggle to wrap my mind around this version of Cain. This interaction is so different from any other that we’ve had. I’m forced to come to the conclusion that Cain just may be a truly good man.

A man who deserves a good woman.

The tightness in my chest tells me that woman is not me.

But whether I deserve his attention or not, the devil in me wants it. “How are you enjoying the show?” I ask, keeping my tone casual.

I catch the flash of surprise before he dips his head and chuckles, his hand sliding over that tattoo. His mouth opens and closes several times before glancing back up at me with a dangerous look, his tone having suddenly dropped by a few octaves. “It’s quite the game you’re playing, Charlie.”

I shouldn’t ask. I shouldn’t. Don’t ask. Don’t . . .

“And do you like playing it?” I’m surprised he even heard me, what with my voice as low as it is.

But he must have—that or he read my lips, where his focus is locked right now—because he steps in closer, until our chests are almost touching but aren’t. I hold the air in my lungs as he leans in toward my ear, his warm breath skating along my neck. “Yes, I do. Too much.”

I watch his retreating back as he turns around, unable to breathe for several long seconds as the butterflies thrash about in my stomach.

And I wonder if maybe there is also another side—a darker, less controlled, not so good side—to Cain, after all.

Chapter seventeen

CAIN

“I thought you said you were staying away from her.”

I look up from my desk to see Nate’s dark form looming over me, his arms crossed over his chest.

Of all the ways I should have answered her question . . .

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Charlie.”

“It’s inappropriate.”

“Maybe you should interact more with the customers so you can make more money.”

But, no. I just kicked the door wide open and invited a mountain of trouble in because Charlie Rourke has swung a wrecking ball into my willpower.

Picking up a pen and tossing it, I groan. “She’s driving me f**king crazy! And yes!” I throw my hands up in the air. “I’m well aware that I keep going out there to let her do it.”

“Cain, you are a damn stubborn fool.” In front of others, Nate bites his tongue. But the club is closed and empty, and he won’t hold back now. It’s both annoying and refreshing.

With a snort, I mutter, “Tell me something I don’t know.”

He shifts his body off the desk so that he’s looming over me again. “I think you need to get out of this business.”

“Yeah . . .” My focus shifts to the stack of supply order forms on my desk, quickly dismissing him. I’ve heard it before. “Maybe I could get her off the stage and doing management. I’ll pay her well. It’ll be less distracting for me.”

There’s a pause, and then Nate’s hand finds its way to the bridge of his nose to squeeze it, as if he has a sudden headache coming on. “Management, Cain? Those dancers will eat her alive.”

I shrug. “She’s quiet, but she’s not shy.” She sure as hell wasn’t tonight. He’s right, though. You need to have Ginger’s ­personality—loud, pushy, borderline insensitive—to not get walked all over around here. “Maybe I can get China to back her up. People defer to her,” I toss out without thinking.

Nate barks with laughter. “China’s going to help the woman you’re nailing?”

“I’m not—”

“Doesn’t matter. Everyone in this place thinks you are.”

I sigh. “Maybe taking Charlie off the stage will kill all that.”

“That won’t stop the rumors! It’ll only add fuel to the fire.” He shakes his head at me.