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“Are you ready?” Eric asked.
She met her brother’s gaze. This was it—the culmination of five years of plotting, saving, wishing, and waiting.
Was she ready? The answer to that question didn’t matter. Escape was happening so, ready or not, she had to find her strength and make it happen. Five lives beside her own depended on her ability to keep them fed, sheltered, warm, safe, and off her father’s radar.
“Let’s do it,” she said as she ignored the discomfort and gave Eric a smile that hopefully came across as confident.
After taking one step toward the door, fear rose sharp and swift, nearly swallowing her whole. Life was about to go from very hard to nearly impossible. At least for a while. Hopefully only for a little while. No matter how challenging day to day life was about to become, they’d be free. And that was all that mattered.
She inhaled, letting that terror motivate her to remain fierce and drive her determination. If they were discovered, they’d make her wish she was dead.
Or they might kill her outright this time.
She couldn’t let that happen.
She had to continue forward with a single-minded focus, remain vigilant at all times, and protect her siblings with every ounce of fire in her blood.
“Take one final look around, Eric. We’re never coming back.” Not to mention that would be the last time she’d ever call him Eric. The moment they stepped foot off the compound, they’d all assume new identities.
“Fuck that,” he said with a snort.
As she hobbled out the door with as much hustle as she could muster, she heard Eric whisper, “There’s not a damn thing here I want to see.”
She couldn’t agree more.
CHAPTER ONE
THUNDER’S CHEST ROSE and fell as he worked his final pose, which happened to be bent over, jiggling his ass in the air while a gaggle of sexually unsatisfied rich housewives screamed and chucked their husband’s hard-earned dollar bills at him.
That’s right, he was dancing at a bachelorette party for a ten-year vow renewal.
What the fuck would wealthy people come up with next?
Not that he was complaining, because these women were playing fast and loose when it came to shoving those crisp green bills down his shimmery black briefs. Hell, he’d even caught sight of more than one twenty getting stuffed in there. At this rate, he’d be upgrading his Harley in no time.
After suffering through a few moments of ear-piercing shrieks, the noise died down, and the money fluttered to the floor. Thunder straightened and faced the group of women trying to recapture their long-lost sorority days.
He wiped the back of his hand across his dripping forehead. Fuck, he needed some water. And a towel. Working his ass and grinding all over bored Stepford wives was thirsty work.
Clearly, the women were parched as well. They all but ignored him now that his performance had concluded, sucking back champagne like it would prevent their Botoxed faces from aging.
Christ, he hated loaded, entitled women.
But at the same time, he was grateful for them because they’d been lining his pockets for years. Go-go dancing had been pretty much the only profession he’d known until he patched with the Hell’s Handlers and began working at Zach’s gym during the day.
Working in the daylight hours…who knew that was a thing?
After scooping the money off the floor—a degrading act he fucking hated—he slipped a pair of gray athletic pants over his briefs. No way was he leaving in the clichéd police officer getup he’d arrived wearing.
“Hey, Thunder.” The syrupy, slightly slurred voice behind him had him rolling his eyes before he plastered a smile on his face and turned.
“Hey, Mrs. Henderson.”
The short-haired, platinum-blonde in her Ralph Lauren dress and flats giggled. “Come on, how long have we known each other?”
Too fucking long.
“When are you going to start calling me Lisa?”
Never. These women got a naughty little thrill out of being called Mrs. Whoever while gawking at a nearly naked man who wasn’t their husband. Hell, a few even liked it when he was fucking ’em. Just last month, some broad requested he shout “Mrs. Simpson” as he came down her throat. Whatever. He’d made a thousand bucks to get a blowjob then get her off with a dildo her husband bought her because he was having trouble getting it up.
The stories he could tell.
“I’ll call you Lisa when you agree to leave your husband for me.” A little flirting went a long way with these women and was the difference between a night of good tips and a night of fucking bank.
She tittered again, pink tinging her cheeks. The perfect little demure woman. Or so she wanted the world to think. In reality, she had a thing for deep throating a man twenty years her junior for cash.
He’d rather die than be chained to a gold digger like Lisa Henderson, not that it was a worry he’d ever have to give more than a second of thought. She may be in a bland, sexless marriage like most of these hoity-toity bitches, but she’d never leave. Who’d pay for her weekly spa trips and designer shoe collection?
