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I sigh, not fully able to put into words everything I feel about Shane.
But Allie seems to understand, grinning mischievously. “I can see he’s been there . . . and there, and oh, over there too, twice, by the looks of it,” she says cheekily as she indicates the various marks visible on my body. “Is there any part of you he hasn’t been?”
I blush furiously, proud of Shane’s claiming of me but feeling shy that she’s pointing them out so . . . individually. “Yeah, he’s a little . . . mouthy . . . and possessive. I, uh . . . I like it.”
I can feel my face burning even brighter, and Allie smiles.
“Well, that’s what matters. And good God, a mouthy man. Bet he gives the best oral! Lucky girl.”
She winks at me, and things feel like they’re okay, or at least like they might be okay someday. “Hey, you wanna see my spinning death-drop?”
Eager to get the focus off me and Shane and our bedroom activities, I nod. “Yes! Let me see, girl! But only if you’re not too tired after your performances tonight.”
“Never too tired for you,” Allie replies with a snort. “I could use a few more practice spins too. Come on!”
We go onto the floor, where everyone but Marco has already left, and Allie takes her place on stage while I sit at the front row center table. In the background, I can hear Marco working downstairs, probably still cleaning up.
She does a few warmups, and within minutes, she’s twirling around the pole, high above the stage floor. There’s no music, so it has a different feel. Gone is the sexy sway. It’s just the quiet intensity and small grunts as Allie works the pole. No wonder they do pole dance fitness classes.
Allie does some kick trick that I couldn’t describe even if I tried because it happens so fast, my brain can’t even register it. All I see is her stilettoed foot kick out, and then Allie is speeding upside down toward the floor in a spiral with her arms spread wide in a T, and I gasp. “Allie!”
Right before her head smacks into the stage, she grabs the pole and rolls it along her shoulder, her legs straddling open for a moment before she settles to the floor in the splits.
As if she didn’t just cheat death and defy gravity, she pulls her feet back under and rises gracefully. “So, what do you think?”
My mouth is still hanging wide open, but I manage to yell out, “Mother trucking smurfin’ yeah, biz-nitch!” as I clap loudly. “You’re my hero!”
Allie smiles, and I can see the pride on her face, even as she downplays it. “Yeah, it’s not ballet, for damn sure, but it sure is fun!”
From the side of the stage, I hear a door open and close, and both our eyes snap that direction. But it’s only Marco coming up from the stockroom, boxes of beer in his hands.
He sees me and immediately sets them down. “Holy fuck, Meghan! Where have you been? You okay?”
I run over and give him a hug, and Allie joins in. The three of us hug like it’s been years instead of days, and even though Marco called me by the wrong name, I feel at home.
It doesn’t matter that it’s a strip club or that there’s more to the story than we planned.
I’m home with these people.
Guess Shane’s right. There is a bit of bad girl inside me.
Chapter 24
Shane
I stand on Dominick’s left, Nick to the right as we knock once on the door of the large brownstone near downtown. That we’re even here is just shy of batshit crazy, but it’s Dom’s show. I’m just the muscle who may or may not have to pull out his FBI badge along with a gun at some point.
“You sure?” Nick, who doesn’t know the full story, asks. “I mean, this place—”
“If you don’t have the balls, Nick, I suggest you leave,” Dom says, not turning his eyes from the door. “I’d rather go in with just Shane having my back than someone who doesn’t have balls.”
Nick swallows but stands his ground. The door opens, and though the muscled man who answers doesn’t say it, his surprise is written clear as day on his face.
Dominick doesn’t pause or look at all worried as he adjusts the cuffs on his perfectly tailored suit. In a tasteful black, of course, befitting the occasion. “Good afternoon. We’re here to pay our respects for the loss.”
You can tell the goon wants to object, or at a minimum wants to pat us all down, but what’s the use when we’re all obviously carrying weapons at our sides? Instead, he steps to the side, giving a respectful nod. “Please come in, Mr. Angeline.”
We enter as a group, both for security and to make sure that we can’t get separated. Inside, the wake is loud and boisterous, more of a party than the somber affair of a man who just lost his son unexpectedly and tragically. Actually, considering that I hear what seems to be Latin music playing, it sounds like a damn graduation party.
