Bare Assets

Bare Assets

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By

M. L. Stephens

Copyright © 2013 M. L. Stephens

All rights reserved.

No part of this Book may be reproduced or transferred in any form without the prior written consent of the author, except

for brief quotes for review purposes

This is a work of fiction. Names, dates, incidents, and places, or any resemblances to persons living or deceased, is purely coincidental and a product of the author’s imagination.

Dedication

This is for all the women and men who broke through the barriers and reached for their dreams.

Acknowledgements

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Without my amazing editor, Todd Barselow, where would I be?

Kevin Brockus is my eagle eyed copy proofer who keeps me in check.

My amazing cover artist, Rene Folsom at Phycel Designs for understanding my vision and making it happen.

Nikki Clark, for all the selflessly amazing things you do for me! I am blessed to know you.

Thanks to the book bloggers, reviewers and readers for all that you do.

I owe one hell of a special thanks to the M.L. mobster street team for being my focus group, sounding board and for helping to get the word out. You guys rock my world!

As always, to my family and friends for their unrelenting support!

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Connect With the Author

Chapter 1

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A male hunter chasing female prey can be a resourcefully savvy predator.

While you are away, I want you to remember something. You were born to do one thing and one thing only.

What's that?

You were born to sip iced tea and have my babies.

Screw that. This gal has bigger dreams. We might have a few kids one day, but I won't be the one sitting at home changing diapers and wiping noses.

The conversation from her past was one she often replayed, especially when she needed to remind herself of how far she had come. If the people back home could see me now they would pee their britches, she thought.

Glancing around the club, she watched with smug satisfaction as her dancers tastefully seduced the customers while flirtatiously encouraging them to purchase drinks. Screw the voice from her past. This was what she was born to do. She couldn't change it, negotiate it or decide differently. Even if she could, she was way too proud and stubborn to bail out. Hell, why would she want to anyway? She loved what she did and was damn good at it. In fact, she was the best in the area. Though she didn't own half a dozen clubs like a few other strip club owners she knew, she didn't need to because Angela Fletcher—aka, Angie, aka Ang— owned Bare Assets, the single most successful gentlemen's club in the whole of Dallas, Texas.

In a world of complicated lives, sugar coated professions and fast talking men, Angela had fought her way to the top and it was driving a few men in the industry crazy. John Benson's constant attempt to buy her out was proof positive of that.

The small town girl from Arkansas had worked her ass off to turn Bare Assets into the five-star rated gentlemen's club it currently was. It had taken an Olympic sized swimming pool full of sweat and tears, along with countless hours and sleepless nights, but she never had to worry about losing her job or pissing off the boss man. Angela Fletcher was the boss man...or boss lady if you will. Scratch that. She was not a lady. She was a certified, hard-nosed bitch, but that's what it took to make it in an industry saturated with chauvinistic pricks.

Speaking of chauvinistic pricks, John Benson, the reigning lord of all things prickish and dickish had just stormed out after another failed attempt to sway her into selling him the club. To top off her night, the second runner up for that throne had just waltzed in. Perfect. It must be a two for one night, she mused.

Do I have a bull's-eye on my back? Even though her voice was partially drowned out by the thumping rhythm coming from the DJ's booth, the sarcasm dripping from her words was coated with venomous intent, making it apparent that she wasn't pleased to see him. As usual though, her defensive strike fell on deaf ears. When it came to blocking verbal attacks, this guy was a seasoned professional.

It's good to see you too, Ang. Dean's smile was sexy enough to make most women buckle at the knees with lust, but she was not most women and it had been years since her knees had buckled. Not to say she hadn't gone down on bended knees, they just hadn't buckled.

You don't listen very well. I've asked you not to call me that. My name is Angie, not Ang. You, however, may call me Ms. Fletcher.

Unaffected by her snide reprimand, Dean Murray pulled out a stool and planted his perfectly tight ass on the seat.

It is a curse of nature that a womanizing prick can be so freaking hot, she thought. Dean Murray, with his grey eyes, wicked smile, and perfectly toned body was the devil in disguise. He was a masterpiece of the human creation. As an expert markswoman who was skillfully self-trained at shooting down the good, the bad and the ugly of all masculine targets, she would know. In her line of work, she had seen more than her fair share of chiseled male bodies as well as a vast array of neglected, robust ones.

This guy might have snared the title of first runner up for the throne of prickish and dickish, but he was the reigning tyrant over the land of fine assed, denim-wearing devils. Six years ago, she might have been giddy to be in the presence of such a fine creation, but knowing what she knew, his visits only irritated the piss out of her.

"Tsk, Tsk, he playfully scolded. Is that any way to treat a paying customer? Besides, all your regulars call you Ang. I think that earns me the right to do the same."

The only thing you are regular at is being a pain in my ass, she thought but didn't say. What do you want, Dean? Other than to constantly torture me and wreak havoc on the hearts of my girls?

If he had been a thoroughbred horse, she imagined his name would be Player. He loved 'em, left 'em, and then rubbed his victim's noses in the stench of what they could no longer have. Or so she'd been told. She considered herself fortunate that she hadn't fallen prey to his smooth, predatory antics and had told herself that she never would. The only reason she even knew his background story was because she had frequently overheard the dancers discussing the string of women he openly left in his wake.

Can't a friend stop by to wish another well?

Popping the caps off three beer bottles without even eyeing them, Angie slid them across the bar to a customer, collected the cash and jammed the money in the register before answering.

If you were a friend, then maybe, she yelled, reaching behind her for two glasses. The waitress at the end of the bar was waiting for Angie to mix up two Bloody Marys.

I want to be a friend. His smoky eyes were hooded with mischief, making it easy to understand why his past was supposedly filled with enough brokenhearted souls to populate a small country.

Snatching up the elements for her concoction, she poured, shook and continued the conversation without missing a beat. That will never happen, she promptly informed him. Sliding celery sticks into the drinks, she carried them to the waitress. Normally the waitress would have come behind the bar to get them, but the more experienced girls who worked at the club avoided Dean much like Bible thumping house wives avoided strip clubs.

Stepping back to her work station, she made herself busy and hoped he'd get the message. Ignoring her attempt to end the conversation, he continued. I think we are on the fast track to a great friendship. You just refuse to admit it, he said with a wink.

That conceded observation earned him an exaggerated eye roll. Yeah, ok. You believe whatever you need to, she blurted. One day a week for two years he had been visiting the club. The first year he had hardly spoken to her other than to offer general niceties. Over the last year however, things had changed. Jerking empty glasses and bottles from the bar top, she deposited them in their proper places. With vigor, she smashed the bottles in the trash and wiped down the bar.

In case you haven't noticed, I don't give up so easily. I really think this is the start of something beautiful.

Bracing her hands on the bar, she leaned her head forward and put him in the grips of a death stare. I have noticed. Though I do admire your tenacity, I give you permission to give up on this. Waving a finger between the two of them, she plastered a smart ass expression across her face and shook her head. Not going to happen. Not now. Not tomorrow. Not ever.

With her last word, the current dancer's act ended. The club fell silent for a few brief moments before the DJ announced the next topless dancer. Angie pushed her body away from the bar. Glaring at any customer was not cool, regardless of how infuriating this one might be.

Why don't you find a table near the stage? she asked.

Same reason I never do, he replied.

It still surprised her that Dean never watched the girls on stage, nor did he mingle with them as they worked the floor and offered up lap dances. When he came in, he sat at the bar and talked only to her. A hunter after its prey can be a resourcefully savvy predator and Dean was indeed a crafty one. He wasn't nearly as successful at keeping his bedroom secrets as confidential as most of her clients were though. Sometimes he did speak to Candy, the head waitress, who seemed to be her only female employee who remained unaffected by his reputation.

As a strip club owner, Angie dealt with faithful husbands and loyal boyfriends every day. Bare Assets also catered to the occasional soccer moms who clearly lusted after and enjoyed watching the strippers tease them as successfully as they teased the men. As long as her customers paid the cover fee, enjoyed their time in the club without causing trouble and left at closing time, who was she to judge? This was the entertainment industry, not a relationship counseling class. Maybe she shouldn't judge him either.

Why are you so hard on me, Angie? What have I done to cause you to dislike me so much? You don't even know me.

Tossing more bottles into the trash, she replied, "I don't need to know you to know your kind."

What kind am I?

The male kind, she barked.

With a forlorn grimace, he tossed a twenty on the bar top. Give me my usual.

His usual was a double shot of Jack Daniels with a splash of Coke and three ice cubes. After mixing the drink to suit his preference, she placed a cocktail napkin in front of him and gently put the drink in the center. Though she didn't care for the rumors circulating between her dancers, Angie was a professional when it came to tending bar. Can I get you a menu? He often ordered the burger basket from the kitchen, but not always.

Have you changed the menu since last week? he asked above the music.

No. It's the same, she responded, feeling slightly guilty for always being harsh. He was after all, a legitimate client and never caused problems inside the bar. His problems tended to occur outside of the club, in the dancer's bedrooms. Or so she had been told. Not that it was any of her business since the incidents took place away from Bare Assets. The women who worked for her were legal age and if they were silly enough to fall victim to his devious ways, it was just as much their fault as his. Why do you always end up trying to defend him? she asked herself.

Then I'll have the usual burger basket with the same condiments. He flashed his award winning grin, causing a flurry of activity to rumble in her belly. She quickly threw up her wall of self-preservation and looked away. The butterflies in your stomach are only because you're still anxious after visiting with John Benson, she thought. Yea, keep telling yourself that until you believe it, kiddo. Maybe if you think it enough, it will be true, her brain argued with her sensibility. Denying her attraction to him was better than admitting to herself that he was slowly breaking down her barriers.

After placing the order with the kitchen, Angie went back to her regular bar tasks, which was more preferable than talking to the denim-wearing devil. Each time he came in, she verbally attacked him with swift and precise words. Once the initial 'I know what type of guy you are' power play was over, the guilt trip kicked in and she caved to his gentlemanly ways. Tonight wasn't any different. Plastering on a steely resolve, she cast herself into her duties, intent on ignoring him for the rest of the evening. Though she didn't speak to him again, her mind went into overdrive as it tuned into Dean which it usually tended to do when he came in.

She didn't want to like a single thing about the man, yet there were times when he dropped his guard and she found herself thinking there might actually be a beating heart in his hollow chest, despite the merciless conquest rumors circulating around him. He was never bitter or hateful, he was never rude when he flirted, yet she never missed the chance to be spiteful and cold to him. Angie didn't want to think of herself as a bad person. She just didn't do well with men who enjoyed playing Casanova and then dashed the hopes of their female acquisitions afterwards.

Granted, she too was all about free love and one night stands, but couldn't tolerate mind games. According to the rumors, Dean Murray held a doctorate's degree in ruthless heartache and that was so not cool. Not cool at all.

Fortunate for her, the club was jumping for a Tuesday night and from the looks and sounds of the group that had just walked in someone was either celebrating their twenty-first birthday or having a bachelor party. Either way, focusing on the group made it easier to avoid the gorgeous face on the other side of the bar. Thoughts of the denim-wearing devil quickly fell to the wayside as drink orders poured in from the wait staff as well as from the other customers seated at the bar.

With the new dynamic, the rowdiness of the crowd intensified. Energetic shouts and laughter ricocheted above the music. Glancing up, Angie immediately located Bear, her most intimidating bouncer who was actively monitoring the situation. At six foot five, bald, tattooed and ripped, Bear's presence was usually enough to quiet even the most obnoxious of drunks. Only slightly concerned, she watched him approach the group of men and kindly lay down the ground rules, which meant no inappropriate touching, no disrespectful comments, no standing on the tables and no getting up on stage. Noticing the agreeable nods from the group, she smiled. Bear was a beast when it came to his job, but when it came to her and the girls, he was a teddy bear rather than a grizzly and she liked to think of him as a brother. He had been with her since the beginning and had never once questioned her female authority. If anything, he was respectful of it. Noting the firm, no nonsense way the situation was handled, she turned her attention back to the bar and concentrated on drink orders.

Candy, the head waitress, brought Dean his burger basket and placed it in front of him. Of all the girls, she was the only one who would speak to him. New hires always tried to get his attention, but as soon as they tried, the other girls adamantly ran interference by turning the gossip channel on full blast and advising the new girls of the emotional hazard that was Dean Murray. Within the walls of Bare Assets, he seemed to be the male equivalent of Hester Prynne in the Scarlett Letter.

Out of the corner of her eye, Angie stole glimpses of Candy and Dean while they chatted. He said something in her ear which caused the waitress to toss back her head and laugh. After lightly punching him on the shoulder, she waved and walked away. One of these days, Angie would ask the waitress how she knew him, but as an owner who believed in setting examples; she didn't want to appear to be interested in the customers, other than in a professional capacity of course. She also didn't want the girls to assume she was falling for his playboy antics. There was nothing worse than being a boss who was gossiped about amongst the staff. If they thought for one second she might be lured into Dean's abyss of broken hearted women, flickers of gossip would ignite into a raging inferno.

The remainder of the night was a whirlwind of music, dancing girls, drunken customers and gallons upon gallons of alcohol. She was grateful that the bachelor party had heeded Bear's friendly suggestions earlier in