His Southern Temptation

chapter Eight


If William Teague Elliott IV knew his baby sister was working the pole at the Jolly Gent, he would castrate Lucky and enjoy doing it.

Lucky knew this, just as he knew that someone was running drugs out of the back room, that he was drinking substandard watered-down whiskey, and that he was going to hell for thinking that Taylor’s tiny G-string bikini was the sexiest damn thing he’d ever seen.

Adjusting to accommodate the hardening in his jeans, he leaned back in his chair, stretching out muscles sore from the past few weeks of unaccustomed farm work. The life of a Marine wasn’t one of a desk jockey, but making a living out of the land was entirely different. His father made Lucky’s former drill sergeant look like a sweet little kindergarten teacher.

“Whoo hoo! Shake it Bambi!” A guy up front yelled out Taylor’s ridiculous stage name and shook his overly large gut and matching ass. The guy was harmless, not even trying to offer her a tip, so Lucky eased back in his chair. He shifted the brim of his ball cap down a little lower in an effort to hide the movement of his eyes as he switched between watching Taylor, the bar where they were serving underage patrons, and numerous pervs drooling over the dancers. Didn’t anyone watch porn in the privacy of their own homes anymore?

He scanned the room again in search of the bald guy. No sign of him, but if he was looking for Sarah then he likely hadn’t left. So far, the only leads on Sarah led straight back to this club.

He looked at Taylor, wishing this was the private show she promised and not in a room full of losers. As if sensing the direction of his thoughts, she made eye contact with him from across the room, flashed a sinful smile, and put a little extra shimmy in her shake. Heat shot up his spine, then down again, and settled in a pool of heat in his groin. Her smile turned smug—she knew what she was doing to him and the glare he shot in her direction told her she’d pay for that later.

The guy next to him, underage and wasted, nudged him out of his thoughts. Mr. Too-Young-To-Be-Here leaned over, his rancid, tequila-scented breath turning Lucky off that particular drink forever. “I don’t know where Bodean got her, but he needs to go back and get more. I’d love to peel off those clothes and fu—”

“F*ck off, I’m watching the show.” The little punk scurried off, tripping over his own feet, and narrowly missing a table full of redneck drunks who’d eat him for breakfast if he spilled a drop of their drinks.

Lucky swiveled back to face the stage, immediately noticing that Mr. Fat-Ass had inched closer to the stage and was close enough to grab Taylor’s ankle. He glanced at the one bouncer, a pathetic excuse for security, dressed in a Jolly Gent emblazoned T-shirt and currently looking at something on his cell phone. Are you f*cking kidding me?

Lucky stood, forcing his steps to remain measured and smooth, apprehension of what could happen coiled in his gut. Always keeping Fat-Ass in his line of sight, he weaved between the tables, skirting clumps of men who were in his way. The bouncer was oblivious. If anything happened to Taylor, Lucky was going to shove the phone up his ass.

Taylor searched the crowd, relief spreading across her face when she saw him, but it was quickly replaced by concern when her admirer reached out again and barely missed grabbing her ankle. Lucky pushed through the group, tighter and more crowded at the front, motioning for Taylor to step back from the edge of the stage. She dodged the grabby hands, artfully integrating the side step into her stage show, but teetering on the three-inch shoes required by every self-respecting stripper.

Taylor’s movement had the opposite effect on Fat-Ass—instead of discouraging him from getting up close and personal, it sent him off in her direction like a greyhound chasing the fake rabbit. Lucky watched as the guy tried to hoist himself up on the stage, not a pretty sight, but one that pushed Taylor perilously close to the opposite edge of the platform. This situation had all the earmarks of a quintessential Lucky moment, complete with a dumbass disrupting all of his best-laid plans and a lot of explaining in his future. In the language of his beloved Marines it was FUBAR—f*cked up beyond all repair.

What he couldn’t believe was why he’d allowed himself to put Taylor right in the middle of the mess. He should have let her threaten him, pitch a fit, even go to Teague if she wanted, but he was beyond stupid to let a woman like Taylor anywhere near a place like this. One day he’d learn his lesson.

Forgoing finesse for speed, Lucky power-pulled off a couple of the guys in the front row and launched himself at the stage. At the moment the guy hauled his butt on the dance platform, Lucky landed right behind him, grabbed his belt, and gave him a big yank. It would have worked perfectly, except that Fat-Ass whipped round, nailed a beefy guy in the jaw and sent him flying backward into a crowd of drunks.

Lucky had been in many fights over the years, and this one was no different. Time slowed down and everything shone with perfect clarity. A bar full of drunk rednecks was a powder keg with a short fuse. Add to it the heightened testosterone due to half-naked females being nearby and the first beer bottle flying across the room was inevitable. Before he could blink, clumps of bodies traded blows, chairs went flying, and out of the corner of his eye he saw the piece of shit bouncer headed out of the side door.

Over the crowd, he could see Taylor still up on stage, the expression on her face strange, focused, but nowhere near the fear that should have been taking over her features. Crazy woman. When she should have been hauling butt toward the backstage area, she was busy watching the new floor show. He broke eye contact, following the path of her gaze, and instantly knew what had her so mesmerized—the bald guy was standing next to the open door and watching Taylor with avid interest. Lucky knew he was going to kick the guy’s ass for looking at her that way. That was a guarantee.

He was just as Taylor described him, and Lucky recognized his face. He knew this guy and racked his brain for context but came up with nothing. A loud yell erupted from the direction of the stage and Lucky turned to see the fight escalating and Taylor smack-dab in the middle of it. He looked back toward baldie just in time to see him slip outside. Damn. He’d have to wait.

Covering the last couple of feet to the stage, Lucky hoisted himself up onto the platform, grabbing Taylor by the shoulders and hauling her close against his body. The sound of an air horn blast startled him, causing him to stumble. The momentum sent them tumbling to the ground. Lucky rolled, taking the brunt of the fall on his side while Taylor lay sprawled on top of him and gasping for air.

The noise in the room quieted down slightly, shouts of “stay on the floor” and “don’t move” weaving into the groans erupting from bodies unused to taking punches. The cavalry had come, probably summoned by the bartender and his handy-dandy panic button. Lucky wondered if they could scoot backstage and out of the building before anyone noticed. The last thing he wanted was Taylor hauled off to the police station.

“You okay?” He asked, mentally assessing his own injuries while running practiced hands over her form to check her out.

“I’m fine. But I think I broke a heel.”

“This isn’t funny.”

“Lighten up. I knew you’d take care of me,” Taylor said.

“If I’d been taking care of you I wouldn’t have let you talk me into this crazy plan. Now, let’s see if we can get you out of here before the cops notice. I think the path is clear to backstage.”

Shifting so he could help her off the floor, Lucky came face-to-face with a shoe. A government-issued, black polished shoe worn by most law enforcement officers. Tracing the line of the crease in the uniform pants, past the utility belt, gun holster, and shiny five-pointed badge, his journey ended with the face of a very pissed-off Sheriff Burke.

Oh, hell.

“Lucky Landon, why are you always on the floor groping this woman?”

“Would you believe we were looking for her contact lens?”

“Smart-ass.” The sheriff was not amused, and he emphasized his point by unhooking his handcuffs from his belt while they scrambled to their feet. “I’ve known you your whole life and I don’t know why I’m surprised to find you smack-dab in the middle of any trouble. You can explain it all to me down at the station.”

The click of the cold metal around his wrists told Lucky it was time to start talking himself out of this. He was good at it. They hadn’t nicknamed him “Lucky” for nothing.

“Sheriff, I don’t think this is necess—”

The Sheriff ignored him, turning to Taylor with a shake of his head. “Miss Elliott, I understand you have a lawyer in your family. If I were you, I’d use my one phone call to get him down to the station.”

Lucky groaned. It looked like his luck had finally run out.