Hard As You Can

Chapter 1

Crystal Dean hurried out of the private party room and let the fake smile drop off her face. Damn bachelor party. A lot of times, the groom-to-be was totally embarrassed by his buddies’ surprise strip-club party, so things stayed low-key. No such luck tonight. Instead, her guest of honor was so rowdy, handsy, and intent on sampling the wares that she wished she could warn this slimeball’s fiancée to run fast and hard in the other direction.

Not that Crystal was an authority on making good choices. Or else she wouldn’t be working at Confessions, the strip club where her sorry excuse for a life had landed her as a waitress. Although, it wasn’t like she’d had much of a choice. At least her wares weren’t up for sampling . . . anymore. And she didn’t strip or give “private shows” in the back rooms.

No, Crystal’s boyfriend had shielded her from all that. And, anyway, Bruno was too possessive to share her with anyone else. At least there was some benefit to his control-freak tendencies.

Hurrying down the dim, private hallway that threaded between the party rooms, Crystal ran through a mental checklist of what she needed to do. Another round of drinks for this party. Deliver the appetizers for her other party. Check in with Bruno to see if he was ready for dinner—

The door to the back parking lot wrenched open and a group of men—some who worked for her boss, Jimmy Church, the head of Baltimore’s most notorious gang, and a few she hadn’t seen before—poured into the narrow space. Crystal stepped back into the shadows, hoping to avoid their notice.

Decked out in a suit and tie that must’ve strained the resources of even a men’s big and tall shop, Armand Lewis, or Big Al, guided the men down the other end of the hall toward Mr. Church’s private lounge. The big guy was an Apostle, a senior gang member who had paid his dues, earned the operation some serious money, and proven his loyalty in a whole host of ways you just didn’t want to know about.

With their dark slacks and jackets, nothing about the newcomers’ appearance was particularly noteworthy, but they exuded an air of authority and self-assurance Crystal recognized. And the unusually subdued demeanor of Al’s men proved she wasn’t the only one.

She’d place good money she didn’t have that these were the “guests” everyone had been preparing for and whispering about the past few days. Tensions had been tight as a rip cord around here. Crystal didn’t know who they were or what their business with Church might be, and she didn’t want to know. Ignorance—real or feigned—was a survival skill she’d honed early.

Thank God they hadn’t seen her. She didn’t want any part of whatever they were about.

Crystal was mid-sigh-of-relief when more men pushed through the door. Two of Church’s goons struggled to get a barely conscious—and badly injured—man through the opening and into the hall right in front of her. Each of the guys held one of the man’s arms over his shoulders, while the man’s feet attempted to keep up but mostly couldn’t. The poor man’s head rolled on his shoulders, revealing bruised, delirious eyes and a busted lip. Dried blood left a trail all down the front of his dingy T-shirt, probably from that lip, or maybe his nose. And she really didn’t want to know what the bundle of bloody gauze around his hand hid.

Goon Number One looked her way and did a double take when he noticed her standing there. “Bring some food. Room at the bottom of the stairs.” Without another word, they dragged the guy down the steps into the basement, cursing and complaining and puffing as they went.

What the hell had the injured man gotten himself into? Because people only ended up in one of the basement rooms when they were being held against their will. She would know.

It was better all the way around to remain ignorant of the goings-on downstairs. Crystal hated herself a little for thinking that way, but it wasn’t like she could do anything about it.

Snapping out of her thoughts, Crystal took off down the hall. Part of not being noticed around here was doing your job, doing it right, and doing it fast. It was a small price to pay for being left alone. Her rush toward the kitchen was why she didn’t notice that a man had stepped through the curtained doorway that led into the main part of the club. She walked right into him, her body feeling the hard muscle of his chest at the same time her nose registered his scent—something crisp and clean, like he’d recently showered.

“Whoa,” the man said, catching her in his arms.

Oh, crap. I can’t believe I just did that. Guys around here never tolerated anything that might embarrass or annoy them, and they always enjoyed the opportunity to put someone in their place. The apology scrambled from her mouth. “Oh, my God, sir. I’m so sorry,” she rushed out. Crystal shook her head, stepped back, and dropped her gaze until all she could see was the ridiculously sheer pink lingerie and heels she wore. Her uniform for working the private party rooms. “Please. I’m sorry.”

“No harm done, darlin’.” His voice was full of Southern charm, sweet and warm as fresh molasses. The smile in his tone drew her gaze up over the muscles his shirt did nothing to hide and, sure enough, he was smiling. And holy wow, this guy had a pretty-but-tough thing going on that was really freaking hot. His jaw and cheekbones were all hard angles, but his lips were full and playful, and his unusual gray eyes crinkled at the corners, like he might’ve been amused. “Say,” he said. “We’re company, and we got turned around when we went out to the bar. Any chance you know which way everyone went?”

Crystal forced her gaze away from his mouth and tilted her head back to meet those eyes. Maybe some of Big Al’s visitors had come in through the front, too? But this guy just said they’d gone out to the bar, not come in through it . . . She looked over her pretty boy’s shoulder into the eyes of two other men. An impatient intensity blazed out of both of their expressions, giving her the same authoritative vibe she’d gotten off of Al’s guests a few minutes before. The guy in front of her arched a brow, more of that humor sliding into his eyes.

Her brain finally communicated with her mouth. “Uh.” She glanced down the hall. “Well, some went to the private party room down that way, and some went downstairs with, um, the sick guy. I’m supposed to be getting him some food,” she said, nearly breathless from the man’s heat and his closeness and the niggling feeling in the back of her mind that something wasn’t right about these men. But who was she to question?

Pretty Boy grinned. And, oh, boy, a playful sexiness just rolled off him until she was fighting the urge to squirm. Bruno would kill her—and probably this guy, too—if he saw how close they stood to one another. Her gaze flicked to the security camera above the curtained entrance, but it appeared they were just outside of its range. Thank God for small favors.

“That’s where we’re headed, too. Got a message to deliver.” He winked and nodded his head to the side. “Just downstairs?”

Heart racing, Crystal swallowed and nodded. “On the left.”

“You were very helpful . . .” His brows rose expectantly, and he gave her a crooked grin that tempted her to smile in return.

Bewildered, she stared at him, just soaked in all that easy charm and raw masculinity. And then she realized he was waiting for her to . . . Oh! “Crystal,” she said. “You’re welcome, sir.”

Wearing a satisfied smile, he eased back a step. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”

Doubtful. “Okay.” Seeing her chance to get away, Crystal took off again and didn’t look back. Though the urge was definitely there.

Whatever. She had enough on her plate without fantasizing about a man she didn’t want, couldn’t have, and who probably wouldn’t want her anyway.

Crystal made her way down the dim hallway to the far end, where offices sat behind a steel door. Unthinkingly, she entered the code onto the keypad, waited for the mechanical click, and stepped into the nerve center of Jimmy Church’s gang operations. Or one of them, at least. Usually, the girls weren’t allowed in here. But Bruno was one of the Apostles in Church’s operation, just as her father had once been, and her association with those men earned her the privilege, such as it was.

She made her way through the empty outer office and to the second door down the hallway. With a knock on the frame, she leaned into the open door.

Bruno glanced away from the computer, and his expression slid into a scowl when he saw her. “Where have you been?” He rose and rounded the big mahogany desk that dominated the room and clashed with the wall of pin-ups: nude models, bad-ass motorcycles, and classic hot rods. Strip-club chic.

“Uh . . . I’m sorry. I’ve got two bachelor parties,” she said, peering up at him and trying to gauge his mood.

With mountains of muscles built from steroids and hours spent lifting, Bruno Ashe was a wall of a man, his arrogance and ego filling the office and making him seem twice as big. Once, she’d thought his unruly brown hair softened the severity of his face, but now all she could see was the perpetual scowl he wore, made more pronounced by a scar from a knife fight on his cheek. God, how had she ever been attracted to him? How had she ever thought he was the answer to her problems? What she wouldn’t give to go back four years and give her nineteen-year-old self a kick in the butt.

“Hmm,” he said. “Next time you take care of me first.”

Crystal found her fake smile and pasted it back on. “I’m sorry, baby.” She rubbed her hand up his chest and died a little inside. “Can I take care of you now?” Eight more months. Eight more months.

Heat slid into his dark eyes, and he stepped closer until he was looming over her. His arousal was obvious against her stomach. His brows rose in invitation . . .

And that one small gesture resurrected the memory of the man from the hallway. Just moments before, he’d had her pinned against the wall much as Bruno had her trapped against the door now. But Bruno possessed none of that man’s charm and humor and breath-stealing good looks.

Crystal blinked the comparison away. What the hell was wrong with her? Bruno felt as entitled to her enthusiasm as he did her body. She forced the man out of her thoughts and wrapped her arms around Bruno’s neck.

Bruno’s cell phone vibrated, buzzing loudly against the top of his desk. Ignoring it, he kissed her, hard, demanding she open to him, give in to him. The ring cut off, then started right back again.

Groaning, Bruno pulled away with a look that commanded she stay right where she was, customers and everyone else who might need her be damned. He grabbed the cell like he wanted to strangle it. “What?” he answered. Lethal rage poured into his expression. “What?” Pause. “Who the fuck was it?” Pause. “How many? Did you get them?”

Crystal debated whether to stay or go. Whatever this news was, it was clearly going to occupy Bruno for a while. And given his black mood, she didn’t really want to be around him.

As if her thoughts drew his attention, his gaze cut across the room to her. “You see anything unusual out there tonight?” he asked.

For a moment, she stared at him, not realizing he was asking her the question rather than the caller. “Oh. Me?” Those men. Pretty Boy and his friends. Who went to the bar . . . but didn’t have drinks. Instinct placed the idea front and center into her head. “No. Nothing,” she said. Because she didn’t really know, and if she raised a concern and Bruno confronted those guys and they were legit? Uh, yeah. That would be all kinds of bad.

On the other hand, she’d just lied to Bruno.

Not that she didn’t do it all the time. Crystal was well aware that much of her life was a lie, a charade, a play in a never-ending series of one acts wherein the climax determined whether she lived or died, remained free or got lost forever in the dark, seedy, underbelly of the world. Sad, sad fact that this place, this situation, this life wasn’t even close to the worst there was.

And it was more than just herself she dutifully played her part for. Because when your father exacted a post-sentencing courtroom promise from you to do whatever it took to care for your younger, ill sister, you gave your word. And you upheld it like it was the oxygen you breathed. No price too great.

Not working at Confessions.

Not Bruno.

Not the scars on her back.

And the fact that her father had died in a prison-yard fight two weeks later had elevated the significance of her promise even more. Maybe that was why he’d demanded it of her in the first place. Maybe he knew something like that would happen, and it really would all fall on her.

Bruno turned away like she was of no further interest to him, and that was fine by her. “I want status updates every ten minutes. Find out if our other locations were hit, too. And find out who did this. I want their heads on a fucking platter, and I want them now.” Given what it sounded like had happened, it was no surprise that Bruno was a volcano on the verge of erupting. As Church’s director of security, this could fall on his head if he didn’t get a quick handle on the situation. Bruno turned, and his eyes narrowed to slits. “Get out of here and close the fucking door.”

Heart beating in her throat—from her lie, from the shock waves of Bruno’s rage, from the news that someone had apparently attacked Jimmy Church’s operations—Crystal closed the door, left the offices, and darted to the kitchen.

“Where have you been, Crystal?” Howie said, echoing Bruno but without any of the real annoyance of her boyfriend’s tone. Confessions’s longtime food-and-beverage manager had worked his way up from the bottom over a great many years, and as a result they’d known one another Crystal’s whole life. He’d been friends with her father and fancied himself something of a father figure to her. She didn’t mind.

“Sorry, Howie. Got held up.”

She didn’t need to explain. Not really. Knowing the way things worked around here, he nodded with a sigh. “Well, I had to put Macy on your parties. Both complained they’d been waiting—”

Her stomach dropped. “But I’m here now. You know I can—”

“It’s done. With all that’s going on around here tonight, you know they want everything running smooth as glass. So you’re gonna have to split those tips. I’m sorry.” His expression was full of genuine sympathy.

Damn. Church already withheld her hourly pay and half her tips to pay her father’s debts, so having to split her tips further threatened to sink her stomach into her uncomfortable heels. Crystal refused to let it. If she allowed every little setback to knock her down, she’d be plastered to the floor by now. “Okay, I’m sorry, Howie. Listen, I need food for—”

The older man grasped a tray from the metal counter and handed it to her. “They called up looking for it,” he said with an arched brow.

“Oh.” She attempted a smile as she took the tray loaded with a plate of chicken tenders, fries, and bottled water. Howie squeezed her shoulder, and she left.

Feeling like her head was on the chopping block, Crystal dashed down the private hall and rounded the corner that led to the basement steps. Damn, did she hate going anywhere near this part of the club. Horrendous memories and a desperate, miserable energy clung to the walls down here as if they were the varnish on the old, dark paneling. With a deep breath, she glanced around the tray and double-checked her footing on the first step down.

Commotion erupted from below, then a pounding sounded from in front of her. Two men barreled up the steps wearing masks. The first guy carried a gun aimed straight at her chest. And the guy in the rear held an unconscious man over his shoulder.

She rushed back, causing the bottle of water to fly off the tray, though her hands clutched onto the plastic as hard as her throat held on to the scream suddenly lodged there. Her brain attempted to process what was happening. Jimmy Church’s operation had been infiltrated here, too? Jesus, who would risk pissing off the most notorious gang in Baltimore? And, oh God, no way this was a coincidence after whatever Bruno’d learned on the phone. She’d win some big-time favor if she sounded the alert, if she could just get her voice to work.

All of a sudden, the men reached the top of the stairs, and, though they wore masks, Crystal recognized the steel gray eyes peering through the holes, the way that dark shirt hung over obviously defined muscles, the clean, masculine scent.

Pretty Boy.

Who the hell was this guy? And what kind of a death wish did he have?

Whoever these men were, they were busting Church’s tortured prisoner out of here, and she couldn’t help but think escaping this basement was an absolute good. No one deserved to be held against their will, tortured, abused, or—the thing that terrified her most—sold.

When she spoke, she wasn’t sure what she would say until the words were coming out of her mouth. “There was a call. They’ll be coming,” she whispered, her chin dipped in case she was within the shot of the camera trained on the exterior door. “I have to scream now, and you have to hit me.”

“What?” the first man rasped under his breath. Through the hole in the mask, his eyes were horrified by her demand.

“If you don’t, they’ll know I helped you. And I can’t . . .” What am I doing? Jesus, what am I doing? “You have to. Please.”

Hating her reality, she screamed so loud her throat hurt.

She didn’t have time for his morals, and neither did they. “Please.”

A storm rolled across those eyes. “Pretend to fall and cradle your stomach.” The man swung a fist at her gut. She braced for an impact that never came. Relief and gratitude flooded through her as she played her part for the camera and threw herself backward, the tray of food flying to the ground with a thud. Her head and shoulder glanced off the wall, setting off immediate aches that had her moaning.

When she looked up, the space where the men had stood was empty.

But her scream had worked. Church’s men came running. Crystal curled into a ball on the floor, attempting to make herself as small as possible to avoid getting trampled by the boots pounding down the hall toward the exterior door. The one through which two masked men had just stolen her corrupt and violent boss’s prize prisoner.

With her help. Or, at least, without her hindrance.

Gunshots, shouts, and the squeal of tires against pavement erupted outside the heavy industrial door. More men ran past her. No one stopped or paid her any mind, like she was invisible. And in all the ways that mattered, she very nearly was.

Her head throbbed in time with the pulsing bass beat out in the main part of Confessions, the walls nearly alive with the sound. Fear and adrenaline barreled through Crystal’s veins, making her shaky and unsteady as she pushed to her feet, trying not to step on the food scattered across the floor. Being upright exacerbated the ache in the back of her head. The one she’d caused herself. Because the man hadn’t hit her like she’d demanded. He’d only pretended to.

Pretended.

Why had he only pretended? She’d told him to hit her. She’d had no choice. From the moment she’d seen him and his buddy hauling the unconscious prisoner up the basement steps, she’d known she would have to scream. On the injured guy’s behalf, she was glad that he’d gotten free because she knew firsthand how many people got trapped in the clutches of Baltimore’s Church Gang and never got out again, herself included. But no way could she be seen as helping them. Not if she wanted to live. And, more importantly, if she wanted Jenna to live.

Except, Pretty Boy had refused to hit her . . . A man who refused to hit a woman.

How freaking miserable was her life that a man such as that was so damn unique? Then again, maybe his seeming decency was just because she’d helped him.

“Crystal,” came a voice full of menace.

Bruno. She adopted her meekest posture and cradled her stomach as if she’d really been struck, then turned toward her boyfriend and two of his lackeys, stalking down the hall toward her.

A wall of rage slammed into her a moment before his fingers dug into her upper arms. He nearly lifted her off the floor. “What the hell happened?”

Knowing how much he got off on his role as her protector, she let every bit of the fear she felt seep into her voice, swallowed hard, and shook her head. “I don’t know. I was taking food downstairs, just like I’d been told. All of a sudden”—she gulped for air—“two armed men crashed into me, and one of them punched me and pushed me down.” Crystal gingerly cupped the back of her head. “And then . . . I’m not sure. I . . .”

Bruno let out a sound that was almost a growl as he turned to the men behind him. “Check downstairs. Anyone else down there, shoot only to maim. We need answers first.” The men hustled to obey, their feet heavy on the carpeted steps.

“What else did you see? Think.” He shook her, the grip of his hands tightening, not an ounce of kindness visible in his gaze.

“Um, they were dressed in dark clothes. Had masks and guns. One seemed to be carrying something on his shoulder, but then the other guy hit me and I fell and they were out the door.” No way she could admit to what else she knew. That she’d seen the faces under the mask when she’d given them directions, especially since she’d known something wasn’t right. Such an admission would serve as a one-way ticket to hell of one variety or another—for her and maybe even her sister, too.

And she would do anything to make sure that never happened to either of them. Been there, done that, had the scars to prove it.

Bruno’s callused hands eased on her skin. Suddenly, he yanked her into a fierce, breath-stealing embrace. “I will kill them for touching you,” he said. The declaration was based more on outrage that his “property rights” had been violated when another man had dared touch her than actual concern. She knew that. But better his anger over her than suspicion of her.

Crystal burrowed into him, like she found solace in his arms. “I was so scared,” she whispered, relishing the adrenaline shakes that gave credibility to her words. Sometimes she worried she was too damn good at acting, that maybe every time she put on one of these little shows, she lost a little more of whatever capability for honesty she’d once possessed.

As abruptly as he’d pulled her in, he pushed her away. She wobbled on her heels. “Wait in my office. I’ll be back.” Grasping her jaw almost painfully, Bruno kissed her hard. His lips and tongue demanded she respond, so she did. And then he was gone, out the same door through which the prisoner’s saviors had gone.

Were they truly saviors? Were they even good guys? For the imprisoned man—whoever he was—she hoped so. Given Pretty Boy’s revulsion at her words, her gut told her they were. And if there was one thing she’d gotten better and better at over the past four years of living this life, it was reading people, seeing them for who they really were. And her gut told her that the man with the gray eyes was a savior.

Just not hers.

No, when she found a way out of this mess—and she would, for both her and Jenna—it was going to be because Crystal got them out. No such thing as white knights or Prince Charmings or caped crusaders in her life, that was for damn sure. The one time she’d thought otherwise, she’d ended up with a man who had no qualms about hitting her.

Alone in the dim hallway, the events of the past few moments sank in. Trembling, thoughts scattered, body aching, Crystal made her way down the dim hallway to the office suite. As she had a little while before, she let herself in and moved through the inner sanctum to Bruno’s office. Raised voices argued behind the door at the back of the suite. Crystal wanted no part of what might be going on in there. They’d wanted things perfect around here for Church’s deal, and she suspected part of it might’ve been carried out the back door mere minutes before. If Church was in there, he was going to be hungry for blood.

And she was rather fond of hers.

She slipped into Bruno’s office and held her breath as she closed the door so quietly, the latch didn’t even make a noise. Her body molded to the black leather sofa that filled one wall, and cold suddenly painted over her skin as if someone had cranked up the air-conditioning. What she wouldn’t have given for her comfy jeans and a sweatshirt instead of this ridiculous piece of lingerie.

Alone in the stillness of the room, the enormity of the risk she’d just taken for a complete stranger washed over her.

Tremors wracked her muscles, shaking her bones until the effort to hold it together hurt. So many times tonight she’d taken a chance. And for what? God, if she’d been seen talking to them, or hesitating before she screamed. Or if someone had noticed that the man hadn’t actually punched her. Jesus, what if any of it had been captured by one of the security cameras?

She’d been conscious of them at the time, and her gut told her she was probably okay there. There were far more out front than in the rear of the building given that access was usually controlled so tightly. With two exceptions, the cameras all monitored the external doors. The only other cameras recorded who came through the curtain from the club floor and who went into the back offices. So, yeah. It was probably fine.

Please, God, let it be fine.

Hugging herself, she just barely managed to keep it together. Her gaze went blurry as she stared at a spot on the far wall and willed her emotions under control.

“Sara,” she said, whispering her real name out loud. “Sara. Sara. Sara.” Sometimes, saying the name out loud, the name no one but Jenna ever called her anymore, was the only thing that made her feel present in her body. Once, there’d been a girl named Sara, and her life had been good. One day, Sara would live again. “Sara. Sara. Sara.”

Until then, she’d wait. And act. And survive.