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Liquor sales were good. But the drugs and sex had even higher profit margins.

Xhex walked by the bar’s outer rim slowly, dousing the hot speculation of heterosexual men and homosexual women with hard looks. Man, she didn’t get it. Never had. For a female who wore nothing but muscle shirts and leathers and had hair cut short as a infantryman’s, she caught attention as much as the half-dressed prostitutes up in VIP area did.

Then again, rough sex was in fashion these days, and volunteers for autoerotic asphyxiation and ass-crack whippings and three ways with handcuffs were like the rats in Caldwell’s sewer system: everywhere and out at night. Which resulted in over a third of the club’s profits every month.

Thank you very much.

Unlike the working girls, however, she never took money for sex. Didn’t really do the sex thing at all. Except for Butch O’Neal, that cop. Well, that cop and…

Xhex came up to the VIP section’s velvet rope and took a glance inside the exclusive part of the club.

Shit. He was here.

Just what she needed tonight.

Her libido’s favorite eye candy was sitting in the far back at the Brotherhood’s table, his two buddies flanking him and thus buffering him from the three girls who were also crowded into the banquette. Damn, he was big in that booth, all decked out in an Affliction T-shirt and a black leather jacket that was built half biker, half flak.

There were weapons under it. Guns. Knives.

How things had changed. The first time he’d made an appearance, he’d been the size of a bar stool, packing barely enough muscle to bench-press a swizzle stick. But that was not the case anymore.

As she nodded to her bouncer and went up the three graduated steps, John Matthew lifted his stare from his Corona. Even through the dimness, his deep blue eyes glowed when he saw her, flashing like a set of sapphires.

Man, she could pick ’em. The son of a bitch was just out of his transition. The king was his whard. He lived with the Brotherhood. And he was a damned mute.

Christ. And she’d thought Murhder had been a bad idea? You’d have figured she’d learned her lesson over two decades ago with that Brother. But nooooooooooooo…

Thing was, as she looked at the kid, all she could picture was him spread out naked on a bed, thick cock in his hand, palm going up and down…until her name left his lips on a soundless groan and he came all over his tight six-pack.

The tragedy was that what she saw wasn’t a fantasy. Those fist pneumatics actually happened. Often. And how did she know? Because, like an asshole, she’d read his mind and caught the Memorex, good-as-live version.

Sick to shit of herself, Xhex went deeper into the VIP section and stayed away from him, checking in with the floor manager of the working girls. Marie-Terese was a brunette with great legs and an expensive look. One of the big earners, she was a strict professional and therefore exactly the kind of HBIC you wanted: She never fell into catty crap, always showed up for her shifts on time, and never brought whatever was wrong in her personal life to work. She was a fine woman in a horrible job, making money hand over fist for a damn good reason.

“How we doing?” Xhex asked. “You need anything from me and my boys?”

Marie-Terese glanced around at the other working women, her high cheekbones catching the dim light, making her look not just sexually alluring, but downright beautiful. “We’re good for now. Two in the back at the moment. It’s been business as usual, except for the fact that our girl is not here.”

Xhex snapped her brows down. “Chrissy again?”

Marie-Terese inclined her head of long, black, and lovely. “Something needs to be done about that gentleman caller of hers.”

“Something was, but it didn’t go far enough. And if he’s a gentleman, I’m Estée fucking Lauder.” Xhex fisted both hands. “That son of a bitch—”

“Boss?”

Xhex looked over her shoulder. Past the mountain of bouncer who was trying to get her attention, she caught another full-on of John Matthew. Who was still staring at her.

“Boss?”

Xhex refocused. “What.”

“There’s