“You got a minute?”

“Actually, no.” Not exactly a warm and fuzzy response, but I wasn’t actually feeling warm and fuzzy toward Kevin at the moment.

“I talked to Tom,” Kevin continued, undeterred. “He said he saw you at Evan Black’s engagement party. Sounds like you’re making progress.”

“Hard to make progress when I don’t know all the facts.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m just a little irritated that you somehow forgot to mention that you were dating Angelina Raine before she went and got herself engaged to Evan Black.”

“Fuck.” The word was a sharp whisper, but it came across the phone just fine.

“Yeah, I’d say so. I don’t like being used for your private vendetta.”

“Dammit, Sloane, I wasn’t—”

“Wasn’t what? Wasn’t being a lying, manipulative sack of shit? Got news for you, Kevin. You were.”

“I wasn’t lying. I’m not manipulative. And I’m not using you.”

“Color me unconvinced.”

“Look, just come meet me.”

“Forget it, Kevin. I’m sorry your girl ditched you, but I’m not your personal payback bitch. You have a battle to fight? I’ll let you be the one to fight it.”

“Dammit, you’re not—”

“Listening? No, I’m not. Goodbye, Kevin,” I said, then ended the call. And although it felt good to hang up and take control, I was still antsy. Stewing. Kevin’s allegations about the knights stirred in my head, getting mixed up with my thoughts about Amy, and those thoughts were doing a tango with the confused mishmash of emotions I felt simply from the mention of Tyler’s name.

“Dammit,” I muttered, then jammed the lid back on the ice cream.

Kevin’s call had pumped my edginess up exponentially. I needed to move. Needed to clear my head. Needed to figure out how the hell I could get into Destiny—because for better or for worse, my curiosity was piqued now. Tyler Sharp had shown me the man he wanted me to see. Now I wanted the chance to peek behind the curtain.

I just needed to find a way inside.

Without even realizing it, I’d moved toward the small closet that held a closet rod, two plastic drawers and the water heater. My running shorts, bra, and tank dangled from a coat hanger I’d hooked to the heater. I ripped off the pajama bottoms and Dr. Who T-shirt I’d tossed on, then dumped them in the top drawer. Then I pulled on my running clothes, found the last pair of clean socks, and shoved my feet into my shoes.

I pulled my hair into a high ponytail, grabbed my phone, jammed my earphones in, and set out to run.

What I would have preferred was to go to the gym and do a few rounds with a punching bag. Or, better, with one of the other officers. Cavanaugh was always up to spar, and we were pretty evenly matched. But when I was on a tear, I could beat the shit out of her and we both knew it.

No, I wanted Lieutenant Barrone. Up against him in the ring and I didn’t have time to think about anything except dodging jabs and keeping my face from getting bruised. That would be good, I thought. No thinking. Just doing.

Not an option today.

My studio perched above a Mexican bakery, and I breathed in the delicious air as I stretched in the narrow alley between my building and the next. I had my earphones in, with music from my dad blasting in my ears. Some rockabilly Texas band that represented the latest in his kick to be a naturalized Texan now that he’d moved to the Lone Star State.

I liked the beat—it was fast and rhythmic and easy to run to, and I let my mind get lost in the music and the scenery. In the passing restaurants and bakeries, apartments and markets. I’d already found a circuit, and I went slow until I reached the shopping area on Eighteenth Street, then made my way back at a quicker pace, taking a few twists and turns so that I could pass by some of the neighborhood’s murals.

I saw it all, the way cops do. But I wasn’t looking. I was in my head. In my music. Focusing only on the rhythm of my feet and the feel of the pavement beneath my soles until it was just me and the motion. Me and the wonderful sensation of being alive, of breathing, of working muscles and knowing that I was strong. Dammit, I was strong. Strong enough not give a shit about Tyler Sharp. Strong enough to block out the pain.

Strong enough, maybe, to believe that lie.

I rounded the corner to return to my apartment, not sure if I’d accomplished anything on my run other than tiring myself out. What I needed was to convince Tyler to let me into Destiny. But damned if I could think of a way. Maybe if I was as adept as pulling a con as he was I could figure out how to beg, borrow, bribe, or steal, but as it stood, I had nothing to bargain with, no one to help me, and no way in to that club.

Or did I?

I stopped dead in front of my building, forgetting all about cooling down with a slow jog. Hell, forgetting about everything except this one, slim possibility.

It just might work.

A long shot, but it was all I had at the moment—and with a fresh burst of excitement I sprinted up the stairs to my door and hoped like hell that all the pieces I needed would fall into place.

Chapter Fifteen

Rihanna’s “S&M” blared out of the speakers, all confidence and fire, singing about how good she was at being bad. About sex. Attraction. Excitement and heat.

And there I was, my white-gloved hands sliding provocatively up and down the steel pole, my stocking clad leg hooked as high as I dared for fear of losing my balance, and at least high enough to show off the garter that held the stocking in place.

I’d come to Destiny armed with a plan, and now I was one of six other women who’d taken the stage during the club’s Saturday night Amateur Hour. Initially, I’d been nervous that the girl at the front desk would recognize me, or that Tyler would be monitoring the feed and wouldn’t let me on the stage.

Now I was nervous that he wasn’t even there, and that all this would be for nothing.

When the lights had first gone up—when the first strains of music had pulsed out—my blood had beat so loudly in my ears I was certain that all the men around my stage could hear it. I’d moved slowly at first. Tentative, maybe even a little fearful. Now, I had to admit I was getting into it.

I’d been in and out of enough strip joints to know that as gentleman’s clubs go, Destiny was pretty damn upscale. It had a casino-style feel, with a huge main room, a long bar, and comfy tables surrounding a number of performance stages, each with their very own pole.

There were also darker areas, where a customer could take a dancer to a comfortable chair for a lap dance or, if he was really unusual, a bit of conversation.

The overall look was classy, but at the end of the day, Destiny was like any other gentleman’s club. The dancers ended up completely bare. Well, completely with the exception of a tiny G-string that served only as a repository for tips, not as any sort of attempt at modesty.

Still, unlike some clubs, the dancers didn’t start out that way. At Destiny, it really was a tease. A process. A seduction.

The end result, however, was the same. And I’d begun the evening feeling more than a little twitchy.

Sapphire, one of Destiny’s regular dancers who was in charge of wrangling the six of us who’d entered the amateur night contest, had given us a pre-performance pep talk. “If you’re nervous, just draw out the seduction. You’ll want to take it all off eventually—at least if you want a shot at the prize. But you can take your time with the stripping until you find your rhythm. Just keep it hot and sexy.”