InnocenceForSale.com/Jane (Innocence For Sale Book 3) Read online

  InnocenceForSale.com/ Jane

  Ada Scott

  Alexis Abbott

  Impresst Publishing

  Contents

  About the Author

  About the Author

  Copyright

  License Notes

  Disclaimer

  Acknowledgments

  InnocenceForSale.com/ Jane

  1. Caleb

  2. Jane

  3. Jane

  4. Caleb

  5. Jane

  6. Caleb

  7. Jane

  8. Caleb

  9. Caleb

  10. Jane

  11. Caleb

  12. Jane

  13. Caleb

  14. Jane

  15. Jane

  16. Caleb

  17. Caleb

  18. Jane

  19. Epilogue

  InnocenceForSale.com/Amy

  1. Amy

  2. Kris

  3. Amy

  4. Kris

  5. Amy

  6. Kris

  7. Amy

  8. Kris

  9. Amy

  10. Kris

  11. Amy

  12. Kris

  13. Amy

  14. Kris

  15. Amy

  16. Kris

  17. Amy

  18. Kris

  19. Amy

  20. Kris

  21. Amy

  22. Amy

  23. Kris

  24. Amy

  25. Kris

  26. Amy

  27. Kris

  28. Amy

  29. Amy

  30. Amy

  31. Kris

  32. Amy

  Check Out Other Books by Ada and Alexis

  About the Author

  Ada Scott

  A former office drone, a former nurse, I now spend every waking moment doing what I love, creating and publishing these steamy stories about bad boys from the mafia, motorcycle clubs, and mma that make me, and hopefully you, weak at the knees! Anywhere a bad boy can be found, I'll be there taking notes and making it even sexier :)

  Connect with Ada Online

  adascott.com/free-bad-boy-romance-download/

  [email protected]

  About the Author

  Alexis Abbott

  Alexis Abbott is a USA Today & Wall Street Journal bestselling author who writes about bad boys protecting their girls! Pick up her books today and find yourself transported with super steamy sex, gritty suspense, and lots of romance.

  She also writes as Alex Abbott for her erotic thrillers and contemporary romance.

  She lives in beautiful St. John's, NL, Canada with her amazing husband.

  Connect with Alexis Online:

  alexabbottauthor.com/newsletter

  Copyright

  InnocenceForSale.com/Jane (Innocence For Sale #3)

  Ada Scott, Alexis Abbott

  Published by Impresst Publishing

  Copyright 2017 Ada Scott

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Disclaimer

  All characters and events are entirely fictional and any resemblances to persons living or dead and circumstances are purely coincidental.

  Acknowledgments

  Cover Photo Credit: Gabriel Georgescu/Shutterstock.com

  InnocenceForSale.com/ Jane

  Caleb

  I always heard that one fight could ruin a man’s life. Throw one punch at the wrong guy, give one glance the wrong way, and a man’s whole future could go down the shitter.

  They must have been talking about someone else.

  The thrum of the club music pulses around me as I walk across the sleek, new black floors. There are blurred reflections of the red lights overhead in the tiles. It gives the whole club an otherworldly vibe. It’s all on purpose, all to make the guests feel like they’re somewhere totally different from the drudgery outside. Somewhere they can lose themselves–and their money–in peace.

  For everyone else here in Vegas, this new strip club is a chance to escape all their woes. A chance to drown their worries in lust and liquor.

  For me, it’s just another Saturday night.

  People know to make way for me as I move through the crowds. If they don’t, I’m tall enough to wade through them like it doesn’t matter. A fitted black suit hugs my body just enough to give me plenty of freedom to move when I need to. No tie, just a white button-down shirt with a couple of buttons undone. It’s not combat fatigues, so it beats my last work uniform.

  When they assigned me to be the muscle for the grand opening, they said to dress professionally, but not to attract attention. Can’t help the last part. I’m about a head taller than most of the clientele, with shoulders broad enough to clear a path for anyone behind me.

  My time in the military gave me a kind of presence that’s like second nature to me now. People step aside. They pay attention. They don’t cause trouble. Most of the men around here are cowed when I walk by, even when my sharp blue eyes don’t land on them.

  One thing’s for sure: nobody in their right mind would start shit on my watch. But in Las Vegas, not everyone’s in their right mind.

  The club is nice, I’ll give it that. The guests look a little more classy than usual, thanks to the hefty cover charge. Look is the key word. Pig-headed businessmen are chatting up women at the bar who are only into their money, and I can see a few groups at tables that I know are going to be tight-fisted with tips.

  You can dress however you want, but it won’t make you less of a piece of shit.

  I’m walking along the railing of the second floor that overlooks the place, making the rounds. Keeping an eye on things up here is easy. Just the sight of me prowling around is enough to keep some order.

  It’s enough to turn a few heads, too. I notice when I walk by a girls’-night-out table and a few sets of eyes follow me. I’ve even caught a few of them try to flag me down with shot glasses in their hands, but I ignore them. I’m not here for that.

  I slip into one of the back hallways that runs throughout the club. It helps enforcers like me get around quickly when we need to. It leads me through a break room where one of the girls is getting a quick drink of water between dances.

  She’s new, both to the club and to Vegas. But she’s taking to it like a natural. Just got that kind of personality. Curly blonde hair and cherry-red lips, nothing but her thin white outfit holding her breasts in and showing her ass off. She’s gonna make a fortune tonight. Her glittering eyes flit to me as I stride through.

  “Hey, Caleb,” she says in a singsong voice with a wink, thick Brooklyn accent bleeding through.

  “Hey, you,” I say, wondering which of the girls gave her my name. “Don’t think we’ve met.”

  “Crystal,” she says with a flutter of her eyes, propping herself up on one of the tables, her eyes looking me up and down. “You know, you’re a lot taller in person.”

  “I didn’t know I had a reputation,” I say unemotionally, crossing my arms.

  “You’ve got more than that,” she says, her tone playful.

  “Sounds like you’re doing alright for yourself out there,” I say, keeping things impersonal. “Crowds treating you right?”

  “I’ve got a five-star brunch with my name on it tomorro
w morning,” she says proudly, tossing her hair a little and perching her chin on her hands with a smile. “But you look like you could treat a girl better. How about we make it a brunch for two?”

  “Thanks, but I’ve got an appointment tomorrow,” I lie politely, and she rolls her eyes with a coy smile.

  “Alright mister fancy-pants,” she laughs, taking the turndown better than most. She tosses back the rest of her water and struts to the door behind me, giving me a little wave. “Don’t hurt yourself out there, alright?”

  “I’ll try,” I say with a smirk, and I move on.

  I emerge next to the second-floor bar, where a couple of my “co-workers” are sitting, near the door but close enough to the crowds to keep an eye on everything.

  They don’t pull off my look as well as I do, but they’ve got the intimidating part down. Big, burly, rough-looking, both with shaved heads to hide their receding hairlines.

  Russians. Russian mobsters, to be precise. The guys I work for.

  One of them glances my way, then nudges his buddy and says in Russian, “Watch out, here comes the fuckin’ cowboy.”

  “They still let that pendos strut around like he owns the place?” the other grunts, piggish eyes glaring at me.

  “Let him walk around with his cock out, he’ll trip over it sooner or later. Better some crazy drunk pop a bullet in American meat than you or me.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” he laughs.

  They have no idea I can understand every word they’re saying. I’ve made sure to play dumb. When the military taught me what we needed to know, I paid attention. Russian, Arabic, French—I can listen in on any conversation and speak it, too. Maybe I’ll clue them in some day.

  For now, it’s helpful to know what the Russians really think of me.

  “Enjoying yourselves, boys?” I ask in English as I approach them, a casual look on my face. There are a couple of empty shot glasses in front of them. They shouldn’t be drinking on the job. Leaves more messes for me to clean up.

  “How are things downstairs?” one of them asks in a gruff voice, thick accent not hiding his attitude. “Everyone behaving?”

  “The usual,” I grunt back, crossing my arms. “Girls seem happy, guests aren’t starting fights.”

  “Keep it that way,” one of the men says bluntly.

  The other man says to his friend in Russian again, “If this art deal goes down smoothly, we can just leave strip clubs to shitheads like this guy.”

  Art deal? This is news.

  “The deal with Castellano?” the other replies to him, again in Russian, talking like I’m not even here. “Shit, if that goes down we’ll be able to afford more than dances at a place like this.”

  The two laugh and rib each other, and I move to the side of them and gesture for a water from the bartender. They’re ignoring me, which is more helpful than they’ll ever know.

  Castellano is a big name in the art scene. This must be big.

  “Art deals are clean money,” one says to the other. “Might as well be Christmas for us.”

  “Must be why the boss is scoping out some of the legit businesses on the Strip. Nobody looks for dirty money running through soap shops and brewpubs.”

  “No, they do not,” the other says proudly as another round of vodka tonics gets set in front of them, and they clink glasses together. I shoot back my water and nod to the bartender before moving on.

  So that’s why the Russians are in such a good mood tonight.

  I make my way downstairs. Most of the crowds are at the stage, throwing money and whistling as the music throbs.

  The Russians I work with don’t like me. They know I’m bigger, stronger, and better trained than they are. Worst of all, I’m not Russian, and they remind me every chance they get.

  Why am I working for them, then?

  One fight.

  My first week working in Vegas, I caught one son of a bitch cheating at the craps table, and I knocked his teeth out across the smooth carpeted floor. Some of the higher-ups running the joint must have seen me. More importantly, they saw me catch a guest cheating before one of their men caught him. I made their muscle look bad. So they offered me a better job.

  One fight was all it took to get me into Vegas’s underbelly.

  Best of all, none of them have any idea who I really am. That makes it all the more thrilling. And if there’s an art deal going down with Castellano soon, then I must have walked in on the scene at a very interesting time in the Russian mob’s history.

  As the song dies down and the dancers make their way out, the sounds of conversations start to come back into hearing range. It’s midnight, and the people here to party are just getting started, but some of the casual groups are talking about getting cabs or stumbling back to hotel rooms.

  But while I make the rounds through the tables, another conversation catches my attention.

  “Come on, baby, just one more dance!”

  “My shift is over, sugar, you can wait ‘till tomorrow night like everyone else.”

  “Come onnnn, you liked that lap dance, I can always tell when they like it.”

  That’s because it’s their job to make you feel like that, asshole, I think to myself as my eyes search for the source.

  With aboslutely no surprise, it’s a short, squat man talking to one of the dancers. She has dark skin and wiry hair, and she’s wearing her street clothes. She must have come out to the club floor to get a drink before heading home. She’s friends with one of the bartenders.

  “Sure thing, drop another $200 and you’ll get another tomorrow night,” she says back, trying to hide the tension in her voice as she heads for the door.

  None of the Russians are paying the least bit of attention. The responsible ones are busy at the door making sure the wrong people aren’t coming in. The short guy’s beady eyes watch the girl go for a while, and sure enough, after a few moments’ hesitation, he starts walking after her.

  I know that look in his eyes.

  I follow.

  The girl disappears in the crowd out the door, and the guy not long after. I wade through the tide of people with ease. I give a knowing nod to one of the bouncers on my way out, and he returns it.

  We know when we’re in the middle of something important.

  I don’t see the guy at first, but I can spot the girl heading down the block, so I start moving after her. Once we’re far enough away from the crowd, I spot the short guy, sure enough.

  The girl heads into a parking garage, and the guy picks up pace. Both of them disappear into the shadowy concrete, and I hustle up after them. Once they’re out of sight, I know I need to move fast, because the guy will too.

  I’m at the entrance when I hear their echoing voices.

  “What the fuck are you doing following me?” she says firmly.

  “C’mon, bitch, don’t play coy with me,” he says in a low growl, his voice a little slurred from his drinks.

  “I’ve got mace, you need to back off right now,” she warns him, and that’s when I round the first corner and see them. She’s backing toward the cars, hand moving to her purse, and he’s approaching her despite her warnings.

  “I just wanna taaaalk, is all,” he says, “you’re really pretty, you know that? You don’t need to be working in a place like that! I felt your hands on my thighs, I’m not stupid. I know you want more. Let’s go back to my place and—”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “No, she’s not,” I say, and both of them look to me with wide eyes.

  “The fuck do you want?” the squat man says, liquor making him a little bolder. “Fuck off, I’m tryin’ to talk to this nice hooker here. It’s a free country!”

  It’s hard not to laugh at the guy. I stride forward calmly, my every step controlled. “She’d let you know if she wanted to go home with you. Beat it.”

  “Get bent,” the guy snorts, and he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a switchblade. Probably the one he’d planned to use
on the girl in a few minutes, if I hadn’t shown up.

  “Put that away,” I scold him, but he’s drunk enough that my height and size doesn’t mean much to his better judgment. He runs at me. He’s got some muscle under that fat, I can tell.

  But when he clumsily throws himself at me, I catch him by the wrist without breaking my stride. I squeeze, hard, and when I hear a crack, he screams and drops the switchblade. My other hand flashes forward and catches him in the stomach. He wheezes, and I give him two more blows, feeling a rib crack before I release his wrist and let him stagger.

  He’s coughing, and when he starts to stumble down to get his knife, I grimace and throw a hard blow across his jaw. I hear teeth clatter on the concrete before he collapses, groaning in pain.

  I calmly pick up the switchblade and close it, pocketing it and glancing to the girl.

  “Did he hurt you?”