Rogue Enemy

By Morgan Denton

Madison-

 

I'll do whatever it takes to find my missing sister. 

*Drop-out of college

*Piss of my abusive father

*Go undercover

*step into dangerous territoy

*dance with the devil

Been there/Done that, as they say. Nothing surprises me anymore.

Except maybe the devil himself. 

Seven months ago, my twin sister Milly disappeared, intel says he has something to do it. 

Stepping into Hell itself for a job, may not be the smartest thing I've ever done, but like I said, I'll do whatever it takes. Including stepping into the fire, and putting my own life on the line.

 

ROGUE-

Sweet vixen has no idea I'm onto her. that I've been watching her the whole time. She thinks she's here for a job, but in reality she's walking right into my trap. 

I'm a man of control, no one steps out of line. I don't play games or have time for pitiful vendettas. 

Life is tough, that's a fact. In fact, my life revolves around a revenge and I'll stop at nothing to achieve it. No one stands in my way. 

Princess is in for the surprise of a lifetime if she think's her luscious long hair and doe-like innocence will gain her any sympathy. 

I'm a man on a mission, showing no mercy. 

Except, who is Madison McCain, and what did she just bring into my life? 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Morgan Denton
• Release date: Aug 17, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393132349

Book preview

Chapter Two:

Madison

ONE BY ONE, THE LINE dwindled down, until I was now just a few women away from entering the solo audition. By the grace of God, I only had to wait outside in the heat for an hour before being ushered into the backstage area. Five more minutes and I was liable to pass out from heat exhaustion.

For a stripper’s dress-room, it was surprisingly sleek and clean. There was floor to ceiling mirrors, none of which had a smear on them, twenty state of the art bright white vanities were lit up by modern crystal chandeliers, and the floors were smooth, white marble. Everything and everyone in the room was on display, all of our flaws and fears reflecting back at us in every direction. I focused on the body guard who would soon be calling my name. Carlos Munez, one of the only Picaro soldiers who doesn’t have a rap sheet as long as my legs in these stilettos. I wonder if Rogue keeps him clean for a reason, or Munez is just sneakier and harder to catch than the other minions. Regardless, he looks just as scary and lethal as the rest of the crew, despite his newbie status.

The sound of nearby sniffling snaps my attention to the present. So far, each woman exited their audition the same way they entered it, and they all looked defeated. Some, like this girl, ran out crying. Not one looked confident that they were going to be chosen.

It was almost depressing.  

I know Rogue... metaphorically. His majesty is demanding, rude, cocky, and fierce. A straight up dick with a chip on his broad, muscular shoulder.  If he is part of the hiring process, and considering he’s involved with everything that involves Picaro, I am sure he is, then I imagine the feedback they are receiving is as ruthless as he is.

Nothing less than perfect for the King himself.

Obviously, I had considered this, but the fact that I am a mere minute or two away from my audition, the realism of it comes splashing down all at once.

When I strutted in here, I felt confident in my dancing capability, but what if it’s not enough? Most of the women that initially surrounded me could be lingerie models. Unless their rhythm is that of a newborn deer, how could anyone diminish their confidence the way it appeared as they were leaving? I wish I had half of the sex appeal they had, or had before they went into that room; they for damn sure didn’t have it when they came back out, shoulders slumped. 

Don’t get me wrong, that thug asshole can say whatever he wants to me.

It won’t phase me.

I stopped caring what people think a long time ago. But, I need this job. Without it, it could take months to figure out another way in with Vargas. I’ve waited too long. Sacrificed too much. The time is now, and I refuse to take no for an answer. Milly may not have months, she may not have days left to wait.

I said, next.

I look up into the brawny guards’ eyes, handsome, like the rest of them, but more menacing. Something lingering in his eyes haunts me, sending chills down my ram-rod straight spine. It’s no question that this man has seen a lot of evil in his day.

I stand proud as I walk through the door he’s held open for me, ignoring the way he glances slowly down my body, sizing me up and comparing me to those who came before me. I shudder with disgust, but separately wonder if he likes what he sees or thinks I am an amateur about to be number seventy-two to get laughed off of the stage today.

ROGUE

HOW MUCH MORE OF THIS can I possibly sit through? Better yet, why do I have to sit through it? Ten men directly under my team, hundreds more under them, and not a damn one I can trust enough not to fuck up this encounter with her. The blonde.

Don’t get it confused, I trust them all with my life, they are mi familia.

However, trusting them around attractive women? Hell no.

Not for a single second did I entertain Bone’s idea of taking my place so I could catch an early flight to New York.

I’ve killed myself to ensure it is legitimate and successful, off the radar. Only drawing the attention of the locally wealthy and exclusive, and without any unwanted attention from the FBI. Sure, we let in the occasional bachelor party, and sometimes things get rowdy, but for the most part, my club is private and secure. Those who dare start trouble here will never be seen again. Not here.

Not anywhere.

Everyone who works under me is to be trusted by me and my team, as well as respected by the guests. No hiccups, no scandals, no pranks, no jodas, ever.

Hiring her may be a mistake, but it’s a mistake I know she’ll make. She wants me, and not for my fame or money, and I want to know why. Who is this woman whose insisted on keeping tabs on me for the past two months? Truth? I’ve let it go on far longer than I should have, anyone else would be dead for snooping. But she... interests me for some reason. Did I kill her boyfriend? Is she working for someone? I don’t know yet.

But I am for damn sure going to find out.

I may be late to a meeting with the second most powerful mafia family in this country, but I will make sure I leave my club in perfect condition, and without the attention of the local nerd-turned-college-drop-out with a body that could kill. The Gambino’s will have to wait. Consequences be damned.

I stopped caring about those a long time ago.

Besides, we actually do need a dancer and it is technically my fault we are understaffed. Nadia thought I would change my one-night rule for her. Who knows why. I was honest, blunt, to the point, hell, I literally wrote it down for the bitch. Being anything but thorough is not an option in my life.

No one will change that rule, much less a girl whose desperate enough to sleep her way to the top, la mujerzuela. I never intended on screwing her to begin with. I would rather fuck an apple pie than deal with needy women; but, dealing with the shit I have to deal with on a daily basis then succumbing to a pint of whiskey can lead to stupid choices. Nadia included.

Most of the time the girls I choose just enjoy the night of sex, and go back to their lives. I treat them well, give them the passion and the orgasms they desire, take my time, and even stay the night. I kiss them goodbye in the morning and order breakfast if they wish.

But that’s it.

One-night.

No vagina is more magical than another. Magical in itself, sure, but no different than anyone else’s, and I can’t have women getting clingy and attached to me if I stick with them for too long. Even if it’s only for sex, feelings always get involved and make things complicated somehow.

Their feelings, anyway. I don’t have any. Not anymore.

I won’t make that mistake again.

I’ll be the bad guy if I have to.

At this point I’m not even pretending.

So, I had to let Nadia go, and here I am now, drowning in a sea of poco fuerta.

Never, would I generally have open-auditions for a club as superior as mine. The Lioness’ are hand-picked and paid handsomely for their talents, as well as their discretion.

Picaro doesn’t do bland. I need perfect.

Hot.

Sinful body.

Great dancer, obviously.

Class.

More than that, lo que quiero es pasión. My dancers are not simply here for entertainment, they are the centerpiece, creating the entire vibe of Picaro, blanketing each guest in a welcoming, intimate, and relaxed ambiance.

The dancer has to be exquisite perfection. And I am here to make sure that happens.

If someone’s feelings get hurt along the way, it’s just the way life is.

I’m only holding this audition as bait. Turns out my spicy amateur investigator is a life-long dancer. If she truly wants to know more about me, she will be too tempted to resist. Little thing only thinks she will be getting closer, when truly, I’m a ruthless hunter and she’s walking right into my trap.

Chapter Three

MADISON

This is not what I was expecting. A long drawn out stage in the middle of a giant dimly lit bar, complete with a centered dancing pole surrounded by chairs full of horny middle-aged men throwing out sweaty one-dollar bills; that’s what I was expecting. The room that envelops me now is far from that description, the exact opposite, if that’s possible.

There is no stage, no pole, no filthy ass-grabbing men with dollar bills. In fact, this entire place feels sexy and seductive. Leather and cinnamon invade my nostrils, the leather being white and covering the bar that primarily takes up the middle of the room. The only seating is located in various nooks tucked cozily inside the walls on higher floors. I assume they are VIP and require private access. The intimate alcoves are primarily bare, each containing only a red velvet-covered sectional and two end tables.  

What draws me in the most is the wide staircase circling down on either side of the extra-large space, resembling a grand-style ball room. The lighting isn’t too dark but not overwhelmingly bright either. Gothic-style chandeliers hang from the golden cathedral-style ceiling, scattered around the four-story open-space in several different lengths, with dimmer recess-lighting in the VIP rooms.

As soon as I entered, my nerves calmed.

Until, Rogue.

We are the only two people in the room, and the cool air is thick with anticipation.

Even with the vastness that is the inside of Picaro my eyes were immediately drawn to him. The man that has haunted my nightmares for the last half a year. Breathtakingly gorgeous, and lethal in every way possible. A threatening gentleman who seeps sex from his pours, searing a vicious intensity through his charcoal grey eyes, standing in a midnight black suit like he is a God in front of me.

Not a God, but Lucifer himself.

The Angel of Death that I’m willing to lose my life over, if it means I get the answers I am searching for.

His steel glare pierces me from across the room, pulling me to him like a magnet as the door slams shut with a brutal finality behind me. He is even more enigmatic in person. Long, lean, hard but soft in a youthful sort of way.

Too late to backdown now.

Not that I want to. I’m ready for this. Not even the famous Rogue is attractive enough to expunge the hatred and despair from my heart. The only thing I care about now is the truth, and maybe a little revenge.

I’m not worried about the technicalities of the law if it means getting what I want. I’m more than willing to bend the rules, break them if necessary. Vargas definitely doesn’t abide by the law, so I will be getting nowhere with him, not without taking a few risks.

His strong, square jaw clicks with confidence as he speculates my appearance. With an Italian mother and Spanish father, his beauty knows no bounds. Standing at a few inches over six feet his demanding presence dominates everyone around him, though the only other person around now, is me. I won’t lie and say this doesn’t cause chills to erupt over my body. He has no idea I’m out to get him, yet it feels like he’s already made me.

Rogue runs his hands through his thick dark hair, which he has neatly faded down the sides, leaving the top with a luscious bed-ridden look. Furrowing his brows, he holds the same hand in a ‘stop’ motion once I am a few feet away from him. I do, abruptly, hardly keeping my balance in the process.

As much as I hate to admit it, I flush. He’s perhaps the only man to ever cause butterflies of this magnitude, currently swirling through my abdomen. His presence would bring a weaker woman to her knees. No one could deny his alpha-male authority is sexy as sin.

Lust is considered a sin. And the reason is the brooding man standing tall in front of me. One hundred percent intimidating, positively broody, and still everything about him makes my heart beat wildly with need. Of course, Lucifer would be the king of Hell for being so deliciously evil.

I’ve told more than one person I would see them in Hell. If this how I am greeted, it doesn’t sound so bad after all.

You have never been here. He says. It’s a statement. How pathetically out of place I must appear.

First time for everything I suppose. I hold my head up high, attempting to recover my confidence.

First time dancing, as well? His voice is smooth and deep, rough but invigorating.

No.

He eyes my outfit, scratching the dark stubble begging to be touched, along his chin, But, you’ve never danced in a club like this.

Like I said, first time for everything. Are there many other clubs like this? I smart-mouth, his condescending tone grating on my nerves.

He closes off the remaining distance between us, wrapping his hand around my neck to whisper in my ear, Let me guess, you spent the first eighteen years of your life in childish dance lessons and now in some act of rebellion think you’re going to piss off your daddy by dancing in my club. My spine straightens, and not just from his fingertips skating across my skin, or the heat blazing down my neck like an erupted volcano.  

Does he know who I am?

Did he know who I was as soon as I walked in?

I take a step back to glance at his face, sucking in a harsh breath and trying desperately to maintain my composure. Twenty years, full-scholarship, and this isn’t some childish act of revenge upon my asshole of a father, that would be much more calculated. I smirk, pursing my lips in defiance. The truth in the statement doesn’t go unnoticed.

He considers this, arching his eyebrow with curiosity at my honesty. He doesn’t know what to make of me. Good. "Then why are you here, bella?" His posture is imposing, voice is stern, face unwavering, yet he uses an Italian term of endearment?

As far as I knew he never spoke in Italian, only Spanish and English. Of course he would though, I’m stupid for not learning more Italian before coming here. If he speaks to any of his buddies in the language, I may not understand them.

Uncontrollably my cheeks pinken with embarrassment.

The same reason everyone else is here, I look pointedly into his hardened eyes, hoping he can’t spot the lies in mine, for a job.

Mmm, well then, impress me. Dance. He gestures around the room, eyeing me carefully with mischief. I look around, twisting strands of hair around my finger, a nervous habit. Where’s the stage?

The man has the nerve to roll his eyes at me, turning on his foot toward the bar, then pouring himself a drink. "Do you need one, princesa mimada?"

En general, los bailarines bailan en un escenario, con música, mi rey.

(Generally, dancers dance on stage, with music, my King.) What can I say, I do not appreciate being mocked and do not intend on letting him think for one second that I am dumb or easily dismissable.

"Apparently, you do not know much about my club. Picaro is not some white trash strip joint like most of the women who came before you seemed to think. He downs his whiskey, then snaps his attention back to me, pinning me in place, It is also not a place for privileged white women to come looking for some sort of dramatic reprieve from their boring suburban lives. The last thing I need is some spoiled brat to cry every time she gets offended, to start drama in my establishment, or to back talk every time she gets her feelings hurt, and for some reason thinking she knows Spanish in the 21st century is some sort of noteworthy accomplishment. Everyone is bilingual these days, princesa."

I’m careful not to flinch at the nerve of his insults, but on the inside I am fuming. Less than two seconds away from throwing him into a chokehold, not caring that he or one of his body guards would kill me the instant I touch him.

Just because I can’t see them, doesn’t mean they aren’t there. Not once since I have been following him has he been without at least two well-trained men to protect him. Unfortunate for me, because I am sure I could take him right now.

Mr. Vargas, despite my appearance, I assure you I’m not here because of daddy issues, nor am I a desperate housewife, or whatever else you had the audacity to accuse me of. I take slow, purposeful steps toward him, matching my breaths to remain calm. Carefully, I grab the bottle of whiskey and refill his glass once we are standing toe to toe. No, I’ve never been a stripper and apparently I do not know much about your club or what the entire purpose of my job will require. I assumed once I passed the audition I would get further details about my duties. What I can tell you is that you asked for an experienced dancer, and I’ve danced for most of my life. Not many jobs in this city pay dancers as well as you are offering, and I am not such a prude as to pout and cry every time my feelings get hurt. Whatever this job entails, I can handle it. I throw back the stout almond-colored liquor in one gulp then slam the glass down on the bar, my gaze never wavering from his.  

He begins to unbutton his suit jacket, then slides it off, neatly folding it and placing it atop the bar counter. Next, he uncuffs his sleeves and carefully folds them up his tightly coiled forearm. He hadn’t been wearing a tie, but takes this opportunity to unbutton his crisp, black shirt further down his chest; revealing smooth, milky skin covered in various black tattoos. All the while his jaw ticks with rage.

It was then I noticed that as I’ve been absorbed in his every movement, his eyes never left mine, closely watching me as I unabashedly eye-fuck him. I clear my throat and divert my attention back to the whiskey; would it be inappropriate to pour another glass?

It was inappropriate the first time.

"I always have twenty dancers on my staff, but only have ten dancers after 10pm. Your shift, if you are chosen and choose to accept the position, would be Monday, Wednesday, and Friday from 2p.m. until 10p.m. and Saturday from 4p.m. to 4a.m. You will have a starting bi-weekly salary of six thousand dollars, increasing with experience and varying by talent. Every shift you, and the other Lioness’, will start on the main floor. You are free to dance with whomever you wish. If someone pays to have personal sessions with you, they will speak with the VIP manager, who will have everything arranged. Only if you are comfortable with the arrangement, no one is forced to private dance, everyone is given a choice. Private sessions are $500 flat-rate a piece, rising a thousand by the hour, 75% of which goes to you. My club is not a brothel. You will be given a different uniform and mask every shift, clothes can be removed while in VIP lounges only, but at no point is your mask to come off. Guests can choose whether or not to be a part of the masquerade, but dancers are required to be, unless at the club on an off day. Then, they are free to be whomever they wish. Dancers are allotted three alcoholic beverages during any four or more-hour shift, no more. I will not allow my employees to be sloppy. This is a classy establishment and I intend on keeping it that way. Any questions, before you dance, princesa?" While speaking he made his way around the bar, exuding raw authority and leaving no room for confusion in his speech, every word spoken sharp and clear. The explanation not in any ways what I expected. He pulls out another glass and pours another drink for me.

I focus my eyes on his and not the obvious way his muscles ripple and clench underneath his shirt, or the bulging veins in thick next throbbing with every movement he makes. His gaze never wavers and our eyes remained locked in a war, neither of us allowing a single blink, even as we sip our whiskey. No doubt he knows that I am still checking him out and is inwardly gloating. Cocky fucker.

What kind of dancing will I be doing? I break the silence, My duty in the private room is obvious, but on the main floor? In the middle of the crowd? How will stand out, or know who to dance with? Even as I ask the question, I know I sound silly and naïve. The smirk he gives me confirms the intrusive thought.

Think of Pícaro as an escape room, the purpose for the masks are to conceal who we are perceived to be on the outside and be whoever we want to be for the night, who the people see in your eyes. My members want to forget their troubles and get lost in the moment, truly feeling real connections with the people around them, for the night, or any night they wish. We do not discriminate here; all people and all sexualities are welcome. But, like life, everything comes with a price. He pauses, his eyes dimming with