Ignition

  Ignition

  The Redline Series, Volume 1

  Skye Callahan

  Published by Skye Callahan, 2015.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Ignition (The Redline Series, #1)

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Ignition, The Redline Series #1

  By Skye Callahan

  Copyright © Skye Callahan, 2015

  Thank you for buying an authorized copy of this book and complying by copyright laws by not sharing or reproducing this work.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  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 from an authorized seller.

  Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events and locations is entirely coincidental.

  Published: Skye Callahan

  March 16, 2015

  United States of America

  skyecallahan@gmail.com

  Cover art by Skye Callahan

  Stock Images used acquired from Depositphotos: Intimate moments @ cokacoka; Flamy symbol

  @ choreograph

  Chapter breaks: Tire track splash@ longquattro

  Bueller & Cameron

  RIP

  my furry best friends

  Prologue

  I’m not the first to want what I can’t have, but my problem runs irreparably darker than that. My dark lust can’t be sated by normal means, or even slightly less-than-normal means. Role playing and dominant games with their bullshit negotiations and imposed limits don’t do it for me.

  I’m not interested in love or the endless complications of a relationship. I don’t even want respect or mutual understanding.

  I want pain, because pain is the only thing real—the only thing we control and share. The only result of every relationship—every life.

  Pain is inevitable, and I’d rather jump to the chase and wrestle it by its thorny horns than wait for it to sneak up on me.

  Chapter 1

  I wrung my hands—they were clammy and cold despite the oppressing heat backstage. The music thumped through my body, embedding its rhythm deep into my bone marrow, until it felt like every cell thrummed and vibrated under the invisible assault. The resulting tension was the only thing keeping me upright.

  Devlin sauntered up next to me, freshly pressed in his expensive black suit. His naturally tanned skin looked even darker in the dim lighting, while his dark brown eyes bore through me as he handed me a mini-bottle of water. I took it with both shaking hands—afraid that with the state of my nerves I might drop it.

  Everyone talks about the consequences of making stupid decisions—this wasn’t one anyone had ever mentioned to me.

  “You’re up in fifteen,” he said impassively, his warm hand stroking my jaw as I took a long swig of water. To all outward appearances, he was a walking oxymoron—hot and cold rolled into one. His touches perceived as caring, his voice as if he couldn’t give two fucks. But there was no dualism about him. His intentions were refined and single-minded—every action was carefully concocted.

  I ignored his touch as much as possible, but I’d learned long ago that trying to avoid his passes was futile.

  “Try to look like you’re enjoying yourself,” he said.

  Beyond his shoulder, I watched the other girls, gathered along the wall on the opposite side of the stage entrance. A clique that I didn’t belong in and never wanted to. I was here for one thing, and then I was gone—utterly convinced that I was not and would not ever be anything like them. Their robes hung open revealing their tiny and glittery stage costumes underneath. Most of them had already performed and now they giggled—usually glancing sideways at me and making crinkled expressions that looked less than amused at my presence.

  As if I wanted to be here dressed in this gaudy costume that pinched my boobs, poked at my ribs, and chafed everywhere it touched only to barely qualify as decent. I expected a boob to pop out before I even made it half way across the stage, and I wouldn’t be surprised at all if at least one nipple made a premature appearance—not that anyone would complain. To make matters worse, the whole ensemble was brought to a painful close by the tall stilettos that pinched my feet and left me as wobbly as a drunken teenager.

  I was still wearing far more than I would be when I came back off stage after my eight-minute routine. That thought did little to calm my nerves. I wanted to be done with it all, and yet I dreaded the end more than anything. I may have a body appropriate for the stage—as Devlin assured me in his sugary sweet tone—but did I have the confidence, poise, or coordination? Not at all.

  This would be my first night on stage, but it wasn’t my first night waiting in the wings. The atmosphere was different, comparatively calm and quiet—as if all attention was focused on me, waiting for me to screw up, to break an ankle, or fall on my face. Devlin had given me a week to train with one of the more experienced girls. She refused to refer to me by anything except Sway because I could barely stay upright in the heels they gave me to practice in.

  One week. A seven-day orientation into the pit of torture.

  That wasn’t long enough to master walking in stilettos, let alone to learn to “dance” in them.

  And I don’t mean wiggle your derriere and toss bits of your costume into the crowd kind of dancing. Half of the moves these girls performed, I would never be able to perfect in flat shoes with months of practice. If anything, I had to give them that.

  All I had to do was get through that eight minutes. That was my only goal for the night. One dance at a time.

  Pivot. Dip. Twist.

  Don’t break an ankle.

  Smile. Tease.

  Not too slow. Not too fast.

  I barely remembered a damn thing from my routines.

  I should’ve run, but the time for that had passed long ago—before I realized there was something I should be running from. I spent too long trying to hold my head high and prove I could do things my own way. And in essence, that’s what I was still doing. I convinced myself that all I had to do now was put my serious face on, fulfill my end of the bargain, and get out.

  I would pay my own dues—shitty as they were. But it wouldn’t be that easy. I basically needed a bulldozer just to consider balancing my finances, especially once Devlin stampeded his way into every facet of my life.

  I thought I could get ahead. Yet every time the opportunity slipped away like the first snow spoiled by a warm spell, until I found myself owing more than I could imagine making in a year to a well-dressed, smooth-talking businessman.

  A rat.

  One with less than auspicious “business” interests and more connections than the mayor.

  “Sway,” Devlin patted my cheek and I jumped back, balancing myself against the wall before my ankle rolled out from under me.

  I was going to be his first dancer to
walk out on stage and kill myself. Especially if my nerves didn’t calm.

  Hell, even if they did.

  Imagine the bill he’d come up with then. Even in death, I’d never escape this man.

  I can’t do this. But I also couldn’t let those words hit my mouth. I owed Devlin, and I’d seen what lengths he’d go to collect, or even worse, what he’d do to punish someone who tried to run. This was my out and all I had to do was walk out on that stage and do as I was told.

  He pressed against me, flattening his hands against the wall on either side of my head. “You remember what you have to do?”

  The subtle smell of his expensive cologne and aftershave stung my nose, and his closeness made it hard to breathe or swallow. I had felt the same way the first time I’d seen him. Before I knew who he was and what he was capable of.

  He seemed innocuous then. Overwhelming in his wealth and power, but polite and reserved. I later learned that this was all a shell that he hid behind for the public eye. The real Devlin was far from reserved and only polite when it best served his interest.

  I’d fallen hard for his quick glances, subtle smiles, and unerring attention. His gaze could make me quiver and lose sight of reality. Even when I knew it was too good to be true, he captivated me. Promised me things my imagination couldn’t comprehend. And I wanted to play along just a little while to see what it was like, but before I knew it, he held my own life in his hands as blackmail.

  “Don’t screw it up and you have nothing to worry about.” His voice was still like a purr that stirred in my stomach—except now that stirring was nausea inducing.

  It was tempting to ignore the first part of his statement—to pretend his words were an attempt to be reassuring, not threatening. Then again, that fantasy world that my brain created to cope was probably how I let myself get in so deep in the first place. Positive thoughts, shooting for the stars, and rose-colored glasses only got you so far without a map and a safety net. Now, I was spiraling back down to earth with only one man to catch me—and he was only willing to do that because I was currently worth a lot of money to him.

  The music died down, and the burning need to vomit rose in my throat, but I couldn’t imagine how much being sick all over Devlin’s suit would add to my time in torment.

  I felt like I was swimming through time, the world around me distorting and rippling as Devlin stepped back, took the empty water bottle from my hands, and pushed me toward the stage.

  The dancer exiting glowered at me as she yanked her robe off a hook and covered her mostly naked form. The chatters and cheers of the large—I assumed mostly male—crowd roared in my ears, overwhelming my senses.

  I took a step toward the curtain waiting for my cue, but I was jerked back.

  My robe.

  I loosened the sash and felt the material slide down my shoulders, leaving me cold and bare to the onslaught of the club air. An unseen hand pulled the fabric away—Devlin, I assumed. Here to either watch me make a fool of myself or to ensure that I was returning his “investment.”

  I twisted in my costume—attempting to cover as much of myself as I could—useless as it was.

  The music kicked up again. My song. My cue.

  I moved toward the curtains, but my movement disconnected from my mind somehow. Bright stage lights flashed and beyond that, I could barely make out the crowd—distant faces, waving hands. Too much movement to take in. Instinct took over, and I just hoped it would serve me well.

  I sauntered to the front of the long stage at the mercy of the crowd’s gaping mouths and hungry eyes. Whistles and calls filled the air under the steady stream of music as I concentrated on keeping my steps in time with the rhythm. My fingers connected with the cold metal of the pole, and I used it to center myself and find balance as I flipped forward, throwing my blonde hair over my face. I twisted and swayed, moving with the music while the club and the reality of the situation faded. I wasn’t myself—I was simply a leaf caught on the wind of the melody, losing tiny parts of myself as that breeze yanked and pulled my fragile form.

  As the music died, I picked up the last of the cash and made my way backstage. The ground beneath me continued to buck and sway as a new tune overtook the sounds of the rowdy crowd. I braced myself against the wall for an instant, but before I could slip on my robe, Devlin plucked the cash from my hands and shoved me toward his office.

  “You call that a strip tease?” he said dryly as he counted the bills. “You know the deal can only work while your tits are still perky, right?” He copped a feel to illustrate his point.

  Staring down at the cash, I dragged the robe up my arms and cinched the sash around my waist. It was never enough. It never could be.

  “Unless you want me to finance a boob-job next.” Devlin stared at my chest and frowned. “It couldn’t hurt.”

  Despite the water, my throat was so dry I was certain it would crack open if I swallowed or spoke, so I shook my head, still feeling like the situation was surreal.

  “Well, you’re going to figure out how to do better than this.” He jerked an apron off a wall and shoved it at me. “Go wait tables.”

  I hugged my robe around myself. Surely he meant for me to change first since I was only wearing a tiny bra and G-string.

  “Leave your robe in the dressing room.”

  “But the waitresses wear—”

  He hooked his index finger under my chin, hauling me mercilessly forward with just a delicate touch. “They’re my waitresses, I know what they wear.” He smirked. “And you’ll wear exactly what you have on—might be your only chance at tips.”

  He reached into the small fridge near his desk and tossed me another bottle of water. “Stay hydrated. You don’t get sympathy points for passing out.”

  I chugged down the water—focusing on not crying since I couldn’t afford to spend another hour fixing my makeup. Not to mention the flack I’d get from Devlin and the girls.

  My only salvation was that by the time I hit the floor, I was too worried about a hundred other things to think about what I was wearing. After all, I had hundreds of customers to avoid tripping over or falling into. Within ten steps, a broad-shouldered man stopped in my path. He wore a short-sleeved V-neck that revealed arms and a hint of chiseled chest that were from what I could tell covered in detailed tattoos. I raised my eyes as high as his shoulders where his slightly wavy brown hair ended, but shame and insecurity prohibited me from proceeding to his face.

  “Excuse me,” I began. “I have to—” Actually, I had no idea where I was supposed to begin.

  He flicked up a fifty-dollar bill, holding it in front of my face. Excitement ran through me, followed by suspicion and dread. What the hell would he expect me to do to earn that?

  “I caught your performance.” His finger touched my chin, lifting my face, but I jerked back.

  Rule number one, no touching—that was the rule, right? Maybe the first rule was no sex, but I was sure touching was in there somewhere. My brain seemed to be doing somersaults in my head as I searched for the answers.

  He tilted his head, looking me over with his cool green eyes, then he took a large step to close in on me again, still holding the bill firmly within my reach. “Want this?”

  I nodded reluctantly. I couldn’t take my eyes off of it as if it were some mirage that would vanish at any moment.

  “Take it,” he said.

  I half expected him to tackle me in the middle of the club or to do something equally threatening. This was too easy. He pulled it back a few inches and desperation kicked in so I grabbed it.

  He smiled, his gaze raking across my naked skin and making me shiver.

  “See that curtain,” he said, pointing to a red curtain flanked by mirrors on the side wall. One of the private viewing rooms that lined the long stage. “Pick up two scotches, neat, and bring them into that room.”

  “Right away, sir.” I expected him to ask for something ridiculous given the amount of money, but I wasn’t going to argue.<
br />
  He caught my wrist before I could rush away. “Don’t call me sir.”

  I nodded and slipped away, my skin warmed against the air by sheer embarrassment alone. Walking out on stage and performing was a different beast to being on the same level as the gawking and handsy crowd.

  Once I fought my way across the room, I stared at the bar for a moment. I wasn’t a server—hadn’t been trained as such and I had no idea where to begin.

  The bartender put up his hand and waved me to the empty end of the bar. “Ya got an order?”

  “Uh, yeah. Two scotches, neat.”

  He grunted and walked away while I fingered the stiff bill in my money pouch. The bartender sat the glasses down, but as soon as I reached for them, but he shook his head and waved my hands away with one swift downward motion.

  Maybe I was supposed to pay first. I jerked back and his mouth flattened. He reached over the bar and pulled a serving tray from a cubby near me, then sat both glasses on napkins, placed them on the tray, and slid it to me.

  Lovely. Added to the list of things I hated about this place—being schooled by a silent and grumpy bartender.

  Brushing it off, I grabbed the tray and fought my way back through the crowd, feeling intentionally misplaced hands all over my body as I passed. Until finally, the red curtain was a welcome sight, offering momentary respite from the sea of hot-bodied men.

  I hoped he already had company based on the second drink, but when I pushed aside the fabric, he sat alone on a long plush couch. Sprawled back and enjoying the view through the one-way glass, he looked like he didn’t have a care in the world.

  I glanced around, paying particular attention to the dark corners of the room, suspicious that he had a friend or two lurking.

  “Expecting a ghost?” he asked with a lilt of humor.

  The question danced around in my brain before triggering an answer. I shook my head both to answer his question and in attempt to shake away the murky fog that had settled over me.