Gravity: Sin City Hearts

Gravity

Sin City Hearts

By Cat Mason

Copyright © Cat Mason Books 2014

All rights reserved as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the Author. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

Published by

First Edition: November 2014

Edited: Asli Fratarcangeli

Cover design:

Photos purchased under license of Shutterstock.com

Formatting: IndieVention Designs

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This is a work of Fiction. All characters, organizations, brands, and events are either products of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual events, or persons living or deceased is completely coincidental.

To every blogger, reader, those who listened to my ranting over my characters and helped me in any way.

To each and every person who has made this dream a reality.

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Thank You.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

About the Author

More from the Author

Acknowledgements

Sin City Hearts

Gravity

Significance

Solitude

Welcome to Heaven on Heels, A scantily clad blonde drawls while eyeing me up and down. I don’t spare more than a passing glance at the nearly naked woman welcoming me into the club. I nod, skirting around her to look for Skinner’s black mohawk and the flame tattoos on either side of his head that will easily stick out in the crowd of wall to wall suits. The guy has only been working for me for a couple months now, but is proving himself loyal to a fucking fault. His phone call is the only reason I’m here tonight. I live in the Sin Capital of the world and haven’t been inside a strip club in over five years. Seems unbelievable, huh? Let’s just say I’m over it.

Hey man, Skinner says, waving me over once he sees me. Come on, he’s over here, He shouts, pointing to a table in front of the main stage. Lights flash as the dancers vie for the men’s attention and their cash. Typical strippers; from their bleached blonde hair and fake tits, to their bright red heels. Of course they are all smiles, it’s their job to reel you in like a fish on the line. Drawing you in by your dick to hook your wallet, not bothering to look beyond the dollar signs to the people they hurt in the process.

I hate everything about these places.

You sure he’s as bad as you said on the phone? I ask, unable to see much through the crowd. Skinner shoots me a glare. Yeah, okay, stupid question. I admit, holding my hands up in surrender.

The last few months, Mitch has been slowly losing his shit. When my sister was here things were a bit easier. He had someone to cut him off and drive him home that he actually listened to. With her off on tour and now engaged to be married to Hunter Chesterfield, from the band Shaft, Mitch seems to have lost his true north. This leaves my employees running interference and me picking up the pieces so he doesn’t end up in the county lockup again.

Shit, Mitch groans, looking up at me from his stack of empty shot glasses on the table. Skinner ratted me out to the party pooper. Dude, I bought you shots and you ran to Mommy? He slurs.

Come on, Mitch, I think you’ve had enough tonight, I reply, ignoring his comment. Why bother blowing your paycheck on tits? We can see plenty of them on the street for free this late at night.

Having lived in Vegas all my life, modesty is something I don’t see often. Seems like the minute they step off the plane, people are ready to wave their freak flags. Don’t get me wrong, I love it here. Just makes you wonder if they are pretending while they are here, or faking it all the time at home. Someone needs to hand out pamphlets explaining that the saying ‘What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas’ is a crock of shit. With social media, now a days, and enough booze to turn the desert into a flood plain, your lapse in judgment could cost you more than a hangover and a plane ticket home.

Would you relax and enjoy the show? He barks, flinging his hand toward the stage. This is the best strip club in Vegas for fuck’s sake. Hell, with the drought your dick has been suffering through, I’m a little worried you’ll hump my leg. His voice echoes loudly as the music dies down, making heads turn toward us.

I slide into the seat beside Mitch so I don’t draw any more attention than he already has with his outburst. I get nothing out of this shit, I reply, pointing to the women as they exit the stage. My argument does nothing but make him grin lazily at me. His eyes are glazed over and judging by the number of shot glasses on the table in front of him, Skinner and I will be carrying his ass to bed.

Listen, you need to let loose and get laid or somethin’. You’re too uptight. He brushes me off. I know you got nowhere with Camaron. When I start to argue, he arches his brow. Spent all that time bein’ her rock and never even got her on your jock.

Don’t talk about her that way Mitch, I warn, my fists clenching tightly underneath the table. My relationship with Cam is special. She’s just Cam. I wasn’t it for her. If I’m being real with myself, she wasn’t it for me either. Camaron Allen, now Camaron Chesterfield, is one of a kind. But made for Aiden, not me. I am man enough to admit that I was wrong to push something that wasn’t there. Mitch referring to our time together like it was some sordid affair just pisses me off. I was happy to be there for her, to watch her heal and become strong enough to fight for the man she loves.

Mitch shrugs, Just sayin’ you were pretending with her, that’s all. As your friend, it’s my job... No! It’s my right to bust your balls about it.

That road goes both ways, Mr. Solitude, I toss out, staring him down. Your drunk ass is one to be givin’ advice. Just because you’re out every night doesn’t make you any better off for it.

Mitch’s eyes snap to mine, his gaze turning hard. That’s different, He defends. I’m not ready and you fucking know that.

What a pair Mitch and I are. Two men that are both lost in a world of hurt from entirely different places. Pain that keeps us from going after anything that could make either of us happy. Instead, we stay on the hamster wheel and do nothing to change how miserable we truly are on the inside at times.

The stage lights dim as a voice comes over the speakers. It’s time for the one you’ve come to see tonight. Sabrina, our diamond in the rough.

Hell yeah! Mitch whoops before downing another shot. Bring on the Diamond Pussy!

A hard bass line erupts through the speakers as a spotlight hits the pole. A raven haired goddess draws my attention away from Mitch, to the stage. Covered in white silk, she saunters further into the light. Her hips sway seductively to the beat, drawing me in like a moth to the flame.

The silk falls to the floor once she reaches the pole, leaving her only in a red lace bra and thong. Grabbing the pole with one hand, she rolls her hips against the metal. Leaning back, her long hair nearly touches the floor, her free hand sliding along her body teasing every man in here.

Tattooing bodies since high school teaches you a lot. I can tell whether a chick has had a nip or a tuck before I catch her eye color. Which is how I know this woman is nothing like the others dancing tonight. She is real. Every inch of her designed by some wicked higher power to make men crazy with want.

Her fingers slide across her abdomen, stopping at the top of her thong. Slowly, she runs her index finger along the crimson trim while a voice sings about being watched. About the thrill of just knowing there are eyes on her. How crossing that line into their fantasies is a high for her.

Releasing her hold on the pole, she palms her full breasts while strutting over toward the end of the stage. Guys are begging, desperate for her attention while thrusting fists full of bills at her, but she ignores the cash. Grinding her hips to the beat, she moves to the music, making my dick press hard against my zipper. She isn’t merely doing a striptease for money, she’s dancing. With every calculated move of her arms or sway of her body, she is telling a story. An erotic tale that I can’t help eat up like a starving man, along with everyone else in the room.

Stopping a few feet in front of us, she reaches around to flip the clasp on her bra. The minute the fabric falls away, she steals my breath. Her nipples harden instantly making my mouth water. The smile on her face is purely intoxicating. It’s like fucking voodoo. She’s sucking me right in and dammit, as much as I don’t want to admit it, I like it too.

Shit, you’re fuckin’ hot honey, Mitch shouts over the music, holding up a fist full of bills. When you gonna give me that private dance, baby?

Holding up a finger, she shakes her head. Silently letting him know he won’t be getting any closer before turning away, giving us a perfect view of her ass as she heads back to center stage. Her fingers wrap around the pole again, sliding up and down seductively. I am a jealous guy, and right now, I am jealous as fuck of a goddamn metal pole.

Her body floats along the pole as if they were joined. Effortlessly, her legs and arms move allowing her to spin and grind without missing a beat. Sliding down to the floor, she spreads her thighs to tease us with her lace covered mound. Smiling wickedly, she throws her head back as the music ends. Her chest heaves with her rapid breathing and all I want to do is touch her glistening skin, just once. Watching her dance has to have been the most erotic thing I’ve ever seen. My cock is painfully attempting to become a denim hole-punch while I watch her exit the stage.

Two guys that I assume are bouncers head onto the stage, gathering money and her discarded clothing. I’ve got five hundred tonight, Dougie Boy! Mitch shouts to the dark haired man stopping to grab his cash. I want that piece grindin’ on me.

Not happening, Mitch. Sabrina isn’t interested in taking on private clientele. A big ass guy with ‘Doug’ on his black t-shirt says scooping up the last of the cash on the stage.

The answer shocks me. Usually, they are all for setting up private sessions. A fact I know all too well, thanks to Crystal. Cocktease! Mitch roars fumbling to his feet, causing the glasses to topple over and sending some rolling to the floor.

Doug turns, his eyes hardening. Standing to my feet quickly, I grab Mitch’s arm. We’re outta here, I say loud enough so Doug doesn’t decide to call in help to throw us out. I don’t know where the hell Skinner comes from, but he grabs Mitch’s other arm when he wobbles.

Aw fuck, y’all are pussies, Mitch whines, stumbling as we lead him to the door. It’s still early and I was gonna get diamond dust on my dick tonight.

The only thing you were gonna get was locked up in the county drunk tank until you sober up, Skinner replies, attempting to shift Mitch’s weight to open the door. You’ll thank us later when you wake up in your bed, instead of on a cot in a cell.

Opening the door to my car, I shove Mitch into the front seat. He’ll have to settle for the one above the shop. I’m not risking him puking in my car on the way to his condo.

All right, I’ll follow you over to unload his ass, Skinner offers. I’ll grab his truck so it doesn’t get towed. Pulling out the keys from his front pocket, he smirks. I snatched them off the table between rounds. Couldn’t take the chance of him bolting before you got here, dude. He may be wasted, but he’d still kick my ass.

Mitch is a bull that’s for sure. Back him in a corner and he will fight his way out, or die trying. Stubborn as hell and always right, if only in his head. Thanks man, I appreciate you lookin’ out for him.

Anytime, Luke, Skinner calls turning to grab Mitch’s truck. It’s what we do, right?

Settling into the driver’s seat, I start the engine of my nineteen seventy three Plymouth Barracuda convertible. I bought the bad bitch five years ago at the junkyard, unable to see it go to the crusher. A shit ton of cash and a lot of love later, it’s perfectly restored to its former glory.

Pulling out of the parking lot, I head back to the shop. Mitch grumbles from the passenger seat, drawing my attention from the traffic with his bitching. My night was ruined all thanks to the Rat, the Cocktease, and the Cockblocker. You should be out trying to get your own dates, not ruin mine.

Strippers aren’t dates, you know, I laugh, forcing myself not to let him get to me. He’s trashed and in the morning he will be full of apologies. If he even remembers, which, in a way, I hope he doesn’t. The guilt of putting us through this shit only adds to everything he has on his plate. You’re sounding a lot like a certain ‘Rock God’. You might wanna tone that shit down before you become his new B.F.F. and start painting each other’s nails and shit.

Fuck you, Luke, he mumbles slumping in his seat.

That’s such a tempting offer, but I can’t, I shoot back, You’d only make me feel cheap in the morning.

Now who sounds like the overinflated asshole? He exhales hard, his face going serious. Is it ever going to get any better Luke? Man, sometimes it feels like I can’t even breathe.

Pulling into the alley behind the shop, I park the car. Looking over, Mitch’s eyes are closed tightly as if he is in pain and I don’t doubt it for a second. I wouldn’t wish the shit he has been through on my worst enemy. Not if you don’t want it to.

The passenger side door opens, Skinner pops his head down into view. Let’s get his ass upstairs before he passes out completely. No way I’m deadleggin’ him all the way up there again.

Mitch opens his eyes at the sound of Skinner’s voice. His red rimmed eyes widening in shock. The shutters slamming down on what emotion he was allowing to show when we were alone in the car. Skinner, what the fuck man? Mitch shouts, pushing him away to climb out of the car on his shaky legs. There’s something to be said about personal body space. If you are close enough to get hit with my hard on and have no tits, you’re too fucking close. Back up about a good fifteen feet for your safety. Leaping from the car, I watch as Mitch staggers before grabbing the big metal door handle that is the rear access for Artistic Pricks Ink, the shop I’ve proudly run for seven years now.

Mitch pushes on the door, but it doesn’t give. What the hell? Did you lock up to come steal me from my favorite place? He shouts, beating on the door.

No, but no one in their right mind pushes on a door that says pull, I reply, walking up and yanking the door open.

Mitch’s face hardens before he shoves by me to get inside. Stopping, he groans and scrubs a hand over his face. Fuck me, do you see those stairs? He asks, his eyes drifting up the staircase that leads to the apartment. When did we get all of those?

When the Mayor took our capes away, Skinner says sarcastically, coming up alongside him to make sure he doesn’t fall.

Walking over, I grab Mitch’s arm. Let’s go put your ass to bed so you can sleep this off. He leans against the railing as we take each step one at a time. His knees nearly giving out a couple times. I can’t help laughing a little at Skinner’s face behind us. The guy is scared shitless Mitch is going to fall backward and take them both on a concrete step tumble.

From the smell of him, I’d say he’s sleeping on the bathroom floor, Skinner chuckles nervously, pushing Mitch up when he leans back.

By the time we get him inside and to the bed, he is comatose. Tell Charlie I’m upstairs for the night and to come get me if things get too busy after the midnight crowd, okay? I inform Skinner, walking back up the hallway of the apartment that used to be Camaron’s. The night shift is where the shop sees the most traffic. Vegas never sleeps, therefore Artistic Pricks Ink doesn’t either.

Yep, I’ll tell him before I leave, He replies, running a hand over his flame covered scalp. See ya in the mornin’.

Closing the door behind him, I sag onto the sofa. Stretching out as best I can on my bed for the night. Right about now I could use a drive. The ‘Cuda and me on the old desert roads is what I do to clear my head. Nothing but the top down and the radio up for miles. That’s fucking Heaven. With everything Chase and I watched our mother go through; once I got my license, we avoided the house as much as possible.

Men walked in and out of Mom’s life so much our house should have had a revolving door. Sure, our father took care of us all financially, but that was it. When mom had a man she was trying to please; she ignored us. In-between men was even worse; she was a basket-case. Her behavior became erratic and reckless to say the least. Leaving me to step in and take care of my baby sister, and at times, Mom too. Now that Chase is marrying Hunter I’m the odd man out.

Closing my eyes, I let my mind wander. Mitch is right, I hid for so long only to use Cam because she was safe. I knew deep down it wasn’t going to go anywhere. The truth is, though, I’m lonely. By putting everyone else’s needs before my own, I have closed myself off completely. Hell, I use the excuse of checking up on my sister just to fly out and see them all twice a month instead of taking the weekend for myself. I’m not fooling anyone with that shit either.

My sister has told me for years to take time for me. Well, Chase is right, it’s time to focus on myself. For the first time in my life it needs to be about me for a while. I have no fucking idea where to go from here, but one thing is clear. At the end of the day, being alone isn’t something I want anymore. Problem with that is, I will have to step out of my comfort zone to find it.

Opening my eyes, I scowl at the mirror hanging on the wall in front of me. I’m content in my life sure, but am I really happy? Isn’t there more to it than just being satisfied?

The shrill ring of my cell phone nearly has me falling out of bed. I’m exhausted, but living a double life will do that to you. Time flies when you are living as two people and you don’t know what is what anymore. You just do what is needed to get the bills paid and food on the table. Life is a race, you do what it takes to survive or lie down and die.

My anonymity is top priority, which is why I take every precaution not to be noticed outside the club. Black wig, heavy makeup, and always keeping enough distance from patrons. Every night I dress up and Kionna becomes Sabrina for the length of a song. The men all watch with rapt attention as I tempt and tease, but never get too close. Give them the dream baby!

I am nothing like their wives and girlfriends, which is what makes me so appealing. My job is to be the fantasy. The one they can see, but can’t have. By not allowing anyone close enough to identify me, I was deemed ‘untouchable’. The so-called ‘Diamond Pussy’ of ‘Heaven on Heels’. Not bad for a failed professional dancer if you ask me, beats the alley or street corner any day.

At twenty one years old, I lost the center of my entire universe. Completely numb when my mother died tragically, I packed up everything we had and set out for the big time. I was going to be a Las Vegas Show Girl, a headliner. Throwing everything I had into every audition, I was hungry for the spotlight to be on me. To dance and feel something other than the loss. I was picked up almost immediately, the glitz and glamour had me awestruck. However, my lucky break was short lived.

Everything went to shit on opening night, of all nights. My dance partner’s nerves were shit. His hands slipped and I landed on my knee wrong coming out of the jump. I heard the loud pop, then the pain engulfed me. It was so intense, it was like someone shot me.

It may as well have been a gunshot. That one misstep killed my role in the show, and my career. A complete Anterior Cruciate Ligament or ACL tear, resulting in surgery. That was the darkest time in my life, the straw that broke the camel’s back. Recovery and therapy time all adding up to a long damn year before I was back to dancing strong again.

They don’t tell you in physical therapy that no one wants a ‘broken’ dancer. Well, they should. Of course, I was offered a settlement due to being hurt on the job, which I was grateful for. It gave me the ability to focus on my recovery. At the audition the following year, they ‘respectfully declined’ allowing me to preform again. According to them, my injury only made me a liability. Instead of seeing my talent, they saw me as broken. A risk they weren’t willing to take.

And boy, did they spread the word fast. No one wanted to touch me. I was black-listed from