Shot to Hell (Four Horsemen MC #7) by Cynthia Rayne Page B

watch or strip too?”
    Ugh.
    The men draped against the walls whoohooed as if they expected a re-enactment of the creepy Aerosmith video, Crazy , where Alicia Silverstone and Liv Tyler jumped on stage at a strip club and took it all off.
    One thing she loved about her job was the opportunity to channel all the rage she’d stored up. Bouncer Boy might be big, but she had tricks up her sleeve she’d bet he’d never seen before. Laying him out flat on the pavement would be easy and kind of funny.
    Ash pulled back her fist, but Steele seized her elbow and hauled her in the door.
    “Take it easy.”
    “Hey!” She shoved him away once they were inside.
    “We’re keepin’ this quiet-like, remember? Enemy territory and all.”
    “Yeah, yeah. I get it.” She shook her arm as if he’d tainted her by touching it.
    Justice patted her shoulder. “Make ya a deal. If the bouncer gives you any lip on the way out, you can break his nose.”
    She laughed. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
    “Alright then. Let’s find this girl.”
    Ash scanned the room to get a lay of the land. She hated to admit it, but the place wasn’t half bad for a strip club. It was somewhere between strip club and a honky tonk. 
    It wasn’t as sleazy as some of the places she’d been. That wasn’t saying much, though. One club she’d had the misfortune to visit in New York’s Chinatown featured something called a “Ping Pong Pussy” show, which had scarred her for life.  Ping pong balls should never be launched out of some places.
    Lone Star had a Texan feel, which matched the name. The club’s music was so loud it practically vibrated the tables…if they’d had tables. Instead bar stools were placed around old kegs, which had been branded with the name Jack Daniels. One wall had beer cans arranged in the shape of Texas flag. Ash glimpsed a group of men in the back, watching a stripper in lingerie ride a mechanical bull, her bared breasts jiggling.
    Classy.
    The DJ in the booth by the bar played Jessica Simpson’s sultry version of These Boots Are Made for Walkin’ . The stage in the center of the room featured three women twirling on poles—all of them wearing cowboy boots, Daisy Duke short shorts cut to show their ass cheeks, and red bikini tops that barely harnessed their breasts.
    A waitress who breezed by with a tray of shots wore a red bandanna halter top, cut-offs, and red cowboy boots. She tipped her hat to Justice as she passed.
    “What brings you fine gentlemen to this establishment?”
    She turned to see a handsome man standing near the bar in an expensive-looking black suit. Ash sized up the good-looking, blond man in his early thirties. He had penetrating blue eyes, and he smoothed an expensive black silk tie as he returned her frank gaze. He didn’t look like he belonged at the club, but criminals came in all shapes and sizes. Some much more attractive than others.
    “Well, if it ain’t Byron Beauregard.” A pulsating vein stood out on Steele’s forehead.
    She’d heard the name before. The DEA had a close partnership with the FBI when it came to drugs and organized crime, so they briefed each other on current developments. Beauregard had worked his way up the Dixie Mafia food chain in Texas.
    Beauregard looked so… normal . Color her disappointed. She’d been hoping for some flashy suits, like the kind the Italian mob guys strutted around in.
    The latest stories placed him as the brand new underboss. Cotton Krug, the former underboss, had inexplicably come to an untimely end, which put Beauregard right beneath the head honcho, Tucker Cobb.
    What Ash couldn’t work out was why the FBI hadn’t yet made a move on Beauregard and his organization. Were they waiting to build a better case? Or did the mafia have protectors in high places, men in power they paid off with pricey bribes?
    Beauregard offered a hand to Steele and Justice. The bikers folded their arms over their chests, refusing to play nice, which made Beauregard