Kiss Shot

By: Zara Keane

Dublin Mafia: Triskelion Team, Book 2


Shane regarded Olga’s bare arse with an indifference borne of many years hanging around his father’s strip club.

“So what do you think?” she asked, staring at him upside down through her opened legs. “Should I bleach it?”

What she should do, in Shane’s opinion, was get the fuck away from his brother, Greg, her alleged boyfriend. “I dunno,” he said in a bored tone. “Does anal bleaching hurt?”

After whipping her long ponytail back over her shoulder, Olga straightened her back and yanked up her crystal thong. “My friend Petra burned the arse off herself doing it, but she said she had an allergic reaction to the cream.”

Shane shuddered. “Jaysus. If her experience was bad, why are you thinking of bleaching yours?”

“Greg likes the idea.” Olga wound a strand of dark hair around her index finger and batted her fake eyelashes. “He thinks it looks sexy.”

And what Greg liked, Greg got. His older brother was a mean son of a bitch to everyone, but utterly vile to his girlfriends. “If you want to do it, go for it, but make sure you’re doing it for you and not for my brother.”

“You’re sweet.” Olga placed a hand on his arm and brushed her impressive cleavage against him. “Are you seeing anyone at the moment?” she asked in a sultry whisper. “If you’re ever lonely, you know where to find me.”

Yeah, he knew where to find her—stripping at his father’s lap dancing club and fucking punters on the side. Hell no. Shane was no saint, but the appeal of screwing around with the girls at Valentine’s had worn off by the time he was out of his teens. His father and older brothers considered the female employees of Valentine’s to be their never-ending supply of blow jobs. Shane preferred women to sleep with him of their own free will, and not because he controlled their livelihood.

In Olga’s case, she was more out of bounds than the other girls. Every once in a while, Greg played the girls off one another, eventually picking one to be his official live-in girlfriend and temporarily removing her from circulation at the club. Olga was his most recent acquisition, although Greg had yet to seal the deal by inviting her to quit her job and share his apartment.

It would never last. Fickle was Greg’s middle name. Soon, Olga would find herself out on her bleached arse, probably with a broken jaw or swollen lip as a souvenir of the relationship.

Shane removed Olga’s hand from his arm. “I don’t think meeting up would be wise.”

She pouted, making her look like a sulky teenager wearing a bucket of makeup. Which she probably was. Shane’s father didn’t look too closely at the paperwork of the girls who applied to work at his club, and the probability that Olga’s papers were fake was high.

“Okay,” she demurred, turning the pout into a come-hither smile. “But if you’re ever at a loose end…”

He liked to live dangerously at times—his rival Adam Kowalski’s on-off girlfriend was one of his regular hook-ups—but a smart man didn’t crap in his backyard. And Shane was smart, apart from a weak spot for damsels in distress. “Listen, Olga, remember what I told you last week?”

“Yeah. So Greg gets a bit rough at times.” The girl shrugged. “Some of the punters do as well. I’m used to it.”

“His parting gift to his last girlfriend was a broken jaw and a dislocated shoulder,” Shane said gently. “That’s a lot more serious than ‘a bit rough.’”

Olga stared at him through her heavily made-up eyes. “Greg has never hurt me.”

Not yet, but he would. Shane sighed. There was no getting through to the girl. She’d been a lost cause the moment she’d set eyes on Greg’s Porsche and flash-with-the-cash swagger. “If you’re ever in trouble, give me a call. Not to hook up,” he added hastily, noting how her face had lit up, “but if you’re ever in need of a friend, you know where to find me.”

In other words, he’d be willing to help when, not if, Greg beat the crap out of her.

Olga’s pout returned, and she tossed her hair over her shoulder in a dismissive gesture. “You don’t know what you’re missing.”

He had a fair idea—practiced sex moves designed to appeal to the average paying client. He’d bet Olga was good at them, too.

However, Shane preferred to be the seducer, not the seduced. Only once in his life had he dropped his guard and allowed a woman to call the shots.

It hadn’t ended well.

He winced at the memory, as corrosive today as it had been the morning after. Even after all these years, he tasted the bitter dregs of regret whenever he thought of her.

Or maybe that was just the gap in his mouth where the tooth she’d knocked out used to be.

Ruthie Reynolds, the girl with the iron fists. The only person who’d ever succeeded in beating Shane to a pulp in the boxing ring. Happy days.

Shane left Olga sulking in the corridor and ambled toward his father’s office. One of Frank’s eejit security guards loitered outside the door, looking tough in an ill-fitting suit. “Hey, Mark,” Shane said in a breezy tone. “Is my dad in?”