by Julie Cross
“Shut the fuck up.” I roll my eyes. “She’s not ten or whatever anymore. She’s my age. We grow up. We hook up. It happens.”
Hook up with Haley? Now that’s one option.
“I need to dig up that team photo,” Braden says with a grin. “If you could have seen her then. She was constantly dirty, with the messiest hair I’ve ever seen in my entire life. Her mom chased her around with a hairbrush and kept bedazzling her football socks with pink rhinestones.”
Well, that’s definitely not the Haley Stevenson I know. But then again, she did roll around in my driveway, letting all three dogs cover her in mud.
“You know what?” I force down another big swallow of lukewarm coffee. “I’m gonna forget about that tonight and focus on collecting some more cash.”
“And panties.” My brother flashes a grin that looks way too much like Grandpa Scott’s.
I return the grin. He’s right. All I need is a room full of other women to stop thinking about Haley.
Chapter Twenty
–Haley–
Jamie holds the large warehouse door open for Leo and me. “If they start playin’ ‘It’s Raining Men,’ I am so out of here. You two can get your own ride home.”
I grin up at Jamie. “What about ‘We Are Family’ or ‘YMCA’?”
“Stevenson,” Jamie warns.
We’ve walked into an almost-dark, club-like atmosphere. The place is packed with jittery people dressed for dancing. Women and men—though the female count appears to be much higher than the male count.
The three of us squeeze into a spot in the back. My stomach is bubbling with nerves and excitement. I want my answer. My proof. I’m just not sure if I want Fletch to see us here, or if I’d rather tell him later what I’ve learned. Either way, I’m glad I came prepared to fit in—black dress and platform heels—that way I’m much harder to spot.
There’s a long stage down the center of the giant room, like a wide runway, and then two shorter stages on either side of the long one. Definitely a strip club.
What if they do the whole frontal-nudity thing? Or what if they have man-thongs? I might see Fletcher’s—
Jesus Christ. I’m such a baby.
I smack Jamie in the chest. “You’ve been to a strip club before, right?”
“Yeah,” he says drily. “With women and poles.”
“Did they—” My face heats up. I’m never gonna make it through this. “You know, take everything off?”
Jamie laughs. “Only in the private rooms.”
Okay, well that sort of makes sense. You have to leave a little to the imagination. I heard somewhere that male strippers put socks in their, um, underwear, anyway. Oh shit, what if a sock falls out during the performance?
The remaining lights dim, and everyone in the building lets out a gasp. Jamie and Leo both move in closer to me, and I feel a surge of courage. These guys are practically bouncer size. If that’s not adequate protection, then I don’t know what is. And if I get really freaked out, I can just hide behind one of them. I glance around for exits and spot the door we came in and another one across the room with a bright-red exit sign.
Everyone is completely still, and then music blasts through the speakers. Luckily, not one of the tunes forbidden by Jamie. It’s something Spanish or Latin. I can barely see over all the people, but then a bright spotlight shines on the two shorter stages. And standing in each light are both a guy and girl. The couples are in a tight embrace, the girls in sequined dresses and high heels, the guys in dress pants, heeled black shoes, and button-down shirts.
I push onto my tippy toes, trying to get a better view. Neither of those guys is Fletcher. Maybe they’re the other Samba Boys of Summer? Paco or Rowdy or whoever.
The music is slow and dramatic. The couples quickly shift to a new pose. Then female voices rise above the others in the crowd, and a unified chant of “Scott, Scott, Scott!” begins.
The music gets faster, and then a bright spotlight shines on the long center stage. And right there, in the midst of maybe a hundred screaming women, is Fletcher Scott.
My stomach does a super-complicated cheer stunt, and my hands are trembling. Oh my God. He’s here. Front and center. About to do…God knows what. But he’s not alone. A thin, dark-skinned, completely gorgeous woman is wrapped around him. She’s wearing what looks like half a dress and heels at least an inch taller than mine.
The music shifts again, dynamic, dramatic, and then much faster. Fletcher lifts the girl’s leg all the way to his shoulder and dips her backward. When he pulls her up again, their eyes lock, and the way they look at each other…it’s intense and heated. Goose bumps pop up all over my bare arms. Then all three couples begin dancing in unison, their moves crisp and confident. The way Fletch takes control of the girl he’s dancing with, the way he holds her with such preciseness and…well, I don’t know what else, but I know it’s been there all along. I’ve noticed the way Fletch held himself, never awkward or unsure, but I had no idea why or what exactly that translated to.
The women scream louder, and a small group in front of me has a shouted conversation.
“He picked me last week,” one girl yells to another over the music.
“Which is why he’s mine this week,” her dark-haired friend snaps. “I paid Ricky for private time.”
My stomach drops. Private time…?
“You’re not allowed private time with Scott!” one girl exclaims.
“Am now.” The other one smirks at her friend, flipping hair over one shoulder. “Someone had a birthday.”
“No way! He’s legal?”
All four girls in the group look over at Fletch again, and the lust meter is high enough to require daily confession for an entire month. I glance up at Jamie. I’d forgotten he and Leo were beside me.
Jamie’s forehead is wrinkled, and he’s combing a hand through his hair. “I have no idea what I’m looking at.”
“They still have their clothes on,” Leo says. “That’s good, right?”
“The show just started,” I point out. “Maybe it takes a while to get to the stripping part.”
Jamie pats his rock-hard stomach. “Maybe Scott doesn’t have the abs for topless dancing.”
I look from him to Leo and then ask both of them, “Does he have the abs? Shouldn’t you know? I thought you guys wandered around naked in the locker room.”
Or at least that’s what I’ve always imagined when I’ve gone in there to decorate lockers.
“No one walks around naked,” Leo says. “Where are you getting your information?”
“Except Stewart,” Jamie mumbles. “He’s got balls the size of—”
I plug my ears and squeeze my eyes shut, forcing out that image. “There go my locker-room fantasies.”
Leo, always the practical one, waits for me to uncover my ears and then says, “He was JV until state. Different practice times.”
We turn our attention back to the stage, and it’s as if someone heard our question and decided we needed an answer. Fletch backs away from his partner and does this slow tease of unbuttoning his shirt. The screams grow louder, so much that I fight the urge to cover my ears. But at the same time, I debate joining them.
The girl Fletch is currently teasing dances her way closer and finishes off the last button, tossing the shirt in the wings. When he spins around, his partner behind him, my jaw nearly falls to the floor.
“Okay, then,” I say.
From the corner of my eye, I see Leo nod. “I’d say he’s got the abs for topless.”
Jamie wrinkles his nose at both of us. My brain hasn’t even fully processed the fact that Fletch, who I almost kissed—twice—has this secret life and secret talent, but regardless, my feet are making their way forward, moving closer to the stage.
Chapter Twenty-One
–Fletcher–
Angel survives the opening number, but I can tell she’s struggling. I keep a tight hold on her and wait for Ricky to give us the nod. I spin Angel
and then pull her close. With her mouth right next to my ear, she whispers, “I need to go. Now.”
I dance us toward the wings—it’s either that or get barfed on—and let the curtain fall around her. I grab one of the vests that sit backstage, just to look like I had a purpose to my excursion into the wings. Of course, with Angel racing off to the bathroom, I’m forced to solo. I head downstage and then drop down, sliding the rest of the way on my knees. It gets me a few super-loud screams.
Ricky is standing by the bar, near Braden. She shakes her head and then gestures toward the crowd. She’s letting us mingle early just to cover Angel’s exit. Paco and Henrietta hop off the stage, and each chooses a new partner. I glance around the room, gaining a few more screams. Ignoring the aggressive girls, I jump down and choose a nonthreatening middle-aged woman to dance with. We fall into a polite salsa, plenty of space between us. It takes me back to days when dancing was just something I did with my grandmother. Before she passed away. Before I realized it could make me some decent money.
Dancing breaks out all around me, those who brought a partner pulling out their best salsa moves. Ricky’s about to give me the signal to move on to a new partner—”spread the love so they come back for more” is her motto—and several small soft hands are already groping me from behind, crinkled bills making their way into the waistband of my dress pants. I give the middle-aged woman my most charming grin and a slight bow before I scope the room for my next partner. I sift through the crowd, bumping hips with a couple grinding and swaying together like pros. I continue my search for someone to dance with and spot a blonde with a messy bun piled on her head. I’m less than ten feet away when she snaps around to face me.
Haley.
Holy shit. Haley Stevenson is here.
I nearly have a heart attack right there on the dance floor, but I recover and keep my hips moving to the music. What the hell is she doing here?
My first reaction is to turn around and head for the other side of the room. I almost do it, too. But a large hand lands on Haley’s shoulder, another on her hip. My gaze moves upward, and I meet the hard stare of some thirty-something dude with a leather jacket despite the summer heat and a jagged scar across his cheek.
Without thinking it through, I reach for Haley, tugging her away from Mr. Wrong. Later, I’ll process all this. Later I’ll come up with some plan that may or may not include moving to a new town. But for now, sweet, innocent Haley Stevenson is about to get down and dirty with me.
Chapter Twenty-Two
–Haley–
“What are you doing?” I hiss at Fletcher, when his front presses against my back. “I don’t know sambas or salsas or whatever.”
“Not yet.”
“But—” I protest, despite my entire body heating up from his touch.
He reaches around and touches a finger to my lips. “No talking.”
A thrill shoots through my body. I have no idea what’s about to happen, and I really like this feeling. All around us, people are watching the dancers less and becoming dancers more, getting into their moves and the music. Fletch keeps me turned around, my back to him. He lifts my arms around his neck, and then both his hands are locked firmly on my hips.
His feet move in a pattern that I don’t know. I watch them closely, trying to keep up, but Fletch slides a hand up my body and lifts my chin so I’m now looking at a couple dancing in front of us.
“Eyes up,” he whispers into my ear. A shiver runs down my back. “Feel it, don’t watch.”
My stomach is a ball of knots, but I draw in a deep breath and close my eyes. With Fletch’s hands guiding my hips, it’s not difficult to fall into a rhythm with him.
“Good. You got it.” Fletcher’s hands leave my hips, and then he’s sliding closer, pressing us together. I swallow back a gasp at the close contact—I mean the couple in front us is basically going all the way with clothes on. Fletch’s fingers glide down my arms, his warm breath against my neck. He unclasps my hands from his neck and spins me around. It isn’t until we’re face-to-face that I notice his lack of glasses. My own cheeks warm. I don’t know what’s happening, but it’s a lot. Maybe too much.
I drop my gaze to the space between our feet. “I’m not putting money in your pants.”
Fletch lifts my chin again until I have to look at him. He’s got a hand around my waist, and then he clasps my other hand in his. “Come on, Haley. Relax. Let go.”
The fear rises up in me again. It’s exactly the same as when I couldn’t kiss him. It’s like 90 percent of me is dying to do it and the remaining 10 percent just eats the rest in one big bite.
But you know what? Not tonight. This whole situation is practically otherworldly. I don’t have to be my normal self here.
“I step in, you step back,” Fletch says, not breaking eye contact.
I misstep a couple of times, but I quickly fall into the pattern with him. He recites counts into my ear, keeping me in time. Moving in unison like this, it feels like flying. Fletch lifts my arm over my head and spins me in a half circle. He’s behind me again, our hips grinding together. I close my eyes and allow the faces and noise to dissolve around me. Fletch’s warm fingers grip my hips and then journey upward. This is not how he danced with the middle-aged lady only moments ago.
When he turns me around again, our eyes lock, and he’s staring so intensely, like he’d done earlier with the girl who vanished back stage. I melt into him, close enough for my lips to brush his neck.
“I could do it now,” I whisper right into his ear. “I could kiss you.”
“Don’t.” He presses his hand more firmly against my back, bringing us even closer. “It’s against the rules. The bouncers will toss you out.”
The faces appear all around me, and I’m suddenly self-conscious all over again. All these women are watching me, wondering why I have no idea what I’m doing. Fletch must have sensed my nerves, because he brings me close again and says, “Want to show off a little? You trust me, right?”
My trust has never been the problem.
My mouth barely falls open, preparing to answer, when Fletch hoists me up on his shoulder like he did in the park the other night. He spins around, and two of the other dancer guys appear beside Fletch—either Paco or Rowdy or Danny.
From up high, I spot Jamie and Leo watching us with their mouths hanging open. They’re both standing up straight and alert like they’re poised to intervene if needed.
Fletch slides me down the front of his body, like he did the other night, but this time, he wraps one of my legs around his waist and pulls the other up to his shoulder. Before I catch my breath, he’s dipping me backwards, some of my hair dangling loose from its bun. I laugh. I can’t help it. Everything about this moment is so bizarre, so unplanned and unlike the rest of my life, so far out of my comfort zone, and yet it’s the most fun I’ve ever had.
He brings me back up again just as the final beats of the song play out. He’s holding me in place, our foreheads touching, hearts pounding together, both of us breathing hard. And this time, it takes everything I have to not close that gap between our mouths.
God, those eyes…is that how a guy is supposed to look at a girl? If so, I don’t think I need to see anything else in my entire life ever again. His hand drifts to my cheek, he leans closer, but stops. Disappointment washes over me. Fletch releases my leg, letting it fall back to the ground, preventing me from flashing the crowd. I finally peel my gaze from him just in time to catch two women behind him, stuffing bills in his waistband and a pair of red panties into his pocket.
An older woman with a long, brightly colored skirt pries Fletch and me apart and then shoves him toward a tall, dark-haired girl, probably college aged. Fletch immediately grabs hold of the girl, grinning at her and grasping her hips like he’d done with me. I stumble backwards, a lump rising in my throat.
It’s a show. It’s all a show.
My cheeks are flaming, from the workout and from the dozens of pairs of eyes look
ing me over. I spin quickly and head for the door. I’m pushing it open when I feel the presence of Jamie and Leo behind me. The cool summer night air hits me in the face, and I walk as quickly as possible across the crowded parking lot to a picnic table in the field behind the warehouse.
I’m a calm person by nature, but I’m not immune to a temperamental outburst. And that’s exactly what happens—me outbursting.
“God, I fucking hate my head sometimes,” I snap at anyone who’s listening. A few tears tumble from my eyes, infuriating me as I plop down on top of the picnic table and look at Jamie and Leo. “Why am I crying? What’s wrong with me?”
Leo shakes his head, and Jamie lifts his hands in surrender. Both guys look extremely uncomfortable.
“He did dance a lot closer to you than with the forty-year-old soccer mom,” Jamie says.
I laugh and wipe the remaining loose tears away. “Thanks.”
“It’s not a strip club, apparently,” Leo says, sitting beside me. “Private rooms are for lessons with dancers.”
“So they say,” Jamie adds. “Some chick just asked me to dance, and then said she’d give me some private lessons.”
Everything inside my head is so confusing, I’m not ready to chat about it. “Why don’t you guys go back inside and scope it out some more. I just need a minute of fresh air, okay?”
Leo glances longingly at the building, but Jamie hesitates. “You shouldn’t sit here alone.”
I hold a hand out. “Give me my keys and my phone.”
Jamie removes the items I’d stowed in his pockets earlier and hands them over. I hold up the tiny spray bottle and my phone. “Pepper spray. Cell phone. I’ll be fine. I won’t go anywhere, I swear.”
They head back toward the building, and I lay across the picnic table, staring up at the stars. The temperature is probably sixty or sixty-five, clear skies. God, I love summers in Minnesota. I keep the pepper spray clutched in one hand and try my best to relax and enjoy the distant music.