Dru_The Ever After Series Book 1
Page 1
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
Epilogue
Dru
The Ever After Series
Book One
Written by Stella James
Copyright © 2018 Stella James
All rights reserved
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons living or dead, events or locations are entirely coincidental.
Dru
The Ever After Series
Book One
By Stella James
This book is dedicated to those who love fairy tales
and believe in happily ever after.
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
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Exclusive excerpt
Chapter 1
Dru
I stand in the center of the darkened stage, one foot strategically placed upon the sleek black chair beside me. My back is to the thick red curtains, the only thing that separates me from the waiting crowd. It’s my job to give them a show, and I never disappoint. The men. The women. They want to be distracted and entertained while they sip their cocktails and forget about everything that exists beyond the walls of the dimly lit club. The Nightingale isn’t just a place where people come to see burlesque dancers twirling around in cheekies and push-up bras. It’s a place where people come to get lost, if only for an hour or two.
The applause for the previous number dies down and I embrace the silence. The dark green bustier and matching satin panties I’m wearing fit like a proverbial glove. My sheer black thigh highs are held up by the dainty clips of my black garter belt and the four-inch black patent leather pumps I’m wearing make my legs look long and inviting. I’m a vision of possibility and fantasy.
The first low beat caresses my skin like the lips of a familiar lover, sending a shiver down my spine. I close my eyes and feel the gentle whoosh of the parting drapes behind me. One hand remains on my hip while my fingers on the other hand snap along with the slow thumping of the bass. When the tempo picks up ever so slightly, I straddle the chair and slowly circle my hips in time with the music. Every move is precise and planned. I’m a possibility. I’m a fantasy. It’s my job to make the crowd forget about anything that isn’t served in a glass or showcased by a spotlight. And I am very good at my job.
*
I exit the stage and make my way down the narrow hallway to the communal dressing room. There are nine dancers at The Nightingale in addition to a handful of wait staff and three bartenders. The club is small despite the massive population of the city but its exclusivity more than makes up for it. People stand in line for hours just to see us perform. The pay is decent, the tips even more so and although it’s a part-time gig for me, a few of the other girls use this job to pay their way through college. I round the corner just as Dean, one of our bartenders, comes out of the stock room.
“Hey Dru, nice moves tonight,” he approves.
I brush past him and flip my hair over my shoulder before I turn to face him. “You say that to all the girls, Dean, and it just plain breaks my tender heart,” I pout with mockery, flipping him the finger while he grabs at his chest, feigning heartbreak. Dean is hot and built but he’s notched just about every female within a ten mile radius to his bed post and I’ve never been interested in him. We both know it, yet he still feels obligated to offer his services to me regardless.
The dressing room is loud and busy when I walk through the door. “Hey Dru, did you see my future husbands at table ten?” Krista, one of the other dancers asks while applying her lip stick.
“Husbands? As in plural?” I sit down at one of the empty stations and begin removing my heavy make-up.
“Um, yes. Because there is no way in hell I could ever possibly choose between the two. They are hot as hell and I would gladly be the center of that sinful sandwich,” she sighs, fanning herself dramatically while she adjusts her cleavage.
“Sadly I did not see them, but I wish you luck.”
“Of course she didn’t see them Krista, Dru’s vagina is in exile and likely covered in cobwebs,” laughs Brenna, the dancer who was on before me. She drapes her arms around my shoulders and looks at me in the mirror. “Dru, honey, I’m saying this to you because I love you. Please get penetrated before you die of old age.”
I smack her arm and laugh at her plea. “Ha, ha. I’ll have you know that my vagina is functioning quite well and the reason I didn’t notice the man candy at table ten is because I was busy. Doing my job,” I add with a smirk.
“Whatever you say hot stuff, but I’m telling you, you’re wasting your time with this whole dating hiatus. You could be drowning in a magical sea of multiple orgasms at the snap of your fingers,” she quips.
She squeezes my shoulders before her and Krista head out to wait tables. Some of the girls serve drinks for an hour or so after their routine to make extra money if it’s busy enough. The others filter out gradually, either to go home or to perform the last show of the night. I sit on the plush pink cushioned chair and look at my reflection. Gone are the lashes and the heavy liner. The shimmering bronze powder that makes me look soft under the harsh light of the stage has been wiped clean, and I’ve brushed out my long raven coloured hair. No one currently sitting in the club would even recognize me without my fancy underwear and made up face. They don’t know the twenty-five year old artist who has a penchant for coffee flavoured ice cream and Netflix documentaries. They know Lady Tremaine, and as long as she delivers, that’s all that matters. I play my part, and they play theirs.
I change into my street clothes and swing my heavy bag over my shoulder. Thankfully there is a back door guarded by a bouncer who will make sure I get a taxi. I wave goodbye to James and climb into the waiting cab, slumping into the worn-out backseat. The bright lights of the city flicker through the dingy window as we head downtown. People cover the streets in heaping masses, looking for entertainment and reprieve from their weekday duties. We pull up to my building and I pay the driver out of tonight’s tip money. I already have the rest of my evening planned. The anticipat
ion of a glass of wine and feeling the weight of my sketchbook on my lap motivates me to climb the creaking staircase that leads to my studio apartment.
When I unlock the door and flip the switch, I’m immediately greeted by my roommate. I bend down and give Lucy’s smooth black head an affectionate rub while she purrs with appreciation. I make my way to the small corner where I’ve set up a makeshift bedroom and change into my yoga pants and a soft white tank top. I’m on the sofa with a glass of Pinot Noir and have a piece of charcoal put to paper in five minutes flat. I forget about the club, the patrons and the seductive lure of the character I play while I’m there. In the comfort of my own space, I’m Dru Marx, a not yet starving artist.
Chapter 2
Ethan
I open my eyes to the ringing of a cell phone that isn’t mine. My eyes are dry as hell and the taste of stale booze is heavy on my tongue. When I roll over I’m met with the warm, naked body of the woman I slept with last night. She doesn’t move an inch. The ringing stops and I throw my legs over the side of the mattress and place my feet on the cold floor. Luckily, I don’t have to search very hard for my pants which are lying in a discarded pile with the rest of my clothes at the foot of the bed. I dress quickly and make a half ass attempt to try and wake the woman up, but she’s still out cold. I don’t often make it a habit of mine to fuck around with someone when I’m so loaded that I can’t even remember her name, but it seems as though last night I made an exception. I exit the small bedroom and find my keys and phone lying on the kitchen counter. I’m out the door and headed for the nearest place that sells coffee and Advil before I can spend too much time reflecting on the reasons for last night’s debauchery.
I don’t have to walk far to get what I’m in search of, the bottom floor of the apartment building I found myself in this morning has a small corner store. I grab a pack of gum and a large black coffee, along with some Advil to ease the current thrumming in my head. I’m nearly to the cash register when a woman rushes around the corner and smacks into me. I manage to save my own coffee but hers flies out of her hand and onto the floor, splashing my shoes and the bottom of my jeans.
“Shit, I’m sorry,” she says as she bends down and pulls some Kleenex out of her giant bag.
She begins sopping up the hot liquid as best she can. She’s got her head down and she’s mumbling to herself, her dark hair is piled on top of her head and when her slim hands begin blotting my shoes I can see she’s got paint splattered across her skin.
“Uh, you really don’t have to do that,” I object. People are beginning to stare and I feel like a complete asshole standing here while this woman cleans my shoes.
“I’m really sorry, I should probably watch where the hell I’m going,” she mutters as she stands.
She tilts her head back and looks me in the eye before flashing me a wide smile. Her eyes are a rich shade of brown and I notice a lone dimple blinking back at me from the corner of her full lips. I realize when I look down at her that the paint isn’t just on her hands but carelessly wiped on her worn out jeans as well. She picks her heavy bag up off the floor and throws it over her shoulder, apologizing again. All I can manage is a curt nod and a tight smile. I watch as she grabs herself another cup of coffee before paying the girl at the register and heading back out onto the now busy sidewalk. There was a time when I would have entertained the idea of getting to know a woman like her. A woman with a soft smile and kind eyes. But that was a long time ago. The man I am now doesn’t deserve a woman like that. The man I am now is responsible for not one, but two deaths. The blood that stains my hands is a permanent reminder of how little happiness I truly deserve.
*
I unlock the door to my apartment and chuck the now empty coffee cup into the garbage. I plug my phone in and see that I have several messages. A couple from one of my old buddies at the station wanting me to come meet him and the guys for a beer tonight. I don’t bother responding and I doubt he’s expecting me too anyways. I haven’t set foot in that precinct in over a year and I have no intention of strolling down memory lane anytime soon. The last message is from Nick, the owner of the private security firm that I do freelance work for. Apparently, a small nightclub downtown needs a temporary bouncer until they can find someone permanent. I jot down the address and head to the bathroom; a hot shower is the only thing I have in mind right now. I stand under the spray and let it wash over my shoulders, my thoughts briefly turning to the woman who ran into me this morning. Something about the way she looked at me filled my chest with a warmth that I haven’t felt in a very long time, but I quickly discard the comfort it brings me before I have a chance to indulge in it further.
*
I park my Jeep about a block away from the small club and double check the address in my hand. There’s a long line of people anxiously waiting to get through the red double doors. The structure itself is sandwiched between two larger buildings and if it weren’t for the crowd, I doubt anyone would even know it was here. Aside from the red doors, the outside is nondescript with faded bricks and no windows. A small sign hangs above the entryway under a set of lights showcasing the club’s name. The Nightingale. I walk past the herd of people and give my name to the bouncer at the front of the line who tells me where I’ll find the owner. I head inside and walk down a short hallway lined with vintage bar signs and heavy fabric draped along the walls. The lighting is soft and when I enter the main room I’m surprised by how large the space is. A modest stage sits at the front of the room and small round tables are scattered throughout the main floor. The only light comes from the hanging chandeliers and the flickering candles placed on each table. Everything is dark and sleek. I see an older man sitting at the bar, he looks up as I walk toward him and stands to shake my hand.
“You must be my new guy,” he says with a faint accent that I can’t quite place. “I’m Gus, I own the place.” He’s a sturdy man with thick salt and pepper coloured hair. He’s dressed in slacks and a silk shirt, a gold chain hanging from his neck. At first glance, I would label him as a wise-guy type. But he’s got a friendly glint in his eye and from what Nick told me, his background check came back clean as a whistle.
“That’s right sir, Ethan Talbot.”
He waves a dismissive hand and grunts, “Don’t call me ‘sir’, it makes me feel old. Gus is fine,” he tells me. “Have you ever worked in a club before?”
“Can’t say that I have, but I’m sure I can handle some rowdy drunks.”
“It’s not just the rowdy drunks. Our performers are good girls, they need to know that you have their backs. We are like a family, Ethan.”
“Performers?” Nick failed to mention that there would be dancers at this club.
“Take a seat over there at the corner table,” he suggests, gesturing to a small booth off to the side. “Watch the first show and then come to my office and we’ll get your paperwork sorted out.”
People start filtering in and take their seats just as music begins to play over the speakers and a group of waitresses make their way onto the floor carrying empty trays. As if choreographed, they separate smoothly and begin taking drink orders. They’re dressed in different variations of what looks like lingerie. It’s revealing but something about the way they move and even the way their customers look at them tells me that this isn’t about being half naked. I look over at Gus and he nods to that corner booth.
“Go have a seat, Ethan. Dru’s opening tonight and you don’t want to miss that,” he says thoughtfully.
I make my way to the dimly lit booth and just as I sit down a waitress comes over. She’s got her pale blonde hair draped over her shoulder in loose curls and her heavy makeup hides what I suspect is a naturally pretty face. She’s wearing a plain wedding band and I can’t help but wonder what her husband must think of her waiting tables in her underwear.
“Hey handsome,” she says. “You must be the new guy. I’m Lena. You need anything you just flag me down, okay?”
I tilt my chi
n toward the growing crowd. “It always this busy?” I ask.
“Oh yeah. Welcome to The Nightingale,” she grins and heads back onto the floor.
The lights above begin to dim and the music stops for a moment. The heavy red curtains hiding the stage suddenly part and the audience claps and hollers. A woman sits on a black chair in the center of the stage, her back to the crowd. Her legs are encased in sheer black nylons that come up to her thighs, her hair hangs past her shoulders in dark waves. The bass over the speakers starts out subtle and slowly the tempo picks up. She rises from the chair and sways her hips back and forth in perfect time with the music. Her entire routine is centered on the chair and when she finally turns around I catch a glimpse of her face. Full red lips, dark eyes lined in black and an outfit that leaves little to the imagination. Her breasts look full and soft, the curve of her hips is generous and her waist is trim. The heels she’s wearing make her sexy legs look long and I can’t stop watching her as she moves with the grace and confidence of a pro. She has the undivided attention of every single person in the club, including me. She looks up and her gaze instantly finds mine. What the fuck? I see a familiar set of brown eyes and a flicker of recognition as she focuses on me. The wide smile I saw this morning has been replaced by a playful smirk and as she moves fluidly and in perfect time with the music, her eyes hold mine.
When the music ends and she gives a flirtatious bow, I notice one of the waitresses is walking around each table with a massive jar. Tips, I assume. It’s clear that Dru, or Lady Tremaine, as the DJ referred to her is a hot commodity with the patrons of The Nightingale.
She exits the stage and the curtains drop. I find Gus in his office and fill out the necessary contract that Nick sent over. I stay until closing time and familiarize myself with the layout of the club. Other than a table of drunk college guys who need to be hauled out, the night is tame. I meet one of the bartenders, Hunter, Lena’s husband, and the rest of the staff working that night as they rush around. But I don’t see the one person I shouldn’t even be looking for. The dark-haired beauty with the power to hold an entire room in the palm of her hand. The woman who could easily unravel my carefully constructed existence. I need to stay away from her, despite my natural instinct telling me otherwise.