Wrong then Right (A Love Happens Novel Book 2)

by Jodi Watters

  “Jesus, Bridge.” Hope dabbed the corners of her teary eyes with a knuckle, trying to hold back a sob. “Thank you,” she added sincerely, deeply touched by the words. “Damn it, now you’re gonna have to touch up my smoky eye.”

  Turning toward the mirror again, they stared at their reflections in the bright light of the dressing room, maintaining eye contact and smiling wordlessly in their shared experience. Two decidedly different women, from different backgrounds with different stories, both working toward the same goal. A better life.

  In that moment, Hope knew Bridget had just repeated a solemn, heartfelt speech that had once been given to her by a jaded veteran dancer on the night of her first appearance, too. And she made a silent promise to be a better friend to this sweet, selfless woman who somehow found herself stripping in an unknown club in downtown San Diego, despite her homecoming queen looks and sunny personality. Bridget didn’t belong here, either. She belonged on the catwalk, not the stripper stage. She belonged on the nightly news, delivering the day’s events with poise and personality. She belonged in the suburbs, with a loyal husband and two point five kids, the envy of every woman on the PTA.

  Reading her mind, but unwilling to open that door, Bridget’s face broke into an easy smile, not a smudge on her perfectly applied red lipstick. “Are you good?” When Hope nodded, still too emotional to speak, Bridget nodded back. “Then I’m good, too. Now the most important thing to remember, is don’t stop smiling. It doesn’t matter how many moves you hit or miss, as long as you’re smiling big and shaking your body, nobody’s gonna know the difference. The audience will be hypnotized. And so will your man.”

  Her man, which was a real stretch of the truth, was MIA. She’d done a quick once over of the audience prior to heading to the dressing room and the only familiar face she saw belonged to Val, who was more than happy to cheer her on while sitting amidst a crowd of randy men, his heterosexual catcall—the one he’d been practicing—at the ready. The angel on one shoulder had sighed in relief at Beck’s absence, finding a secret sexual freedom in anonymity, while the devil on the other had stomped her foot in a horny hissy fit, remembering the benefits of a naked and aroused Beckett Smith.

  Hope let out a surprised squeal when Bridget reached over and stuck her hand down the front of her barely there bra, clinically feeling her up. As if Hope’s ample breasts were flattened feather pillows, she adjusted them with bold precision, plumping her so all but her nipples showed, the areola’s barely covered by black lace.

  “No need to leave anything to the imagination,” Bridget said pointedly. Then she swatted Hope on her bare butt playfully. “Grab your silk gloves, little girl. Let’s go rock their worlds and empty their pockets. Mama needs to pay her rent.”

  Hope had made plenty of bad decisions in twenty-five years of living. Like when she was eight and decided to run away from the vineyard with nothing more than the clothes on her back and her pink Huffy, the back tire flat. And the time she was fourteen and thought it was a good idea to get her belly button pierced during an outdoor Nine Inch Nails concert. Or when she was nineteen and decided she could make it to Palm Springs on a quarter tank of gas, as long as she kept the air conditioner off and the cruise control on.

  There were other examples, too, but she didn’t have time to review them all. Not when a blue velvet curtain was about to open on another one.

  Telling herself this was no different than when she’d played an extra in her high school’s musical version of Footloose, she took her place on the stage next to Bridget, her hand on the back of a black Windsor chair—standard strip club issue. Kiki was on Bridget’s other side, hopping in place and shaking her arms out like a boxer anticipating the bell. Waiting with feverish anxiety, Hope felt genuine regret that she hadn’t listened to Rosa years ago and gone to beauty school. Risking asphyxiation and extreme boredom to give cotton topped old ladies cuts, colors, and perms six days a week had to be easier on the blood pressure.

  The curtain opened with a clicking swoosh, and even with her head down and her back to the hushed crowd, she knew the lights were dimmed, soft streaks of smoky blue neon catching random fragments floating in the air. On the third snap of Bridget’s fingers, a brassy jazz beat began, along with the thump of full percussion, and Hope’s hips moved in time. Christina Aguilera and a top of the line audio system provided the suggestive music, setting a sultry mood for the three song burlesque show, while a redhead, a blonde, and a brunette provided the erotic visual feast, the variety sure to suit any gentleman’s taste for the evening. Standing nearly shoulder to shoulder, their choreography was professional quality, thanks to Marcia’s unverified and highly disputed go-round as a Rockette back in the day, and all of their practiced moves were perfectly synchronized.

  The first song, I’m a Good Girl, was distinctly feminine but flirty, and the medium tempo and cheeky lyrics made hitting every sexually seductive move easy. Methodically counting the steps in her mind, the buzzing energy of the crowd pumped through her, and Hope found herself in some kind of altered state. The booming thump of the music overwhelmed her senses. The zinging heat from the spotlights baked her skin. The rapt attention of every person in the club made her feel like a lone goldfish swimming tricks in a big, clear bowl.

  And then she saw a certain shark, standing at the bar with a drink in his hand and a scowl on his face, capable of swallowing her whole. Holy stripper pole, Beck was here.

  Narrowly avoiding a face plant, she focused on the portly man with a bad comb-over and pasty complexion sitting in the front row, smiling big as she shimmied and shook her ass off. When was this freaking song going to end? Maybe someone in the audience would have mercy on her soul and toss her a hundred bucks to get off the stage. Or at least ping her in the eye with a quarter and allow her to bow out gracefully, citing injury. After several more exaggerated hip swings and leg kicks, three sets of black silk gloves came off, flying through the strobe lit air as dozens of random hands vied for the souvenirs. The song finally ended, after the three longest minutes of Hope’s life, with each of them sitting spread eagle on their chair, hands near the cleft of their widely parted thighs, low lighting and clever shadow play hiding anything the skimpy panties didn’t.

  The curtain closed to whistling and rousing applause and Hope was surprised by it. Turned out, Bridget was right and she’d had no reason to be nervous. Apparently, there was a Las Vegas showgirl living inside her and years spent watching Madonna videos was finally paying off.

  Bridget’s twinkling laughter was encouraging. “Fun, right? You’re a natural, Hope.”

  It wasn’t just fun. It was freaking exhilarating. Like—I am woman, hear me roar—freaking exhilarating. Hope quickly looked down at her chest, knowing she had ten seconds to strike a pose before the curtain opened on their raunchy, fast-pasted routine to Candyman, taking the show to another level of nakedness. The laws of physics weren’t on her side and a good portion of her boobs overflowed the cups of her lace bra.

  “Leave it,” Bridge whispered, when Hope tried to push them back in. “The crowd is worked up and it’s coming off this set, anyway.”

  Hope gulped. Yep. Two-thirds of the way through the song, right after the upbeat trumpet solo and just when Christina belted out appreciation that her candyman was a one stop shop with a real big you-know-what, three bra’s were getting popped. Thinking of her own Mr. Man Candy, Hope fanned her sweat dotted forehead and when the curtain opened this time, she looked right at him. Dancing to the uptempo, bawdy lyrics without missing a beat, she alternated her gaze between Beck and the comb-over in the front row, and her attention had the balding man puffed up like a peacock.

  Beck stood in the same spot, casually drinking clear icy liquid from a tall glass as if only marginally impressed by the show, so when it came time to pop her top, Hope did so with a wide smile and as much gusto as her bouncing C cups could give her. A baritone roar echoed through the club, rebounding off the fabric paneled walls, and she chose to believe
some of that adoration was directed at her, even though it was likely all for the two, stacked centerfold’s bobbing around beside her. Eyes still connected with Beck’s, she watched as he blinked once, owlishly, then cracked a slight smile. Probably shocked as shit that she’d actually done it.

  When the curtain closed on his fiery gaze, Hope covered her bare boobs with her hands, wishing she was in better cardiovascular condition. That was their fastest song and she needed longer than a thirty second break to catch her breath.

  “Do you think Bubba will fire me if I drop my panties for the last song?” Kiki asked, fluffing her hair.

  Stunned by the question, panic zinged through Hope at the mere suggestion, recalling the burly man’s rule on baring your pussy. It was a big no-no.

  “Are you smoking crack, Kiki?” Bridget hissed, her breathing barely labored. “Of course, he’ll fire you. And you’ll start a drunken riot.”

  “Fine,” she reluctantly agreed, pouting as she stretched her arms high above her head.

  Hope mimicked the position and whispered, “I’m probably gonna pull a hamstring on this song, so if you hear a thud and me yelling ‘man down’, kick me to the side and act normal.”

  Their finale, set to the highly sexual, Nasty Naughty Boy, was a mix of slow, sultry jazz and breathy, explicit lyrics. There were no chairs or poles, or stripper props of any kind. Just their bodies, the beat of the music, and the power of suggestion.

  When it came to the generalities of sex, men were fairly predictable creatures. And no matter what their level of sexual experience, most girls knew what most guys liked, thanks to Cosmopolitan Magazine and their daddy’s poorly hidden stash of vintage eighties porn—the box not so cleverly marked old baseball cards. More blowjobs, they always said, to which the entire female population collectively responded with a tepid, “Yeah, yeah, yeah—we get it, already.”

  And Christ on a cracker, Hope was dying for her opportunity to shine on that front. But the other educational takeaway was, if a man couldn’t touch you himself, then the next best thing was for you to touch yourself, instead. And let him watch.

  So, when the curtain slid open for the last time, the three topless women did just that.

  With their backs to the crowd, the slow, pulsing beat of a single snare drum began, followed by the soulful notes of a brass band. Her hips bumped from side to side in an exaggerated rhythm, the trio of scantily clad women in perfect sync with the music and each other. Sexual innuendo filled the club, her heart keeping time with the beat, and they turned toward a mesmerized audience with a flourish. The calorie burning performance was an artistic mix of rubs and tugs, squats and splits, and muscle pulling toe touches. Slightly raunchy, definitely naughty, and guaranteed to send the audience home with a purpose.

  Hope watched Beck the entire time. He watched the crowd, watching her.

  And before she knew it, the set was over, her lungs burning but her hamstrings still intact. Paper bills flew through the air to land at their feet, proving valid a common strip club stereotype. It really could rain money. A muscled bouncer hopped on stage carrying a silver champagne bucket, collecting their bounty before the next girl was up, and Hope hobbled to the dressing room on screaming feet. She’d just done a crossfit workout wearing stiletto shoes and dental floss as underwear, and the adrenaline high was quickly waning.

  “Bridge, I can’t go out there.” She drew the line at lap dances, knowing comb-over guy would be the first in line. And despite the no touch rule, those lap dances got awfully grab-assy.

  “Then you’re not getting your share,” Kiki declared haughtily, dabbing her pits with a tissue as she stared in the mirror. “Buck up, little one. Working the crowd is part of the job. Private dances are where the real money’s at.”

  Bubba’s booming voice interrupted Bridget’s response.

  “Y’all decent?” Stepping into no man’s land, his stubby fingers shielded his eyes from everything but the dressing room floor. “Ya’ got someone demandin’ to see ya’, Hope, and he ain’t takin’ no for an answer. I ain’t too pleased about it either, since ya’ told me when I hired ya’ that ya’ had no old man.”

  Holy shit, what was Beck trying to do? Get her fired again? She was still seven weeks out on her financial plan to freedom.

  “Oh, please,” Val said, not bothering to hide his eyes as he stood on his tip toes and peered over Bubba’s shoulder. “I’m not her old man. Unfortunately, I’m nobody’s old man right now.”

  “Ya’ got five minutes, pal.” Bubba finally lifted his hand, trusting nothing beyond a few boring sets of breasts were bared, and pointed at Kiki. “And if she doesn’t wanna go out there, she doesn’t hafta’. Her shift is over when she chooses it ta’ be.” Looking back at Hope with concern, he added, “I think right ‘bout now would be good timin’, too.” The door slammed shut behind him.

  Kiki shrugged. “You’re still not getting a third share.”

  Val picked up an eyelash curler off the vanity and squeezed, turning it every which way.

  “What the hell do you do with this thing? Does it go up something?” Shrugging when a peeved Kiki grabbed it out of his hands, he leaned back against the counter. “Did you put rouge on your nipples, Hope? They are so pink. And you did good up there. Very, daddy’s girl gone dirty.”

  “No, I didn’t put rouge on my nipples! And nobody uses the word rouge anymore.” The irritation in her voice had everything to do with Val’s presence instead of Beck’s, and the fact that the next girl up—that flat chested bitch named Renee—was soon to be on the receiving end of Mr. Man Candy’s lackluster attention. “And you can’t take my share, Kiki, because I worked my ass off on that stage.”

  The redhead’s temper came out. “No way! You’re not finishing the job!”

  “Divided three ways, Kiki,” Bridget stated with finality, sticking up for Hope from her spot at the mirror, open lipstick tube in her hand. “Or else I’m telling everyone within earshot what your real name is. News flash, people,” she said, with wink, “it ain’t Kiki.”

  Offended, Kiki’s mouth dropped open in disbelief and she looked around the busy dressing room, a half dozen other girls milling about, primping as they waited for their turn in the rotation. “You wouldn’t! You’re too much of a goody two shoes.”

  No matter her sugar and spice personality, Bridget had claws. “Delores.”

  Both Kiki and Val gasped in unison, equally outraged. If anybody knew the anguish of an unpleasant birth name, it was Valentino Sabato.

  “You used to be so sweet and meek. What happened to you?” Kiki asked Bridget, her lips flattening in disapproval. “Fine! But don’t expect me to trade shifts with either of you for a very long time. Or hair products! Buy your own damn volumizer from now on!”

  Hope grinned at Bridget as they watched a steaming Delores walk out the door.

  The comb-over in the front row was the redhead’s for the taking. The ultra hot and mildly disgruntled hunk at the bar was all Hope’s tonight.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Scrubbed clean of any temporary stripper accoutrements, Hope pushed through the heavy back door of the still hopping club, exiting out onto the dark alleyway that led toward the employee parking lot. Other than running a quick brush through it, her loose hair was as big as ever, Kiki’s kick ass volumizer worth the apology she and Bridget would humbly issue tomorrow night. That was one pretty, but very pissed off Delores.

  Refusing the standing offer of a bouncer escorted walk to her car, Hope clutched her canvas bag to her side and watched her step as she scaled the potholed parking lot, four hundred, sixty-seven dollars and forty-two cents richer. Not a bad haul for an hour’s worth of work, but it meant some asshole had the audacity to throw coins at them. Pennies, too, the tight-wadded pervert. Clearly the loser never had string underwear violating him in two different private places for ten minutes straight, while in full view of the judging public.

  “Hey there, princess.”

  Startled by t
he unexpected voice, Hope screeched and threw up her fists, barely landing back on her flip-flopped feet. “Jesus!” Hand over her racing heart, she wheezed the curse. “Jesus on the mountaintop, you scared me!”

  Grinning, Beck looked her up and down. “That’s some vertical jump you’ve got.”

  “It’s not easy. Getting all of this. Up off the ground.” Hyperventilating, she bent over, her hands on her knees as she sucked in life giving air. “And you shouldn’t do that, you know. Things go down in dark parking lots of strip clubs. And not all of it’s the good kind of going down, either.”

  Leaning casually against the bumper of his black mustang, parked right next to her dusty Toyota, he seemed less than concerned for his safety. It was a privileged world when all you had to do was wear worn out jeans, a wrinkled flannel thrown over a faded t-shirt, and inherent confidence to look both scary and sexy. And get away with name calling, too.

  “You’re back,” she said needlessly, ignoring his use of the P word.

  “And you’re wearing clothes.” He seemed a little too pleased about that. Pushing away from the mustang, he crowded into her and she took a few steps back, not stopping until he had her against the trunk of her own car. “For now.”

  Cupping the back of her neck with a rough hand, she expected his kiss. Craved it. Had her mouth all ready and everything. But instead, he rested his forehead against hers, his green eyes dark and unreadable in the moonlight.