by Nikki Chase
A part of me thinks it’s a bad idea to get close to him because, as unlikely as it is that he’d be related to Stan, he’s still a link to a past that I’d rather bury. And considering the way he gets my blood boiling almost every time I see him, he’s probably bad for my blood pressure.
Yet a different part of me—including the part that's pulsing between my legs now—doesn’t want to stay away.
Jacob
A Snoop Dogg song filled the strip club, drowning out all conversation. Neon green and purple lasers shot across the oversized room.
On stage, the hottest girl in the club took slow, deliberate steps on her impossibly high heels. The bright, blinding spotlight shone on her, highlighting one side of her luscious body, while casting the rest of her in shadows. Her long, glossy waves looked like they had caught on fire. Scarlett. The name suited her.
I bet the name made it easy for the men in here to remember her name. I saw them crowding around the stage, watching her intently, ogling her as she swayed and writhed to the music, wrapping herself around the silver pole on stage.
One by one, she shed her clothing. The necktie, the button-down shirt, and the plaid skirt came off quickly enough. Now that she was down to her skimpy bra and thong, she took her time.
The men drank it all in, their eyes following her hands as they slid all over her body and pulled the remaining items of clothing on her body aside. She was teasing them, and they were captivated. Some of them had their mouths hanging open.
This was torture. My chest tightened and my hands clenched into fists. I wanted to punch those men in their faces.
I knew what she looked like without all those things. Without her itty bitty bra and thong, without the stripper heels, without the garish lighting. Without her putting on a show.
It wasn’t a performance when she moaned and writhed underneath me, my name escaping her lips as she breathed erratically. I could feel her shake and quiver against my sweat-covered skin, her muscles gripping my cock rhythmically. She couldn’t have faked that.
And yet she didn’t even give me her real name. Scarlett couldn’t be her real name, right? No stripper would be dumb enough to use her real name, and she didn’t strike me as dumb.
Maybe I was the dumb one.
I felt like I was on top of the world when I took her home last weekend and made her scream with pleasure. Arched back and curled toes, the works. I made the mistake of really liking her and thinking she really liked me too.
And then, in the morning when I woke up, she was gone. She didn’t leave any trace, not even a phone number. There was just the faint smell of vanilla on my sheets to remind me everything really happened and it wasn’t just a particularly vivid wet dream.
Maybe I should’ve taken the hint, but I got restless. I couldn’t stop thinking about her. I found myself inhaling the fading scent of her on my sheets while I was trying to fall asleep, and I decided that was stupid. If it bothered me that much, I should just go to the club to find her.
And that was how I found myself with a glass of whiskey in my hand, leaning against the soft, sound-proofed back wall of the strip club, watching her on stage like I was just one of the suckers who were now scrambling to stuff her panties with bills.
I took another sip of my whiskey as I saw her grab her tits and kneaded them, making the crowd go wild.
I’d had those same tits in my hands last weekend. I’d pulled on them with my fingers, with my teeth. They’d been a handful; they’d fit just right in my big hands. They were sensitive, too, judging from the way she’d gasped whenever they were pinched.
I wasn’t sure this was any less stupid than lying on my bed, sniffing my sheets. She hadn’t even glanced my way the whole time I was here. I couldn’t blame her because the place was packed tonight, but it still made me mad.
I gripped the glass of whiskey harder. I downed it in one gulp, afraid I was going to shatter the glass, and put it on one of the empty tables at the back.
Her song ended and she went out the back. I didn’t go to strip clubs a lot, so I didn’t know how they usually worked, but I assumed she was going to walk the floor to offer lap dances to these pervs.
I watched the dressing room door like a hawk. I’d watched her give a lap dance to my buddy once, and I didn’t want to see another one of those. I’d be in danger of really hurting some guy, and I didn’t think she was going to appreciate that.
A few girls walked out of the dressing room, but I still didn’t see her red hair.
When the girl who had danced on the stage after Scarlett came out, I decided to ask her. Surely, she should’ve been on the floor already.
“Excuse me,” I said.
“Hi, baby. You want a lap dance?”
“Not tonight. But do you know when Scarlett is coming out?”
“Oh. She went home early today, honey, but I can take care of you.” She smiled and winked at me.
“Oh, no. You got it wrong. I’m not here for a lap dance. I know Scarlett.”
“Aww… Sorry to be the one to break it to you, baby, but if you really knew her, you wouldn’t have to come and find her here. You’d know another way to contact her. I don’t tell people I actually know where I work,” she said, making my heart drop to my stomach.
“Oh. Uh, thank you.” I tried to hide my disappointment, but the girl probably sensed it. After all, she made her living reading men and catering to their unspoken wants.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know why she’d do that to a guy like you.” She pulled the corners of her lips down and gave me a cutesy sad face. “For what it’s worth, you’re not the first guy I see who comes here trying to talk to one of the girls. We tend to be bad at forming actual relationships. It’s a hazard of the job.” She raised her hand to my arm and started stroking. “Now, how about that lap dance, huh? I can make you feel better, baby.”
“No. But thanks.”
I nodded at her and headed straight to the door of the club.
I thought about how embarrassing this was as I strolled on the sidewalk, past neon signs advertising nude girls, live shows, and XXX videos.
Of course. It was obvious now.
It had been a special night for me, connecting with another human being so intimately. I hadn’t just enjoyed the sex, but also the conversation. I’d thought we had a connection.
But it had probably been just another work night for her. Maybe she’d done it just to thank me for getting Andy off her case.
I hum the tune playing in my headphones. It’s the same Snoop Dogg song that was playing when I saw Jessica dance on stage. It reminds me of that night.
Hearing this song used to make me angry, but it doesn’t bother me anymore, now that I’ve found her. And what’s better is, she’s not even a stripper anymore, so the “hazard of the job” excuse doesn’t apply, although it still seems like she dates too many men.
But they’d better be prepared of losing her, because I don’t share. I’m going to make her all mine.
After learning my lesson from Jessica, I stopped myself from getting attached too quickly. I’ve had a lot of casual arrangements with women, and I know now how to play my cards.
Besides, I can tell Jessica wants me too. I can see the lust in her eyes, in the way she blushes, in the way she does that cute little gasp when our bodies touch by accident.
Meanwhile, I’m just going to enjoy my time here. Ashbourne is a great little town. Even though it's technically still winter, the sun is shining and the grass is green.
There’s nothing pressing to do all day, and I’m spending my time doing one of my favorite things: tinkering with my Harley Davidson. What’s not to like?
It’s just a matter of time until I get Jessica in my bed again. And this time, I’m not letting her go.
Jessica
There was this guy who was a regular at the Pussy Cat, a middle-aged man who kept his body in great shape, perhaps to make up for his receding hairline.
He used to come every Tuesd
ay night to talk about his marital problems for a few minutes. He’d pay me $100 to hear stories about how his wife never paid much attention to him anymore after they’d had kids.
Many of the men who walk into strip joints aren’t just there for sexual gratification. They’re also after companionship, a little sympathy, or maybe some emotional connection. I’m not going to deny that, obviously, for a large portion of the audience, sex is the main appeal.
I knew it wasn’t like that for Jacob. He didn’t fit the bill for the average strip club goer. He’s hot, for one. And he can be charming when he feels like it. A guy like that probably has women throwing themselves at him all the time.
He’s only been in Ashbourne a couple of weeks, and a few women have already asked me about him, which annoys me for some reason.
My point is, Jacob doesn’t need to visit a strip joint to get some female attention.
I mean, just look at him right now. I’ve been doing just that for two solid minutes at least, standing here by my car as he works on his bike with his back to me.
I haven't spoken with him since that little tiff we had on the porch a few days ago. But Bertha just told me that he’d changed her locks yesterday and now I feel like I have to thank him. I just haven't decided on a good way to start the conversation.
It still boils my blood when I think about how he basically called me a promiscuous slut who deserves to have my home broken into because of the way I tease men.
And yet, something within me stirs when I look at him, all big and strong and cocky. Like now. My eyes trace the curve of his jeans-clad ass as he crouches on his driveway, his white shirt drenched with sweat, allowing me to almost see his skin, his muscles flexing and relaxing as he works. His tattoos look like they're alive and dancing on his skin.
He puts down his metal wrench on the ground with a soft clang and stands up. As he reaches his hands toward his back, I notice they're covered with a black, slick liquid. He grabs at the fabric of his shirt, leaving two perfectly clear big handprints. I guess that explains all the faded stains on his shirt.
He starts to lift the shirt off and my eyes trace the ripples of his back, the curve of his spine. He stops to remove the oversized headphones perching on the top of his head before the takes the shirt all the way off.
My heartbeat quickens as I study the lines of ink on Jacob’s back, remembering the way my fingernails dragged over his brawny shoulders all those years ago.
“Enjoying the view?” Jacob says in a low, sexy voice.
Shit. He just caught me in the act.
My jaw must have dropped while I was watching him because my mouth is hanging open stupidly. Heat spreads across my face as I quickly try to regain my composure, put on a neutral expression. But it's too late. There's no denying that I was totally checking him out.
“You can come over here and stick dollar bills in my waistband if you want to.” He pulls the waist of his jeans away from his skin. He has that annoying smirk on his ruggedly handsome face again, making him look like an arrogant douche bag.
I try to keep my gaze on his smug face, but I keep getting distracted by the V-shaped shallow grooves below his sculpted abs that start from his hip bones and disappear into his jeans. I force myself to meet his mocking stare. “I just wanted to thank you for changing Bertha’s locks, but you didn't hear me.”
“Okay, so you decided to just stand there and watch me until I take off my headphones. That makes complete sense.” His smirk widens as he adjusts the headphones around his neck.
“Of course it does.” The moment the words leave my mouth I realize what a lame comeback it is. I walk toward the mailbox to hide my embarrassment. If I were to just go inside it would seem too much like I was trying to hide.
I can feel Jacob's penetrating gaze on me, his desire searing into my flesh. I know this stare. I used to feel it all the time when I was dancing on stage with only a thong on my body.
But it never made my heart race like this. It never caused tingles between my legs like this. If it did, everyone would be able to see a wet spot in my panties, all the way from the back of the club.
“Any fan mail today? Maybe a love letter or two?” Jacob taunts. I can't see him I have my back to him now, but I can hear the smirk in his voice.
“Not today, Jacob,” I say in the coolest, least affected tone I can muster. I sort the mail into two piles—one for the recycling bin and one for reading. To change the subject, I ask him, “So what's wrong with your bike?”
“Nothing. It's in great condition. I just changed the exhaust and the muffler to make it quieter. Apparently, I was not being a good neighbor.”
I swing around to look at him incredulously. “You didn't have to do that.”
He waves a hand. “Nah, just pulling your leg. It's better for my hearing.”
“Oh,” I say lamely.
“Yeah. Although, at the volume I listen to music, I’m probably going to lose my hearing anyway. These new noise-cancelling headphones are great. And now your house parties won't bother me again.”
“It was hardly a house party.” I roll my eyes as I throw the flyers into my box of paper trash.
“Hey, wanna have a listen? The sound quality is great,” Jacob says, his voice low and inviting.
My heart jumps in my chest. I’d love to get closer to that vision of hotness. It wouldn't hurt, right? I’m just going to have a listen to his music. Not like he's asking me to come test his mattress.
“Sure,” I say as I saunter over to his driveway with the rest of the mail in my hand. Our eyes meet and I give him a small smile.
“Here you go.” Jacob steps closer, invading my personal space and making my heart race faster. He raises his hands over my head and puts the headphones on me. His fingers almost graze my cheeks.
He places his phone in my hand. It's still warm from being in his jeans pocket. He stands a little behind me, looking over my shoulder at the screen.
He's so close I can feel his bare chest on my back, his hot breath on my neck. With one hand over mine on the phone, he navigates to the song list.
This feels intimate, although we’re not doing anything risqué. I’ve always felt like phones are really private things. Although you see them out in the open all the time, you don’t really get to touch or play with someone else’s phone. It’s like an extension of your person, in a way.
I pick a song and the little speakers play Adele’s Skyfall. It sounds good, but to be honest I wouldn't know the difference between these headphones and my cheap $10 ones.
As Jacob goes back to working on his big bike, I realize I miss his closeness. He wipes the exhaust with a rag and looks up, catching me looking at him. I immediately try to look busy by opening my mail, but not before noticing his lips pulling upward into a self-satisfied smile.
I set the letters from the bank and the power company aside. One letter has caught my attention. There's no company logo or any writing at all on the envelope. It’s probably some kind of mass-produced brochure stuffed into as many mailboxes as possible. I tear open the envelope, pull out the letter, and unfold it.
I almost scream when I see the message on the single piece of paper. I clasp my hands over my mouth.
Jacob must've heard me dropping the rest of my mail onto his driveway because he rushes to my side and takes off the headphones. He asks, “Is anything wrong?”
When I hand the letter to Jacob, I notice my hands are shaking. He grabs the letter, stares at it with an angry frown on his face, and looks at me with concern. “What the fuck is this?”
My heart is pounding against my rib cage and blood roars in my ears. I can't think so I just shake my head.
“Who the fuck would send something like this?”
I shake my head again. “I don't know,” I say softly. All my energy has drained out of my body, leaving only fear. After everything I’ve done, everything I’ve been through, I’m right back at square one again. Just a prey being hunted. With resignation, I say, “
Just throw it away.”
“What do you mean just throw it away? This is serious,” Jacob says, holding up that horrible piece of paper for me to see.
I’ve been trying to tell myself this is not really happening, but there it is. Little cutouts of alphabets from glossy magazines arranged on a normal piece of paper. If it weren’t for what the letters spell, it would almost look like an elementary school student’s art project. My vision blurs as I read the words again.
RUN, WHORE
Jacob
“Okay, we’ll file a report,” the cop says with a bored expression, like he’d rather be at the station stuffing his face with donuts.
“That’s it? You’re not going to, I don’t know, actually try to find the person who sent this?” My voice sounds louder and harsher than I intended. Blood rushes through my veins, making me restless, making me want to do something, run somewhere, punch someone. And if this cop annoys me any further, that someone could very well be him.
“Sir, our resources are limited,” he says without even taking his eyes off his stupid fucking notebook where he’s scribbling useless shit. What’s the point of taking notes if he doesn’t plan on doing anything about it?
“Yeah? What big crimes have been committed in Ashbourne that are keeping you busy? Jaywalking? Bike thefts? Teenagers smoking pot?”
“Please calm down, Sir.” The cop keeps his head facing down while glancing up at me from beneath his unibrow. He’s getting annoyed. Good. “We don’t even know if a crime has been committed here. So someone leaves a note in Miss Lake’s mailbox. She’s unharmed. It could’ve been a prank. Maybe a friend actually thinks she should take up running for health reasons. Maybe a student has a crush on Miss Lake and his girlfriend leaves her a note out of teenage jealousy. Maybe it’s a new viral marketing campaign. It could be anything.”
“Are you being serious right now?” I glare at the cop, but he just shrugs without meeting my eyes. I can’t believe this.