“Teachers are hot,” she comments. “Here.” She offers me a pair of black-framed, lens-free glasses. “We’ll do an updo, and I have garters and new stockings. You’ll rock this place.”
I’m getting excited. I think about lewd nurses and secretaries, how men love to fantasize about them. Then I remember Craig’s guest room filled with women’s clothing. I haven’t pressed him for an explanation. But I can’t keep myself from being jealous. There are only two possible reasons: either he’s a cross-dresser or those clothes belong to all the women he’s bedded.
I sit in a chair while Tamera combs my hair out. Within minutes, she’s pinned my long locks into a neat French twist with a few curly wisps framing my face.
I put the glasses on. “Recognize me?”
“Not a chance.”
I giggle, stand, and shed my velvet dress. I’ll wear my black G-string and matching heels. Tamera helps secure a garter belt around my waist and to expensive silk stockings. I admire her handiwork in the mirror. I look five years older. She holds up the jacket and I slide an arm in. I button it; my cleavage stretches the soft material. The skirt is snug and accentuates my curves. Finished dressing me, she gives me a final look-over.
“Wow, girl.” She shakes her head. “You’re better equipped to wear it.”
Tamera is enviously petite, with 36DDs and the tiniest waist I’ve ever seen. “Thanks again.”
She waves her hand at me. “I hate Banditos,” she confesses. “Always recruiting girls for their shit-box club and trying to make ‘old ladies’ out of every dancer they like.”
I grin. I can’t imagine any woman volunteering to become an “old lady.” There are no benefits, at least none that I can see.
“Marisela, stand by.” Dave’s voice comes through loud and clear on the small black speaker hanging by the door.
“Ready?” Tamera asks.
“Sure,” I answer, making my entrance.
—
I position myself between the main stage and front door. There’s a big-screen television over my head and a stack of speakers to my left. Sargent is already buzzed and distracted by his brothers. I see the dressing room door open. No shit. Marisela looks incredible—the real deal. In fact, she’s so far removed from the wild-haired, leather-clad smart-ass I met outside the club, I’m stunned into silence. She gives me a sultry smile as she passes by, her fingers grazing my crotch. I grit my teeth—instant erection. Little shit. She’ll pay for that one later.
“Straight from your wet dreams and onto the Devil’s Den stage, please welcome Mistress Marisela, the reason why I never got my fucking homework done,” Dave announces. The crowd responds favorably, clapping and catcalling as Marisela sashays to the middle of the stage. The lights dim, and a steady stream of smoke engulfs her.
“Smokin’ in the Boys Room” by Mötley Crüe comes on. Marisela does this incredible spin, kicking her leg out and lifting her arms above her head. I love watching her—the effects go right to my dick. My gaze wanders to Sargent; he’s immediately transfixed. I’m sure he doesn’t recognize her. He lines bills up along the ledge, waving her over. She makes him wait, accepting tips from several guys before she towers over Sargent. She cocks her head, looking at me. I don’t need to tell her to move on quickly. She kneels in front of him, smiles, arches back, hikes her short skirt up a few inches, then collects the money. Before Sargent can complain, she stands, then moves away.
Good girl. I smile triumphantly. So far the disguise is working. The second song starts and Marisela unbuttons her jacket. Her breasts spring out in all their unfettered glory. I lick my bottom lip. My palms itch. My fingers and tongue crave one thing. Next, she wriggles out of her skirt. She’s wearing a thin gold chain that connects her nipple piercings to her belly button ring. Holy shit. I recall how she looked tied to the headboard in San Antonio. My pleasant memory is suddenly disrupted by Desire.
“I know what you’re doing,” she whispers in my ear. She rests her hands on my shoulders.
My lips part, but I bite my tongue. Better to let her get it out of her system without causing a scene.
“I don’t mind your temporary diversion, Craig,” she informs me, staring at Marisela. “She’s cute—I get it. But it’s been a few weeks. Ready to come home with me?”
My breath comes out in a frustrated rush. Some women don’t understand what no means. I get propositioned half a dozen times a day. Not just at work. I gently remove Desire’s hands from my body. “I’m committed.”
“To what?” she gibes. “Self-worship?”
I deserve that. “No, to Marisela.”
“How long is that gonna last? Another day? Since when did the same twat appeal to you for more than a week? Is her snatch gold-plated or something?”
I snort. No wonder I gagged Desire half the time. She has a filthy mouth. “More like silk.”
She rolls her eyes. “I still know what you’re doing—it won’t work.” She walks away with an evil smile on her face.
I’m not sure what she means, but I don’t trust her. Not as far as I can spit. In her selfish world no one steals me away from her. It fucks with her self-esteem. Most dancers try to maintain this mysterious persona crap I hate. Marisela doesn’t; that’s what intrigues me most about her. She’s who she is, good or bad, accept it or leave it.
My gaze follows her as she struts to the catwalk. I leave my post and head for the back of the club. As soon as I find a convenient place to stand, Sargent grabs a seat near her. Goddamnit. I didn’t think he’d like her so much. My eyes narrow. The bastard is going to ask for a table dance in VIP. I know his routine. He only follows girls he sees as potential “old ladies” or future employees. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
After the second song finishes, I fight every instinct to crush his skull when he grabs her wrist to keep her close before she gets on the pickup for her last set. My jaws clench. She flashes him a perfect smile; he releases her. I’m standing next to the stairs, ready to help her off the catwalk. Marisela eyeballs me.
“He’s a pig. I hate him,” she complains.
I close my eyes, trying to fight my instinctual overprotectiveness. “Deal with it a little longer, baby. He’s going to ask you for a dance.” I escort her to the truck.
She stares up at me as if she didn’t hear me. “What?”
“Give him what he wants and he’ll leave. I promise I’ll be right here.”
“Easy for you to say,” she mutters. “You don’t have to smell him.”
I laugh as she climbs onstage. “I’ve got your back.”
A few minutes later, Desire takes a seat next to Sargent. She’s going to tell him who Marisela is. Curse that backstabbing bitch. She won’t rest until Marisela pays for her rejection. I stay where I am, crossing my arms over my chest. Whatever he decides to do, he’ll have to get through me first.
—
I can’t believe I’m sitting in VIP with the guy I bashed over the head with a beer bottle. He stinks like a brewery, and every other word out of his mouth is an F-bomb. Really?
“You’re off work tomorrow,” he says. “Let me take you for a ride on my Fat Bob.”
“Your what?” I squirm in my seat. Is he propositioning me? Men name their penises all the time. I should slap him.
“My Harley.”
“Oh.” I sigh. “No thanks, I have my own bike.”
“That Italian piece of shit.”
Oh. My. God. He remembers me. “How did you know?”
“One of your little friends pointed you out.” I start to get up, but he grabs my hand. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he assures me. “Sit down.”
I do, then remove my fake glasses. “What do you want?”
“Friendship.”
I clench my hands; I don’t believe him. “Why?”
“You never know when you’ll need a buddy like me.”
A third-grader couldn’t have said it better. “I busted your head up with a bottle. How do I know—”
“Don’t
you think I would have retaliated by now?” He opens the right side of his leather jacket and flashes his gun. “You’re the only woman to ever knock some sense into me. I deserved it.”
That’s an understatement. He stabbed my boyfriend. “On one condition,” I say tentatively.
He raises his thick red eyebrows. “Well?”
“Don’t ever ask me to be your ‘old lady.’ ”
He chuckles. “I’d spoil you.”
“No.” I smirk. “You’d beat me silly every night and take my money.”
He clamps his lips together to suppress a smile; but I see the merriment in his eyes. “You’ve got it all wrong, baby.”
I shake my head. “Do I?”
“You’ve been watching too many movies—listening to gossip in the dressing room.” He reaches inside his jacket and pulls out a leather business card organizer. “Here.” He offers me one.
I read it. “You’re a bar manager?”
He nods. “Divas, down the street.”
I suddenly realize I’ve been stressed-out for no reason. This guy is a big teddy bear, at least with me. I stare in Craig’s direction—he’s guarding the VIP entrance like a harem eunuch, minus the silky pants. I give him a small smile, then turn my attention back to Sargent. “I still don’t understand why you want to be my friend,” I say, “but I’m in no position to turn you down.” I offer my hand.
My innocent gesture earns me another deep-throated chuckle. He shakes my hand. “If you ever need anything, darlin’, you call the number on that card—I’ll be here.”
Chapter 16
I don’t know why I’m rushing around like a chicken with its head cut off. Craig is due here any moment, and I’m busy setting the dining room table. I baked Cornish game hens with homemade stuffing, grilled asparagus with Gorgonzola and roasted walnuts, and sweet potato casserole. I’m afraid to tell Garrick and Robyn I’m moving out tomorrow. After I fold the last linen napkin and place the silverware on it, the doorbell sounds. I untie my apron, walk through the kitchen, place the apron on the counter, then head for the living room.
I open the front door. “Hey, baby.” Craig is holding a large bouquet of white lilies and a bottle of wine.
My gaze sweeps over him. He’s wearing a perfectly tailored gray suit. The two-button jacket hugs his broad shoulders and is effortlessly elegant. I suck in a breath. Does he know how hard it is to resist him?
“Inviting me in?” he asks playfully. “Or am I expected to stand here on display all night?”
“Your ears must have been burning,” I say, moving out of the way. “I was just thinking about you.”
He steps inside, then leans down. “Shall I tell you what part of me is burning? Not my ears, Marisela.” He nips my neck, sending wicked shivers up my spine.
“Oh God,” I whisper. We haven’t even made it through supper yet and I want to rip his clothes off. He puts the wine and flowers down on a nearby table, then wraps his arms around me.
“You look stunning,” he compliments.
I’m wearing a navy Dorothy Perkins lace pencil dress. I love the way it clings to my body in all the right places. “Thank you.”
He runs his fingers underneath the collar. Excitement rushes through me. Whenever our bodies touch, sparks fly. It’s astonishing. He feels it too, his eyes growing darker. He steps back. “Come home with me tonight.”
Before I can answer, Garrick appears on the far side of the living room. “Craig,” he says, striding over. They shake hands.
“How’s it going, bro?” Craig asks.
“Picked up a new contract with the state last week. Plenty of bridges to redesign,” Garrick answers.
I sneak away before Craig presses me for an answer. I join Robyn in the kitchen. She smiles at me. “Nervous?”
“No,” I lie, praying it doesn’t show. “Preoccupied.”
I watch as she opens the oven and pulls out the apple pie I made. It smells delicious. I grab a fork off the counter and hover over the pastry. The crust is golden brown and crispy-looking. She bats my hand away.
“Don’t even think about it.” She wags a finger at me.
“I made it. Someone needs to be the taste tester.”
I look up just as Craig and Garrick enter the kitchen. “Everything smells delicious, baby.” Garrick kisses Robyn’s cheek.
“Don’t give me the credit,” Robyn says. “Marisela slaved away in the kitchen all day, not me.”
Craig’s eyes light up as he approaches me. “You cook, too?”
I nod.
“I’ll remember that,” he says seductively.
“For what?” I croak. I’m useless around him.
As if Robyn knows what’s happening, she drags Garrick out of the kitchen. Craig takes advantage of the alone time and lowers his mouth to mine. His tongue slides gently between my lips as he braces his hands on my hips. He moans, circling my arms with his fingers. “I haven’t been inside you for two days, Marisela,” he rumbles. “I’m beginning to think you’re avoiding me.”
I stare up at him. “No.”
A smile tugs at the corner of his full lips. “I’m glad to hear it. You’re coming home with me tonight.”
“Isn’t that my choice to make?”
He laughs darkly. “No, it’s not.”
I’ve only caught glimpses of the possessive man Craig is rumored to be. The scene at the beach party where he caught me holding hands with Justin is a stark reminder. “We’ll see if you feel that way after you taste my food.”
He laughs. “If it tastes half as good as you…” He effortlessly lifts me off my feet and places me gently on the countertop, then slips between my thighs. “…I’ll have another reason to be hopelessly addicted to you.”
—
I can’t keep my hands off Marisela. The dress she’s wearing is hot as hell—and her firm little ass looks too good in it. I’m sitting across from her at the table. I take a last bite of apple pie and wipe my mouth with my napkin. “You surprise me, Marisela Gonzalez.”
“How so?” she asks coyly.
“Not too many girls your age cook like this.”
“I credit my mother,” she answers. “She’s a strict Catholic—honor and obey. Cooking is part of the package.”
Robyn and Garrick laugh.
I drop my napkin on my plate and push it aside. “Ready to spill?” I ask.
Marisela gasps in surprise. “How did you know?”
I slant my head. She’s been off track tonight. “Out with it.”
She glances at Robyn, then back at me. “I’m moving in with Macey tomorrow night,” she blurts.
I growl. The thought of her living in that house drives me crazy. Before I started dating Marisela, I attended too many parties there. “Hell no.”
Robyn looks utterly shocked. “No, Marisela,” she says. “Macey is my best friend, but do you have any idea what goes on over there?”
Garrick opens then closes his mouth. He stares coldly at Marisela.
“I think we’d better go outside and have a little chat,” I suggest, rising from my chair.
Marisela crosses her arms over her chest. “I’m perfectly capable of choosing where I live.” Her gaze zigzags around the table. “I’m practically smothered here, Robyn. I love you, but I need my own space. And with you and Garrick expecting your firstborn, don’t you want your privacy back?”
Garrick drums his fingers on the table. “If we wanted you to leave, we’d ask. What about an apartment?”
Robyn whips around and stares at her husband questioningly.
“What?” he asks. “Am I the only one who understands why she wants her own place?”
“Hey!” Marisela stands up. “Why are you guys talking like I’m not here?”
“We’re not,” Robyn denies. “You’ve only been home a few weeks. And what about Estevan? What if…”
“I’m not going to live my life afraid of him,” Marisela says. “Craig is capable—”
“Outside, Mari
sela.” I’m standing under the archway into the living room. She follows me through the front door. “I don’t want you to move in with Macey. End of discussion.”
She smirks at me. “This behavior is a bit uncharacteristic of you.”
“I’ve been very patient with you, haven’t I?”
She nods silently.
“I’m not in the habit of telling women what they can and can’t do…unless the woman is fucking out of her mind.” Her mouth drops open. “That’s right,” I say. “Now you know how it felt to get broadsided with your news at the dinner table.”
“It’s a home, not a whorehouse.”
I lean in, captivated by her analogy. “Funny choice of words.”
She gapes at me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Sit.” She does. “Macey’s place offers all the luxuries anyone could want. I understand the temptation. Did you know her roommate is a swinger?”
Her shoulders droop. “I didn’t.”
“Not something Macey felt obligated to disclose, I see.” I rub the back of my neck, taking a deep breath while controlling my temper. “We’re not ganging up on you. We’re trying to protect you.”
“I’m emotionally drained, Craig. I let Estevan run my life for too long. After seeing him again in San Antonio, I want to live a little for myself. I like Macey and the house, a lot.”
That should be a good enough reason to convince me. I get it. But frustration over the threat her ex poses negates any understanding. “No matter how much I want to support your decision, I can’t.”
She leans forward in the wicker rocking chair and stares across the street. “Will it affect our relationship?”
I kneel in front of her, gathering her long hair in my hands. I kiss the exposed skin on her neck. “No, baby,” I reluctantly admit. “But my crazy meter will jump off the charts if anything happens to you.” The safest alternative is for her to move in with me. Something I’ve never asked a woman to do. She’s wormed her way into my heart. I smile.
“What?”
“Nothing,” I say, nibbling her ear. “Postpone the move for a few days. Give Robyn a chance to deal with it. Give me a chance.” There’s little point in me trying to coerce her—she needs to make her own decisions, no matter how much I might disagree.
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