by Max Monroe
I grabbed my bag from the back seat of my Tahoe and hopped out anyway.
The sheer size of the place loomed in front of me with a little extra ominousness, but I ignored it as best as I could and put one foot in front of the other until I’d made it inside the door.
The lobby was quiet as were the halls, and for the first time since I’d practiced apologizing to my boss in the mirror that morning, I started to relax a little.
Maybe this won’t be so bad. I’ll get myself ready, get conditioning early, and then burn off some of these nerves in the workout long before I have to face Wes.
By the time I meet with him, the raging pulse of blood inside me will quiet to a dull roar.
Feeling lighter, I reached for the handle of the locker room door and clasped my hand around it triumphantly…only to be stopped by the booming call of none other than Wes Lancaster himself.
“Mitchell,” he bellowed from the other end of the hall, a scary rattle carrying the l’s at the end of my name well past their expiration date.
“Sir?” I asked, turning around slowly and steeling my face into something I hoped resembled manly contrition.
“My office. You’re here early and so am I, so we might as well get this over with.”
Ah, hell. Over with? That didn’t sound good.
“Yes, sir,” I agreed nonetheless.
He turned and moved immediately, and any hope I had that he’d meant for me to go have a little cry in the locker room beforehand disappeared.
The walk to his office was so quiet you could have heard a pin drop. So, surely, I assumed he’d been able to hear how dangerously close my heart was to exploding.
He didn’t mention it as we stepped inside his office, though, so I decided it was best if I didn’t either.
I watched from a spot near the door as he rounded the desk and settled into the chair behind it.
When he looked up to find me standing there, he sighed.
An exasperated sigh.
“Sit down, Cam.”
Fuck, Cam. You’re already fucking this up!
Moving quickly, I settled my ass into the chair in front of his desk and dropped my bag on the floor beside me.
His migraine from my shit was practically visible as he rubbed at the bridge of his nose.
“Do I look like a goddamn idiot?” he asked.
I swallowed hard and looked around the room for the cameras that must be filming a hidden-camera TV show at the ridiculousness of the opening, but when he didn’t say anything more, I felt it prudent to answer. Carefully, of course.
“Uh, no, sir.”
“Great. Do I look like the kind of guy who likes to employ goddamn idiots?”
Oh, okay. Now I see where this is going.
“Definitely not, sir.”
“Excellent. Then, please, can you explain to me why you, one of my employees, decided to act like a goddamn idiot at a strip club on Friday night?”
“Again…” I cleared my throat. “No, sir.”
The last thing I needed to do was tell him I’d been mesmerized by a beautiful stripper named Trixie, and I’d attempted to fight for her honor against some shit-faced asswipe who felt the need to touch her.
Something about that knight and white horse scenario had turned me primal, and I’d found myself reacting out of instinct.
I’d wanted to protect her. Keep her safe.
Take her far fucking away from that club so I could keep her all to myself.
Fuck. Get it together, Cam. Wes Lancaster didn’t want to hear any of this shit, so I needed to stop thinking about it.
Wes’s scowl deepened, and I stuttered to go on.
“I…I can tell you that it won’t happen again. That’s a promise.”
“Yeah, well, Mitchell, your promises don’t seem all that fucking reliable right now, now do they?”
Ouch. “No, sir.”
“This is prime time. It might not seem like it because we don’t have ESPN knocking on the goddamn door of every conditioning session, but I can assure you, this is the time where we win or lose championships. Your behavior now, your work ethic. It all reflects on the team I intend to run during the season, and your shit on Friday night does not reflect the type of team I intend to run this season.”
“I would agree, sir. Honestly, I know my behavior is unacceptable, and I’m ready to accept the consequences.” I thought of the fact that the media hadn’t been on my doorstep during all of this even once and winced. “I kind of thought I’d be a lot further up shit’s creek with the media on this one.”
He smiled with absolutely no humor. Like, serial killers looked fucking funnier than this guy. “You were. I had to call in practically all of my fucking favors to keep the media attention on you to a minimum.”
“Wow.” I didn’t know what to say. That was a huge gesture and had to say a lot about the way he felt about me as a player. “Sir, I don’t know how to thank you—”
“I did it for the team,” he interrupted purposefully.
I nodded on a hard swallow. “Yes, sir. I hope you’ll still have me be a part of it.”
Wes scrubbed at his face in agitation and sat back in the high-backed leather of his chair.
“You’re not off the team,” he said decisively, allowing air to properly fill my lungs for the first time since we’d set foot in this office. “But you are on my shit list.”
“Yes, sir,” I responded dutifully. “Thank you, sir.”
“Cut the shit,” he finally breathed with a raise of his palm. “Absolutely no more warnings for you, do you understand me?”
I nodded swiftly.
“Fuck up again, and I’ll oust you. I don’t give a damn how good of a tight end you are.”
“I understand,” I acknowledged.
He picked up a file from the side of his desk, opened it, closed it, and then dropped it again before scrubbing his fingers over his lips.
“We’ve got a new draft. Leo Landry. Outstanding cornerback with a lot of potential and a lot of fucking arrogance. I’d intended to put him with you, let him shadow someone who didn’t seem to have his head so far up his ass, but you’ve apparently been working a little too much on your flexibility.”
Wow. Powerful imagery. My head actually up my ass. I’m gonna go out on a limb and say Mr. L has been thinking of ways to curse me for a couple of days now.
“Yes, sir. I’m a completely inappropriate example now. I understand.”
Wes rolled his eyes and sat forward.
“Just get the fuck out of my office, would you?”
I climbed to my feet immediately. Getting the fuck out now, sir. Right away, sir.
“We’ve got a couple of months before the new guys mix with the old. Keep your head down, do what you’re supposed to, and maybe I’ll reconsider when the time comes.”
My chest swelled at the news that I’d be able to renew my status in the eyes of my boss, and I nodded.
No stupid yes, sir, no doting answer, just a nod.
Apparently, Wes Lancaster finally saw what he’d been looking for all meeting long.
“Good.”
With fire in my veins and hope in my heart, I shut his office door behind me on about the best note I could.
It didn’t end with the word fired, and it didn’t end in an expletive.
It ended well. Fantastic even, considering the circumstances.
Too bad my night at Skins hadn’t fared so well.
If only I could have ended last night the way I’d wanted to—with more of Trixie’s time until she gave in and told me her real name, and if I would’ve been really lucky, her phone number too.
By the time I reached the weight room, I was so far deep in thoughts of the mysterious woman with raven hair that I had a hell of a time focusing on my conditioning session.
How’s that for not learning from my mistakes?
The speakers boomed the opening guitar riff of “Sweet Emotion,” filtering all the way into the employees-only
room at the back of the club, and the crowd answered with resounding approval in the forms of shouts and wolf whistles.
Another Friday night. Another shift at Skins.
Another night of pretending to be someone else.
The crowd grew louder and more excited when the first lyrics of the song started to reverberate through the room, and all I could do was smile to myself as I applied a fresh coat of gloss to my lips.
Only Star danced the main stage to Aerosmith, and if I was being honest, I quite admired the chick. She was beautiful, confident, midthirties, and made no apologies for her choice in profession. Not to mention, whenever her stilettos hit the stage, she might as well have stepped right out of a 1980’s Whitesnake video.
“Hello, ladies,” Marco announced his arrival as he made his way into the room. “How are we doing tonight?”
The girls, including myself, responded accordingly, offering sugary-sweet smiles and hellos to the club’s owner.
A slimy smile crested the corners of his mouth, and he unbuttoned the jacket of his expensive Italian suit and leaned against the doorway. “There’s an entire club full of eager patrons ready to be entertained and tip generously. Are my girls ready?”
My girls. God, it took a lot of strength to pretend Marco Sabella was anything but repulsive.
But I was well-versed in my Trixie role. A girlish giggle left my BerryLicious-stained lips as I nodded. “Yes, Marco.”
And the rest of his girls responded in the same manner.
“Good. Good,” he said. “Now, I have some very special guests here tonight, and I need some very special girls to keep them happy. Charm and Roxie,” he said, gesturing to the women with a curl of his index finger and a smirk. “You girls think you can handle that?”
Both fresh-faced and nineteen, mere babies in my opinion, Roxie and Charm were the two youngest girls working at the club. Over the past month, I’d noticed they also appeared to be his favorite girls, and the detective side of my brain suspected they went above and beyond the stripper call of duty to keep his special guests happy.
Unfazed by his request, Roxie and Charm sashayed across the room until they wrapped themselves around the club’s owner without a second thought.
A narcissistic, cocky as fuck grin highlighted the lines on his face.
He lived for this kind of attention. Fucking thrived off it.
“All right, ladies. Behave yourselves tonight, but not too much, if you know what I mean,” he announced to the rest of the room.
“Yes, Marco.” More giggles and smiles followed.
The overzealous response urged that stupid grin of his to grow, and he puffed out his chest like a fucking peacock as he wrapped his arms around the two youngest strippers’ waists and led them toward the front of the club.
God, one day real fucking soon, I’ll nail that rat bastard.
One sweet day, I’d gather all of the evidence I needed, and Marco Sabella would be smacked across the face with the strong arm of the law and a prison sentence he couldn’t negotiate or manipulate his way out of, no matter how fucking good his lawyers were.
But that day wasn’t today.
Today—tonight, actually—I’d focus on the daily grind of playing my part while keeping my eyes and ears wide open.
I turned back toward my vanity mirror and did one last inventory of my hair and makeup. I wouldn’t be dancing on the main stage tonight, but I would definitely be making the lap dance rounds during the midnight hour.
“Yo! Trixie!” Tex, one of the bouncers, called my name, and I turned in my chair to find him holding a cordless phone in his hands. “Phone call,” he added, and my eyebrows shot up in surprise.
Huh? Who would be calling me here?
I narrowed my eyes. “A phone call?”
“Yep.” He nodded. “For you.”
I swallowed back my surprise and walked over to him, grabbing the cordless phone from his outstretched hand and offering a little smile before I sat back down at my vanity and greeted the stranger on the other line. “Hello?”
“Trixie?” A raspy, deep male voice filled my ears.
“You’ve got her.”
“Uh…hey…how are you?”
I probably shouldn’t have remembered it, but the fact remained, I knew that voice.
Mr. Persistent.
“Who is this?” I asked, completely ignoring the familiarity of the man on the other end of the line.
“It’s…uh… It’s…Cam.”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Apparently, it was too much to hope that he’d be struck with a sudden bout of amnesia.
Just play it cool.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t know a Ham.”
Ham? Oh my God, I’m an idiot.
“No, not Ham.” A soft chuckle left his lips. “Cam. The guy from last Friday. The one who ended the night in handcuffs after knocking out someone who probably deserved a hell of a lot more…”
I didn’t respond right away, hoping a hit to his ego would be enough to curtail his efforts. Evidently, he didn’t mind my faux faulty memory. That, or he didn’t believe it. Either way, he continued to try to jog my memory.
“Rich brown eyes. Muscular build. Impeccably dressed,” he continued and I rolled my eyes, but also, I smiled. “You know, the guy who defended your honor from that skeezy old bastard who wouldn’t stop fucking touching you,” he muttered, and the smallest hint of anger rocked his voice.
God. He was making it harder and harder to act like I still had no clue without seeming mentally stunted. I mean, how much vivid detail can one woman pretend to forget without seeming like Dory from Finding Nemo?
“So…” He paused, before adding, “Do you remember me?”
“Yes,” I answered honestly. “Of course, I remember you. And since I didn’t get to say anything to you before they carted you off in handcuffs, I guess now would be a perfect time to say thank you.” I forced the words past my lips even though I knew I could’ve handled the handsy Pauly situation without his help. If anything, his intervention had only made my night more difficult. “I hope you didn’t end up getting into too much trouble for it.”
“I’m glad I was there,” he answered. “And don’t worry, a few hours in the drunk tank wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle.”
Silence stretched between us as my eyes perused through all manner of naked women changing lingerie before drifting back to the awkward woman in the mirror.
The other women—though, they weren’t the least bit interested in my conversation—made me feel self-conscious, and the blatant attention the mirror and his unexpected call drew to me was even worse.
I had to get things moving—get this over with.
“So…not to be rude or anything, but is there a reason you’re calling me?”
“I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
Of all the things I could have imagined he wanted, verification of my well-being was at the very bottom of the list. So much so, his words caught me off guard.
The only men in my life who made a point to check on my welfare were blood-related.
“Oh…” I could feel the heat as it rushed to my cheeks, and I bent my neck down to avoid having to face it. “Thank you…I guess…for checking on me.” The warm tingle in my chest was evidence that I’d be a liar if I said I didn’t mean it.
Of course, that didn’t make the rest of my delivery any less awkward. “It happens all the time. I mean, not all the time,” I blathered, “but it’s happened before. I…I’m alive.”
I’m alive? As if he needed that verification while he was literally talking to me on the phone.
“Good.” Simple and soft, just that one word curled through me like a wave of fresh heat as he chuckled at my word vomit.
Unsure of what to do with my free hand—and even more unsure of how to slow the excited flutter of my heart—I ran my fingers through the length of my hair and stared myself down in the vanity mirror. Hard lines, harsh light, and heavy makeup, I was a shell o
f the woman I once knew myself to be.
Cam’s questions and insight made me yearn to rediscover her.
Fuck, I need to end this call. “So…is that all you wanted?”
Desire to revisit myself and curiosity about Cam were equally dangerous and both rooted in him. Cutting all ties as soon as possible was the only possible solution.
“Yeah, I guess that’s all I wanted. That, and a name,” he ended on a tease.
Even though his words were meant to be playful, tension seized my every muscle.
The last thing I needed to be doing was talking about my real name on a phone line owned by Marco Sabella. Just the mention of it had the ends of my nerves zinging like live wires.
But, in all fairness, it wasn’t like Cam was privy to the real story.
He had no idea why I was working at Skins.
For all he knew, I really was just a stripper named Trixie. Certainly, an undercover detective who was trying to stop a drug and prostitution ring wasn’t anywhere remotely close to the idea of the woman he’d conjured up in his head.
“Very funny,” I said and quickly diverted the conversation to a different topic. “Well, sorry to cut this one short, but I need to get back to work.”
Back to a world without you in it.
“I’m the only one who can dance to ‘Smooth Criminal,’” I added and immediately wanted to shove the words back inside my mouth.
Jesus. What’s wrong with me?
The real answer to my question was something akin to apparently, all sorts of stuff, but Cam’s laugh said he wasn’t noticing nearly enough. “Have a good night, Trixie.”
Heavy and far too attached, my voice startled me as I replied in kind. “You too, Cam.”
As I hung up the call and set the cordless phone down on my vanity, I gave myself a minute to rein in my scattered, racing thoughts while I pretended to fuss with my hair. With a curl here and a piecey wave there, there were just enough adjustments to make me look sufficiently busy.
Through it all, one scary scenario replayed in my mind over and over again—Cam not going away.
The woman in me felt intrigued and excited at the prospect, but the cop? She was less enthusiastic and not even remotely as delicate. She only had one question.