by Laura Breck
All the seats along the L-shaped stage were taken so they sat in a big booth as close as they could get to the action. A young man danced on the stage—Valerie hadn’t noticed him at first because he was lying flat, doing some kind of gyration for the women who put dollar bills in his—“Ohmigosh.”—g-string? Her mouth hung open, and she snapped it shut.
The waiter came to their table, and she ordered a non-alcoholic beer while her friends ordered cocktails. She offered to watch their purses and the girls ran up to the stage and covered the dancer in dollar bills. Evidently, they’d done this before, because they knew exactly what to do.
Sloan stuck a five in her cleavage and made the dancer take it out with his teeth. Valerie watched, mesmerized. When a hand touched Valerie’s back, she jumped. An extremely handsome man, bare to his waist, smiled with perfect teeth. His long, blond hair reminded her of Fabio.
“You don’t enjoy the dancers?” he asked.
“My first time. I’m not sure what’s going on.”
“Ah, I like first-timers.” He slid in next to her in the booth.
She looked toward her friends, but they weren’t going to save her—they were focused on the dancer.
“Um, I don’t know—”
He took her hand and kissed it, running his thumb over her palm. “I’d like to spend some time with you. Just twenty dollars for a song. And if you like how I dance, you can tip me.”
She wrinkled her brow then the term popped into her head. “Oh, lap dance?”
He laughed, probably surprised by her naivety. “Yes, that’s what it’s called, honey.”
“I’m sorry.” She dug in her purse for a twenty and handed it to him. “I’m really not interested in…that. No offense to you at all. You’re a very nice looking man.”
He set the twenty back down on the table and kissed her fingers again. “Thank you, but I’m rather touchy about rejection.”
“Sorry. Really.” She eased her hand from his. “Wait! What if—can I buy a lap dance for someone else?”
“You sure can. We actually encourage it.” He winked at her. “Which one?”
“The redhead with the green dress. Sloan.” Valerie pulled out another twenty and handed both to him. “This is her bachelorette party, and she wanted to come here.”
“And I’m guessing you didn’t?”
She made a sour face. “No.” She could do some research while they waited for Sloan to come back to the table. “May I ask you a personal question?”
“You can. But I may not answer.”
“Why have you chosen to do this?”
“Stripping?”
“Yes. I’m curious why you would choose this form of dancing over others.”
He shrugged. “The hours are easy. The money’s good. Lots of women. Lots of sex.”
She felt her cheeks grow hot. She hadn’t thought of the sex. “I heard a rumor that—”
“That all male dancers are gay?”
She nodded.
“I know some are, but a lot of us aren’t. We get offered room keys from women all the time. Sometimes it’s the bride-to-be looking for one last fling.”
“A lot of one night stands?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“So, you don’t have a girlfriend?”
“On and off. I’ve dated, but a lot of women are too jealous to become serious with a male dancer.”
“I can imagine.” Another dancer was announced, and, when he took the stage, Valerie watched him for a minute. “Do you practice this dancing, or does it just come naturally?”
He laughed. “Not natural at all. There are certain steps, certain things we have to do to really get the women juiced up.”
“Fascinating. It’s like a science.”
“And it’s deadly serious. We practice every Thursday noon, and no one can get in except the dancers. High-level stuff. If you miss a practice, you’re stage time is cut short.”
She laughed, but a memory tickled her brain. Thursday noon. Why did that sound familiar?
Sloan and the girls came back to the booth, and the man—she didn’t even know his name—stood. “Sloan?” He looked her up and down like she was a prime piece of beef. “I’d like to show you something.”
Everyone screeched with anticipation as he sat her down and began dancing for her. Or more accurately, on her. He placed her hands on his body. She laughed and ooohed at his moves. He got very personal, and Sloan let him and even pulled his head down into her lap.
It was a good use of Valerie’s money, making Sloan happy, but she felt bad for the young man. She couldn’t imagine how demeaning it must be for him.
When he finished, he kissed Sloan’s cheek then winked at Valerie and moved on to the next table. The girls teased Sloan, asking if she was still going through with the wedding.
Sloan fanned herself with her hand. “Thanks for the lap dance, Valerie. Now you pick a guy, and I’ll buy one for you!”
“Seriously, Sloan, if you do, I’m out of here.”
Sloan threw her hands up in surrender. “No fun, Valerie. Your frumpy, unsocial writer has you all conservative and boring.”
Valerie knew better than to argue with a bunch of liquored-up, sexually-charged women, so she nodded. “Yup, that’s us. The old anti-socials.”
The girls downed their drinks, ordered another round, and pointed to other women in the club, making catty comments about how trampy or how drunk they were. Valerie smiled, watching her wild girlfriends—each in an odd wig and sunglasses—having the audacity to make fun of other audience members.
Over the speakers, the D.J. announced the next dancer. “The top money-maker for the last two years, from Miami, it’s Carlos.”
Chapter Thirty One
The female audience yelled, “Carlos!” as the D.J. played and instrumental version of the thumping, sexy “Pony” by Ginuwine.
When the women around the stage screamed at an amazing decibel level, Valerie looked over, watching Carlos leap onto the stage. She turned back to talk to Sloan then stopped, completely forgot what she was going to say, and looked back at the dancer.
One of her girlfriends shouted, “Wowwie! Look at this guy! Get your dollars, ladies, this one is hot!” The women pushed their way up to the stage, each carrying a fist full of money and a cocktail.
It took Valerie a full minute to recognize him.
He grabbed the collar of his skin-tight T-shirt, ripped it down the front, and yanked it off, circling it above his head before throwing it into the crowd. A tattoo of barbed wire ran around one perfectly muscled bicep. His other arm bore a Harley tattoo. His shoulder-length black hair was greased back and tied with a leather strap. He wore black military boots and a pair of black satin basketball shorts.
It was the man in Antonio’s condo the morning she brought the birthday cake.
Her head spun a couple times.
No. It was Antonio.
She sucked in a breath and moved a shaking hand to the sunglasses, pulling them off her face. Her man, her lover, her love, danced for women. For money. The father of her baby. Her hand moved to cover her stomach, as if protecting the tiny one from seeing his father doing something so unbelievable.
When “Carlos” ripped off his shorts, revealing a black g-string that covered only his package, the women went berserk. His turned and shook his completely bare bottom. She looked at his beautiful back, his strong thighs. This was why he was the biggest money-maker in the club. He was perfection.
She watched him dance, making eye contact with women. It all fit now. His noon appointments on Thursdays, they were the practice sessions. He worked here Thursday, Friday and Saturday until early morning then slept the rest of the day—when she thought he was writing the whole weekend.
This was his demon. And probably the reason his anger lay so close to the surface. And it had to be why he was being blackmailed. He’d tried to talk to her about this, on numerous occasions, but he had to have been afraid she wouldn’t understand. Afraid
she’d leave him.
Her mind spiraled as she tried to separate her emotions from the facts. In her line of work, she studied and counseled people who participated in much stranger—and scarier—activities. This wasn’t too bad, was it? Even so, she couldn’t imagine a future of her sitting home alone evenings knowing he was out doing…this. She closed her eyes. To hell with keeping her emotions out of this. She’d leave him if he wouldn’t quit dancing.
Then her eyes popped open again. How could she leave him? She was pregnant.
She couldn’t concentrate. The music pounded into her brain, painful like a hammer. The smell of her beer nauseated her. She looked toward the stage. Women grabbed him, put money deep into his underwear. One made him fetch a bill out of her cleavage, and he kissed her neck.
“Oh, God, no, not my friends!” She needed to get out of there before she saw any more. She closed her eyes, and tears streamed down her face.
A hand touched her arm, startling her. She looked up into the lap-dancer’s concerned face.
“Honey, what’s wrong? Can I help?”
She blinked, focused on him. “I’ve just had some bad news. Would you please ask my friend to come back to the table? I have to leave.”
If he thought it odd that she didn’t go to her friends herself, he didn’t say so, he just went. Sloan came to the table, a worried look on her face, and Valerie spoke in her ear. “I just got a call from a patient. I need to go. I’m going to have the bus drive me then I’ll send it back for you.”
“No, we can go, too—”
Valerie grabbed her wrist to keep her there. “Sloan, really, stay. Have fun. Don’t worry about me. I’m a workaholic anyway.”
“True. Are you sure you feel safe? Do you want me to ride with you?”
“No, I’ll be fine. I’ll leave the house door open for you and see you when you get up.”
“Okay, thanks again for the really fun night.”
Valerie took one more look at “Carlos.” How could he keep this a secret from her? Why had he never felt he could confide in her? What did that say about her personality? About her career choice?
She left the building and surprised the bus driver with her request to be driven home.
When they were on the road, he looked at her in the rearview mirror. “How far along are you?”
“What?”
“I just assume you’re pregnant but don’t want your friends to know.”
“You’re perceptive.”
“No. But I am a father of three.”
“About a month.”
“Morning sickness?”
“Morning, afternoon, and evening.”
He laughed. “It’ll pass. And it’s worth it. I love my little angels.”
They talked about his family, about which hospital in the valley was the best to deliver a baby, and it was good to have her mind off of Antonio for a half hour.
Once home, she ripped off the wig and took a long, hot shower, chills racing through her every time she thought of “Carlos.” Why did she feel dirty?
She slipped into bed, exhausted, but it would be a long time before she fell asleep. She called her therapist’s non-emergency voicemail and left a message asking to see him as soon as possible next week. He’d love this new development. Hopefully, he’d have some concrete suggestions, because she had no idea what to do next.
She pulled the covers up to her chin and looked out at The Strip. The lights wouldn’t calm her tonight. Her life was a complete cluster…
“Fuck.” There, she said it. It didn’t make her feel any better, but it captured her mood perfectly.
How did she miss all the obvious clues? The night of their motorcycle ride, the women in the casino called him Carlos. Had he yelled at them so she wouldn’t hear where he worked?
The morning she’d brought him a birthday cake, he’d fallen asleep on the couch in his disguise.
He drove a beat-up Toyota.
All the pieces of the puzzle suddenly fit.
When she closed her eyes, all she could see was Antonio giving women private dances in dark corners of the club, their hands all over his body. The body she thought belonged to her alone. A paralyzing thought entered her mind. What if he slept with women he met at the club, just like the lap-dancer did. She sat up, tempted to drive back, wait for him to leave work, and follow him to see if he went home or—not.
She forced herself back to calm for the baby’s sake. “Deep breaths. Visualize yourself on a sandy beach.” She took a small amount of pride in the fact that she hadn’t had an anxiety attack tonight. And if ever a situation called for one, this was it.
With Dan’s help, she would somehow handle this. She had to. For the baby and for the man she loved more than anything in the world. She closed her eyes, willing herself to sleep.
But her eyes popped open again. Maybe he didn’t want to quit dancing. Evidently, it satisfied some need within him for—what—a thrill? A sexual power trip? A stress release? She needed to get inside Antonio’s head.
After she talked to Dan, she’d pull a professional taboo and talk to Jarrodd. Antonio put her name on his file as a consulting psychologist, and she would use it to discuss confidential information with his therapist.
She had a plan of action, albeit a semi-unethical one, but her career came second. Her life came first.
****
That evening, Valerie packed everyone into her SUV and drove to the marina where Ryan docked his fleet of rental houseboats.
“Congratulations on your engagement, Sloan.” Ryan give her a sideways hug.
She showed him her ring. “Thanks, Ryan. And thanks for letting us party on your boat.”
He pointed to the biggest houseboat. “We’re taking the SexSea. Make yourselves at home. I’ll be with you shortly.”
They hauled their bags toward the boat, shouting and hooting, but Ryan took Valerie’s arm, pulling her aside.
“Vanana, something wrong?” He used her childhood nickname.
“Yeah, a big one, Ry. I’ll talk to you on the boat. I don’t want to ruin tonight’s booze cruise for them.”
He laughed. “So I’m your designated driver and your shrink?”
“I’ll double your tip, Captain.” She toted her overnight bag and boarded the houseboat.
“There’s a whirlpool tub.” Sloan yelled from the top deck. “And a slide that shoots you off the back of the boat! And you should see this bar! It’s completely stocked. We’re going to have a blowout!”
“Look at all the food!” Someone yelled from the kitchen. “Steaks! I’m going to grill us some steaks and baked potatoes.”
“Do it!” Three voices yelled their sorority’s motto.
Ryan took them out for a cruise of the Hoover Dam then headed off to find a place for them to swim. Sloan insisted on skinny dipping, so Ryan obliged and pulled into a secluded cove. The girls, excluding Valerie, peeled off their clothes and used the slide to plunge into the cool water of Lake Mead. Their screams reached Ryan and Valerie as they sat in the captain’s chairs on the fly bridge.
“Are you sure I shouldn’t be keeping an eye on them?” Ryan craned his neck toward the back of the boat.
“Positive. The last thing I need is for my brother to get hooked up with one of my rowdy sorority sisters.”
“But I could just look.”
“Seriously. Don’t you have a girlfriend?”
“Um, no, I don’t think so…oh, wait. I do. It’s um…Abby? Right?”
“That would be the one.”
“Okay. Enough of my monogamy issues. What’s eating you?”
How could she make it sound detached, as if she was asking for advice for one of her patients? She took a breath. “If a woman finds out the man she loves…”
Ryan’s face showed concern.
It was too much. A bubble of anxiety raced from her. “Oh, God, Ryan, I’m pregnant.”
“Oh, shit.”
Her eyes filled.
Ryan immediatel
y went to her, pulled her into his arms, and patted her back as she cried. “Okay, Vanana, it’s okay. Everything will be fine.” He rocked her for a few minutes. “Do you want me to beat up Antonio for you?”
She laughed through her tears. “Would you?”
“No. But I’d hire somebody to do it. He’s a big dude!” He guided her to sit.
“He doesn’t know about the baby yet.” She took the tissue box he offered and mopped up her face.
He sat back in his chair. “Why not?”
“He had his book deadline. Then Dad’s accident. I’ve got the girls this weekend. I won’t see him until tomorrow night.”
“You’re going to tell him then?”
She sighed. “No.”
“Speaking for all men, the father of the baby deserves to know right away.” He lifted his beer bottle to his lips then lowered it. “Unless you’re thinking about…you know…ending the pregnancy.”
“No, not at all, Ry. I’m happy I’m having a baby. It’s all I can think about.”
“You said ‘I’m having a baby,’ not ‘we’re.’ Do you think Antonio will dump you?”
“No. He’s talked about a serious relationship.”
“What, then? What aren’t you telling me?”
“It’s something I have to deal with. Something I have to work out with Antonio before I tell him about the baby.”
“Can I help?”
“I really wish you could, but I have to do this alone. Well, me and two of Las Vegas’ best psychologists.”
“Yeah, then definitely leave me out. I want to be as far away from that brain-trust as possible.”
“It is a daunting thing, being able to control people’s minds.” She dramatically flipped her hair over her shoulder and tried to make a smug face.
“You’re so full of shit, your eyes should be brown.”
A small laugh escaped her throat. “Have you ever not taken the free advice I’ve given you?”
“No, I’ll admit it. You’re better than Freud and Jung rolled into one.”
“That’s so far from the truth, it’s almost scary.” She waved a hand in the air. Now…” She stood and looked toward the back of the boat. “I’m going to pretend to be drinking like a party-fish with my girlfriends.” Her gaze met his. “Please, Ryan, I need you to keep my secret from everyone, including the family and Antonio, okay?”