Bad Nanny (The Bad Nanny Trilogy #1)

by C. M. Stunich

  Okay, I can do this. I can do this. This is about me supporting me, supporting the girls.

  I step up onto the stage in black heels as a sensual rock song breaks into the room, and wrap my hands around the sleek black surface of the pole. I'm not the best dancer here, but I manage, swinging around in a slow circle as I warm up to the temp, my heels sliding against the floor.

  My right leg lifts up slowly and I lay it against the pole, leaning forward like I'm stretching or something, like this is just a warm up for a workout. That's how I've been getting through this, pretending each dance is a different event. Keeps my mind off of the eyes below me.

  I draw my leg back, knee up and swing my hair back, my long ponytail flying dramatically as the men cheer and shout. Because we serve alcohol here, they're supposed to stay six feet away from the dancers at all times, but dollar bills rain down on the stage anyway. Anything to get me to come closer, I guess.

  Oh, and did I mention the special around here is called dollar titties? Wave a buck around like the college boys at the end of my stage and get a girl to come and shake her boobs in your face. I hate this. I hate it so much.

  My eyes close as I let go of the pole and bend down low, coming up slowly and flicking my ponytail over my shoulder, my red corset and skirt making me feel more secure. It's when those things come off that I feel the aching numbness start to take over.

  When I turn and head to the front of the stage, reaching down to unhook my garters from the thigh highs, the boys go absolutely nuts—Dan especially. He cheers and yells something about knowing me, reaching out to grab one of the waitresses by the arm.

  The bouncer is there in a second and Dan throws his arms up, ignoring the man as he heads back to his place near the booths. Some of the girls are giving lap dances in their bikini bottoms, but the bouncers have to be on it like crazy because the men (or the occasional woman) has to keep their hands firmly planted on the armrests.

  When I strip the corset off next and turn around, I toss it aside and grab the pole, sliding down to my side and lifting my left leg up in a move the dancers here call the side pinup girl. It's a popular move, bringing more cash raining down in front, way more than I've seen before. These boys are definitely drunk as hell. Honestly, I'm surprised they're still here. Usually the manager likes to keep things low-key and kick out the rowdy patrons.

  I slide back up into a sitting position and wrap my legs around the pole, swinging my ponytail back before I lean forward again and glide my way back up into a standing position. Next, I have to reach up and remove my bra, feeling the sweat pouring down my spine and chest.

  I smell like the lilac perfume that Tiffany soaks herself in backstage, glitter sparkling all over my breasts as I toss the red bra aside and sway my way to the front, dropping low and sliding my fingers along my inner thighs, my thigh highs kept up with a little bit of well-placed body glue. It's a good trick for keeping them on after the garter belts come undone.

  Dan and his friends are shouting for me to flash some pussy but that's not going to happen. Sorry. Thankfully that's illegal around here, giving me a slight reprieve and a small boost to my dignity.

  I turn away and trace the stage again, pulling off the garter belt and spinning around the pole, dropping back and hooking my legs around the top so I can twist upside down and press my back to the metal, hair brushing against the stage. When I swing around and come back to my feet, I start one more round to the front, figuring that if Dan and his friends want to be crazy and throw money at me, I might as well take it.

  I feel cheap as hell for even thinking that, like some dog chasing after bones.

  Tears prick my eyes suddenly, but I blink them back, refusing to let myself go down that road again. I made my choice; I'm here; I'll make the best of it. For some reason, thoughts of Zayden pop up in my head: his smile, the warmth of his hands, his lips against my neck as he comes.

  He's made this bearable so far, but I'm struggling to figure out how I'm going to do this once he's gone.

  When I turn around at the end of the stage and use my shoulders for a little downward shimmy, things go from bad … to fucking awful. Dan and his friends are still shouting, telling me to show my shit, their faces bathed in shadow and the awful edge of the spotlight above my head. As soon as I take my eyes off of them, I hear commotion and then suddenly there's just this hand in my hair, dragging me back so hard that I fall, heels slipping out from under me.

  Just like Grace did at the playground.

  I go down heavy on the stage, the breath exploding from my lungs, and then I'm being dragged over the side. My body spins as I fall, knees and elbows connecting with the floor as the hand in my hair tightens and pulls. There's movement around me, probably the bouncers, but I'm still struggling to catch my breath and blink past the sudden tears in my eyes.

  The rough old carpet digs into my knees and palms as I force myself to my feet and grab the edge of the stage to pull myself upright. As soon as I do, I see Dan in the arms of one of the bouncers, thrashing and cursing as he's dragged to the front doors. One of the other employees snaps a photo of him before he's thrown out; he won't be allowed back in here ever again.

  “You fucking cunt!” he screams, right before he's dragged outside. I stand in stunned silence as the rest of Dan's friends are escorted out, crossing my arms tight over my bare chest as I struggle to keep my breathing slow, my eyes focused on the tinted doors at the front of the building.

  God. I can't believe this is happening. And it's not just that my scalp hurts and my knees are bleeding, my elbows stinging. But I have to go to class with that a-hole. I have sit there during a lecture and wonder if his eyes are on me or what he's thinking about me. Not that I give a shit … because I don't.

  I swear, I don't.

  Tiffany hustles over to me in a black robe and puts her arms around me. She smells like that floral perfume, flaking glitter all over my bare tits.

  “Come on, honey,” she says as she pulls me away from the main floor and the manager catches up to us, asking me if I'm alright, telling me to take a minute. At least he looks somewhat concerned, a nice change of pace considering his usual attitude towards me.

  “I'm fine,” I say, lifting up a hand as he pauses outside the curtain to the dressing room, and we go in. I slip on a t-shirt, let Tiffany set me up in one of the chairs next to the vanity and bring me a soda from the bar. The fizzy bubbles race over my tongue as I consider how the hell I'm going to deal with Dan come tomorrow.

  “Are you okay?” she asks for the tenth time as she takes a seat next to me. “Looks like you went down pretty hard.” I cringe and reach up to rub at the back of my head, feeling a slight scabbing of blood on my scalp.

  “I'm okay, really,” I say as I stare at myself in the mirror. My eyes look huge and dark, and even though I've slathered on thick stage makeup, I look young. Too young. It's creeping me out a little to be honest. “Well, physically. I mean, it hurts, but that's not really the issue.” I turn to look at Tiffany, and I wonder what her story is. She must have one, right? I bet all these girls do. Some—maybe all of them—might have stories worse than mine. “I go to school with that guy,” I say and she nods, watching me with big, beautiful blue eyes. She has this mothering vibe about her that makes me think she's older than she really is. Looking at her now, she can't be any older than Zayden.

  Zayden.

  I sigh.

  Too bad he wasn't here to punch Dan out for me. My mouth twitches a little.

  “Well, remember, you're a stripper, not a slave. Don't let him treat you any different at school, okay? Make that boy behave.” She slaps a hand on my knee and smiles, but I can't seem to make myself smile back.

  “We're partnered together on a research project. Do I tell the professor that the guy assaulted me at a strip club?”

  “If you have to. You shouldn't be ashamed of what you do to survive. Some people think this place is a last resort, that it's the worst thing possible. But what's really
bad, what's really low, is when you start to believe all of that, when you let yourself doubt. Do what you have to do, but stand up for yourself, okay?”

  “I will,” I promise, and I know that's the truth. I might not be the bravest girl in the world, but I don't let people walk all over me either.

  “I'm supposed to get off here in a minute, but why don't you sit for a spell and I'll take this set, alright?”

  “Thanks, Tiffany,” I say as she smiles at me and moves away, leaving me alone with the sweet, faint smell of her perfume.

  As soon as she leaves, this overwhelming sense of loneliness takes over me. Clearly, it's something that I need to work on, but … it sure is nice to know that Zayden's going to be waiting for me when I get back.

  Maybe he'll even be naked in my bed?

  I almost smile again, but it just won't come. Still, I decide that even if we only have two nights left, I'm going to use them up for all that they're worth.

  When I let myself in the front door, Sadie's crib is gone and I have a small moment of panic that Zayden's just up and left. But of course he wouldn't do that to the girls, not even to me I think. I really do smile when I hear the song that's playing from the kitchen: “Brown Eyed Girl” by Van Morrison.

  I close the door quietly behind me and lock it, leaving my bag on the couch and trying to sneak my way over to the archway in the kitchen to see what he's doing. Doesn't work though because I end up tripping over Hubert and falling directly into Zayden's waiting arms.

  “Whoa there, chickadee,” he says as he grins and lifts me back up, his fingers hot against my skin as he rights me and we both look down at the stupid cat. He's yowling and flashing a new sweater, this one with a South Park character on the back of it.

  It hits me suddenly that if Hubert wears a different sweater for everyday of the week then …

  “You packed, like, a dozen plus sweaters for your cat? That's what you thought to bring with you to Eureka?”

  Zayden's still grinning at me, but as he steadies me and goes to release my arms, he sees the rug burns on my elbows and frowns.

  When he tries to study the wounds, I pull away from him and cross my arms over the front of my coat, refusing to let my mind devolve into memories of Zayden pushing me against the wall next to the stairwell, coming all over my lacy teddy.

  “Seriously. You packed cat sweaters, Zayden. Doesn't get any nerdier than that.”

  Zayden snaps tattooed fingers at me and leans in close, his expression softening into something a little goofier.

  “If you're talking to me again, then I'm guessing I'm out of the doghouse?”

  “You sure you don't want to be in the doghouse?” I joke as I move over to the couch and pull Dodger off the back of the old chihuahua. Seriously, what is wrong with this dog? Not only is he neutered, but of the three chihuahuas, the only one he seems to enjoy humping is the ancient old man with cataracts and a tongue hanging out the side of his mouth. Kind of weird. And gross. Super gross. “Dodger seems to get a lot of action, way more than you.”

  “Oh, snap,” Zayden says, tilting his head to the side and snapping his fingers again. “You got me there, Smarty-Pants.” A pause as I stroke the fat chihuahua and the hyper little one with the white spot on her head. I still have no idea what their names are. Kinzie calls them Little Bastard, A-Hole, and Poop Face. I am guessing those are not their actual monickers. “So what's up with the elbows? Did something happen?”

  “I tripped on a transition strip,” I say with a roll of my eyes, raising my brows as the song ends and starts up again, clearly on another of Zay's endless loops. “What's with the music? Are you trying to soften me up?”

  “Um … is it working?” he asks with his own brows raised. “You know, Brooke,” he starts, but I can't take anymore of the weird sad half-smiles and the excuses. Clearly, Zayden is not ready for a relationship and you know what? Maybe I'm not either. I shouldn't cling to him when I can't even face the gaping yawn of loneliness inside of me. Besides, he's right: I'm only twenty-two. I have my whole life ahead of me. I don't need to get romantically involved with anyone for a while.

  “Don't. Just,” I pause as Dodger starts humping my leg, scooting him away with my heel. The little gray and white dog trots away and then … tries to go at it with the cat. Fortunately he gets a nice curved claw in the nose. Serves him right. I look up at Zayden and shove some hair away from my face. “Don't make anymore excuses, okay? However you feel, whatever you feel, it's fine. I get it.”

  Zayden looks a little skeptical, but he purses his lips and then nods, the black metal balls on his lip rings spinning as he plays with them with his tongue.

  “Gotcha,” he says and then gestures for me to follow him. “C'mere. I want to show you something.”

  I follow him into the kitchen and over to the back door, watching in awe as he opens it to reveal a giant trampoline with netted sides.

  “Holy crap,” I say as we move outside and into the slight drizzle. “Where the frick did this come from?”

  “Some guy on Craigslist,” he says and then grins at me when I give him a look. “What? He just wanted to get rid of it. Only cost me fifty bucks. I wanted the girls to have something fun to remember me by.”

  A wave of sadness crashes over me at the thought, but I push it back. The night's too quiet, too pretty, for those kinds of thoughts. When I glance up, the porch lights turn the falling needles of the trees into white slices in the dark.

  “Jump with me?” Zayden asks with a sharp grin. “I made sure to put Sadie upstairs, so we could hang out down here, watch a movie, or … whatever else.”

  “I see,” I say as I kick off my heels and move across the wet lawn to the edge of the trampoline. “You want me to jump on this thing in a trench coat and lingerie?”

  “Nooooo,” Zay says as he comes up next to me and spins around to lean his back against the trampoline, his green eyes sparkling. “I want you to jump on this thing in just lingerie. Lose the coat.” He gestures with his thumb and then grabs the edge of the netting, pulling it back and climbing in. As soon as he's up there, he turns and reaches out a hand for me.

  I stare at it for a long moment before I decide to take it. What the hell? I had a shitty night tonight, so I may as well go for it.

  I climb up and shrug my coat off, noticing Zayden's appreciative smile as he takes my hands and pulls me into the center of the wet trampoline, my skin prickling under the cold air and the icy droplets.

  “Wait,” Zay says as he reaches back and grabs his shirt, tearing it up and over his head with a bright grin. “It's not fair if you're the only half-naked person out here.”

  “You just want to show off your chest, admit it,” I say as Zayden wiggles his eyebrows at me and starts to jump, spinning in a circle as I laugh at his ridiculousness. “You are so weird,” I say, but it doesn't faze him and it makes me forget all about Dan the Douche and the strip club and everything else.

  “Bounce with me, Smarty-Pants,” he says as pauses and reaches out to take my hands, droplets sliding across the firm, hard muscles in his chest and abdomen. It's hard for me to pull my eyes away and focus on his face.

  “Do you know how bad my boobs are going to jiggle when I do that?”

  “Um, yeah. Clearly that's the whole reason I asked,” he jokes, sticking out his tongue and tilting his head to the side. I can see that the goofiness is amped up tonight, probably in some super secret genius way of his to make everything seem less heavy, less emotional. Zayden thinks he's stupid—or at least he pretends to think he's stupid—but I know he's a smart guy. “Bounce those boobs for me, baby.”

  “You're alliterating again,” I tell him, but take a deep breath and start to jump anyway. It's so weird. I haven't been on a trampoline since I was fifteen, but holy crap it's fun. I try not to scream as Zayden bounces into my feet and propels me into the air, catching me on my way down and pulling me against his chest.

  We fall to the surface of the trampoline and then in all th
at cold air and darkness, there's just suddenly this explosion of warmth as Zay's body slides against mine, as his mouth finds mine, his tongue slicking across my own.

  I groan and lean into him, my body draped over his, those big tattooed hands of his gripping my ass, fingers caught in the lace of my red panties. My hair is already wet and heavy, sticking to the back of my neck, but it's easy to ignore with the hard press of Zay's erection through his jeans.

  “You were bouncing around with a hard-on in your pants?” I ask and he smiles, this sexy, sultry impish little grin, right before he rolls me over and presses our bodies into the black mesh. Even with the porch light on, I can see a whole mess of stars behind his head as he blocks my face from the rain, his slicked up Mohawk drooping to one side.

  I reach up and mess it up with my fingers as he drops his mouth to mine again, kissing me with all this heat and passion and need. When he does that, I can't understand why he doesn't want me, but I make it not matter. I'm going to enjoy this, no matter what.

  “Should we move inside?” I ask as Zay drops his right hand to my breast, kneading the sensitive flesh through the lace of the red bra. His expression when he looks down at me is wry as hell.

  “Hell no,” he whispers as he puts his lips to my ear. “Why do you think I bought this damn thing? It wasn't really just for the kids. I think the bounce of the mesh should work out nicely.”

  “You're not freaking serious,” I whisper, but I can't stop the trail of hot kisses down my throat, straight to the hard, pebbled point of my nipple. I gasp as Zayden's hot mouth slides over it, his tongue circling across the lace. When Zay sneaks his hands around my back to undo my bra, I lift my rib cage and encourage him to take it off, exposing my breasts to the wet cold night air.

  He doesn't leave them bare for long, covering them with colorful hands, kneading them with inked fingers, sucking and kissing and biting. It feels like there's a string from my nipples straight down to my pussy, making me clench my thighs and bite my lip as I lift my hands up and tangle my fingers in the black netting behind my head.