by Sheila Grace
The bigger problem, though, was that I didn’t even have enough money for Netflix—and I wasn’t about to go to a pirate site and fuck up my semi-functional computer looking for free content. With my luck, I would get a virus that would steal my credit card number and crash my hard drive.
When I reached table ten, I stopped carefully, bent down, and set the napkin on the table, followed by the drink. Every time I bent down to deliver a drink, I imagined that the reason they made these tables so low and the servers heels so high was so the “clients” could enjoy the added bonus of getting tits in their faces while being served cheap hard alcohol and shit beer. I quickly released the glass and began to straighten to my full five-feet nine-inches—four of those inches being supplied by my platform Mary Janes.
“You don’t want your tip?” a deep male voice asked, causing my skin to prickle.
I shrugged without looking at him.
“Give it to Jenna,” I said as I turned to leave. “It’s her section.”
I hadn’t teetered more than a step away when a large hand caught me by the wrist. Anger flooded me, but I turned slowly, well aware that twisting my ankle trying to preserve my dignity wouldn’t help me pay rent.
“Do you—”
I stopped short when I looked up from the hand holding my wrist to the guy’s face. My breathing sped up. Images from True Blood episodes and old paperback Anne Rice novels I had stolen from my mom flitted through my head.
My eyes ticked over him without my permission. Table ten had dark, soft-looking hair and perfectly proportioned features slightly obscured by stubble that made him even sexier. Even with the facial hair, there was something too perfect about his face that reminded me of how nearly every author of vampire books described creatures of the night. He even had dark circles under his eyes, which somehow wasn’t unattractive. Again, it just screamed vampire.
So did his suit, his watch, the handkerchief in his breast pocket—which also screamed money and taste. I was short on both. My go-to outfit—when I wasn’t wearing this endearing schoolgirl outfit—was skinny jeans, fitted T-shirt, and ballet flats.
“Do I what?” he asked, only his eyes betraying that he was laughing at me.
My eyes moved from his lips to his eyes. His eyes. If I had needed proof he was a vampire, this was it. His eyes were so dark they were almost black, which wasn’t possible, was it? I couldn’t see his pupils at all. It was unnerving to the point where I was having trouble finding my goddamn voice.
And this was the other problem with guys and me—on the rare occasion I did happen to be attracted to a guy, I turned into a mute idiot almost immediately. Like right now. Which was ridiculous, because this guy was so far out of my league that it made me wonder—what the hell was he doing here?
“Do you always fondle the servers at the establishments you frequent?” I asked, recovering myself rather admirably.
I wasn’t ashamed to admit that if I had turned around and this guy had been a sweaty, leering pig who had called me “sugar tits” right off the bat, I would not have been playing nice—or at least what I considered playing nice in a strip club.
“Hmm, fondle. This doesn’t really meet my definition of fondle,” he said as his thumb slowly traced the inside of my wrist.
I gasped and looked down where his hand held my wrist. His thumb continued to stroke the sensitive skin, sending shockwaves straight through me that settled low in my abdomen. Suddenly I felt like the heroine in a Victorian era bodice ripper—getting hot from one touch on the wrist.
“Mmm. I think you just made my night.”
My eyes snapped to his face just as he released my wrist. He leaned back in the booth and picked up his glass of expensive hooch, as Jerry had called it. When he lifted the glass to his mouth, his eyes remained locked on mine.
I couldn’t help staring, which only aggravated me further. He rolled the liquid around in his mouth, savoring it, and when he swallowed, my eyes traveled from his mouth to his Adam’s apple to the open buttons of his dress shirt, which exposed the top of a well-muscled pectoral region. I was surprised to note that beneath the crisp dress shirt, he was inked to hell. Unfortunately, I couldn’t actually tell what any of the tats were.
Shit! What was wrong with me? He was in a strip club, and I was ogling him?
“So what’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?” he asked with a smirking smile.
Staring at his white, perfectly straight teeth, I thought: Definitely a vampire. I looked for extra-sharp canines.
“Working, which I should get back to.”
“I haven’t seen you around before.”
He was a regular. Great.
“That’s because I haven’t been here long, and I don’t intend to be any longer than I have to.”
I bit my lip. I hadn’t meant to be that blunt, but this guy seriously rattled me. It wasn’t just his looks; it was the way he was looking at me, the blackness of his eyes burning through me.
“What do you intend to do, then?”
“Graduate, go to law school …” Anything but this.
He laughed.
“Working at a strip club off the freeway to pay for tuition.”
He said it like he was reciting a joke he had heard before.
“What’s funny about that?” I demanded as I contemplated picking up the tray from the empty table next to him and smacking his perfect, stubble-covered face.
He shrugged in a lazy way that made me think of the word insouciant. In fact, I was pretty sure if I looked up the word insouciant in the dictionary, there would be a picture of this guy. His entire demeanor screamed, ‘I don’t give a fuck.’ He picked up his drink and took another mouthful.
“That would be a long story a beautiful girl like you doesn’t need to hear.”
I blushed. I couldn’t think of a single time a man—or anyone for that matter—had actually called me beautiful. More than likely, it was just a line. In fact, it was definitely a line.
Cass—get it together! I scolded myself.
For fuck’s sake. If I was going to survive long enough to save up some decent cash, I had to have a better bullshit radar.
“I have to get back to work,” I muttered.
I cleaned up the table next to him, feeling his eyes on me the entire time. Then I started walking back to the bar, relieved that it was a slow night. Most of the girls hated quiet nights—less money—but I preferred them. There was less chance I would forget drink orders or spill something.
“Cass?”
I stopped and slowly turned around.
“How did you know—”
He held up the cocktail napkin with my name on it. I nodded, feeling stupid.
“What time do you get off?” he asked like he didn’t care either way.
Yep. Another one of those guys. Maybe he thought he had a better chance with wait staff than one of the dancers. On the other hand, this guy wasn’t one who would have trouble finding female company for the night, which made the fact that he was bothering with me seriously strange. Like serial killer strange. Did I look like an easy target?
“Late.”
He smiled, like he had expected my answer, and nodded. Then he lifted his glass in salute. I turned and rolled my eyes as I walked away. An ego case. Possibly a serial killer. Definitely not Prince Charming.
I was really starting to believe in creatures of the night.
As I cruised the tables in my area, most of the customers didn’t bother looking away from the stage when I asked if they needed anything. Most of the “clientele” ordered cheap well drinks or cheaper beer. During an Internet search, I had found out that in some states, it was legal to have fully nude dancers and alcohol. California wasn’t one of them—it was just topless dancing and G-strings.
I had read some of the studies online. Alcohol plus adult entertainment equaled increased crime. Most municipalities didn’t like having booze and nude dancers, but this particular stretch of freeway was mostly under t
he jurisdiction of the highway patrol. A county sheriff’s deputy didn’t even come out to this unincorporated stretch of highway. Everybody seemed to like it better when the adult entertainment wasn’t in their back yards—but remained accessible.
By the end of the night, my tips added up to maybe one unit’s worth of education, but something was better than nothing. That had been my mantra lately: something was always better than nothing.
When I was done cleaning off tabletops, I walked to the back and yanked off the platform Mary Janes. Next, I stripped off the fishnets. The rest of my “uniform” went into an empty locker. Then I changed into my requisite T-shirt, skinny jeans, and ballet flats. I had never worn skirts more than I had in the past six weeks—and definitely not ones this short.
Back in the club at the bar, a few of the dancers were counting their tips, drinking, and trading stories. I knew enough not to try to fit in. I had learned that lesson young: I didn’t fit—anywhere, really.
“Hey! Jerry, what’s her name? Casey!”
I paused. I really wanted to pretend that I hadn’t heard an approximation of my name being called. So far, I had managed to fly under the radar with Crystal, one of Fantasy Land’s headliners. With fried, peroxide-blonde hair, blood-shot creepy blue doll eyes, and collagen-packed lips painted a shiny bubble gum pink, Crystal looked great on stage. Plus, she had what most of the clientele wanted in a dancer—huge boobs, an impeccable spray tan, and a hungry look that said, “For a little extra cash or drugs, sure I’ll fuck you.”
I had watched her from a distance since starting. She flirted with the bouncers, probably gave Bob BJs in his office, and saw wait staff as subhuman. She considered the other dancers either as competition or people she could brag to. I avoided Crystal, and the last thing I needed was for her to notice me.
When she started snapping her fingers at me, I gritted my teeth and turned toward the bar, making sure to plaster a neutral expression on my face as I approached her. Holy fuck! Her eyebrows were terrifying up close. Well, more like her lack of eyebrows. Clearly whatever lurked above her spider-like false eyelashes had been drawn on.
I stopped in front of her and a couple of the other dancers—Brandy and Angel. I hoped Crystal wasn’t expecting me to kiss her ring or grovel, because that just wasn’t gonna happen.
“Who was that guy at table ten?” she asked with no preamble.
My eyebrows automatically popped up. I had expected Crystal to know all the regulars and high rollers. Recovering myself, I shrugged.
“No idea. I brought him one drink.”
Crystal made an impatient noise.
“Jerry said you talked to him.”
I looked past Crystal to Jerry, who shrugged at me. Was there anything he didn’t see? And couldn’t he have kept his mouth shut? Then again, at least he hadn’t told Crystal that the hot weirdo at table ten had requested me.
“I didn’t really talk to him,” I said lamely.
In a flash of clarity, I realized that if I didn’t appease this viper, she would fuck me over eventually. A lie was better than getting screwed for honesty.
“Well, he did say he wanted to know when you were dancing next.”
She made a high-pitched, breathy squeaking noise and motioned impatiently with one hand as she picked up her drink.
“So? What’d you tell him?”
“Tomorrow night, right?”
She turned to the others and continued to make noises like she was going to hyperventilate. Assuming I was excused, I started walking away. When I got to the end of the bar, Jerry whistled. I turned back with a wary expression and walked over to where he was waiting.
“You’re a smart kid, Cass. Just be careful,” he said, confusing the ever living crap out of me as he handed me an unmarked envelope.
I didn’t even bother asking him what he had meant. I just took the envelope, shoved it in my purse, and started walking toward the exit. Big Mike was at the door, waiting for me. Some of the bouncers were serious creepers, but Big Mike seemed like a good guy. No leering, no hitting on me, no trying to fleece me out of my tips.
“Hey, Little Red,” he said when I reached him. “How’s things?”
I smiled up at him.
“I’m ready to go home and crash.”
“You say that every night,” he laughed.
“It’s the truth.”
He walked me all the way to my beat-to-shit Honda Civic.
“I owe you, Big Mike.”
“You don’t owe me shit, Little Red,” he said good-naturedly. “Be safe drivin’ home.”
“I always am.”
After I got in the car, Mike closed the door after me and I hit the locks. Too curious to wait until I got back to my craptastic apartment, I took the envelope from my purse. It was sealed. I slid my thumb under the corner and tore open the paper. Looking inside, I gasped.
Crisp hundred-dollar bills. This would cover my over-priced rent for the next month—at least. Paper clipped to the bottom of the stack of bills was a business card. My hands shook as I slipped it out of the paperclip and turned it over.
James McDevitt.
Chapter 2: James
Strip clubs. If memory served, Bennett had called them my “weakness.” That, or my “place of residence.” He had been right. He was always right. That was Ryan Bennett, for you, though. My roommate from freshman year of undergrad was one holier-than-thou son of a bitch. I laughed as I thought of the “advice” I had received from Alex, his eighteen-year-old twoo wuv—who must have been at least twenty-one or twenty-two by now.
Stop expecting the worst out of people, and try believing that someone out there will love you for who you are. Blah, blah, blah.
That pair had been made for one another. Of course, I had thought about fucking her, for all of five seconds before common sense had kicked in. Bennett’s scandalous little fall from grace had made it even easier to get under his skin. Falling in love with a naïve little freshman in one of his classes? After ten years of his self-righteousness bullshit, I had enjoyed fucking with him. He was so easy to wind up—he had even stopped talking to me for the better part of six months. Something about life being too short for my bullshit.
The fact that he had come around meant maybe he had realized that no one—not even him—was perfect. That, or Papa Bennett’s cancer was causing Ryan to re-examine his sanctimonious douche-baggery. I felt for the guy. I could be a total prick—as I had been accused of being by many of the fairer sex—but it was his old man staring down death.
If I’d had a different relationship with my father, maybe I would give a rat’s ass what the fuck happened to him. No, that wasn’t accurate. I wanted to see my father go to hell, preferably screaming and in flames.
The truth was that I didn’t have a deep connection with anyone. Calling it a result of my childhood would have been pretentious psycho-babble. I liked it that way. A lack of emotional bullshit kept things simple. I was in the market for a good time, not drama.
I spent my life in airports and strip clubs in different cities. I referred to my part of the business as client management. Client management was a polite way of saying I mind-fucked people. Where the talent came in was making it all look like one long party full of naked, willing participants and expensive alcohol. I didn’t discriminate. Gay, straight, bi, man, woman—I was the guy who had made the party happen.
Tonight had just been about unwinding. A little strip club off I-80. It was quiet, out of the way, and it stocked my usual flavor—dumb, dyed blonde, and desperate for my dick. Kinda like Bennett’s ex, but that was another story.
At the end of the day, I just wanted to turn it all off. Have a good drink and bury my dick balls-deep in pussy and fuck until she screamed “Yes! God! Yes!” The who of it didn’t matter. Strippers had been my Eureka! moment in college. Commitment-free and plentiful. It was a mutually beneficial relationship.
Destiny or Faith or Jade would get enough money to fuel whatever habit it was she was str
ipping to support—be it drugs, shopping, or gambling—and I would get a no-strings-attached fuck. I didn’t fuck the single moms—too much baggage—but I did tip them enough on most nights to feed their kids for six months. Because I could.
Most guys I came across who did strippers or prostitutes chose their bedmates because, deep down, they hated woman. Naturally, they couldn’t make a woman come if their lives depended on it—or they straight up didn’t give a fuck if the other parties involved enjoyed themselves. To me, there was no goddamned point if I wasn’t making a woman scream as her pussy tightened around my dick.
The cocktail waitress from tonight? All I had wanted was to drag her into my lap, pull her panties to the side, and watch her face as she slipped onto my dick.
Instead, I was leaning against the hood of the Tesla and watching as the big bouncer escorted her to her car. I had given the bartender a couple of bills to find out her full name. Cassia Flynn.
Cass. Or Little Red to the bouncer.
She sat down in the driver’s seat and looked down. She was opening the envelope I had left with the bartender. A few seconds later, her head popped up and she looked around with an expression of shock and suspicion. What I wasn’t expecting was for her to burst into tears. Within a minute, she had pulled herself together and was starting up the shit-box she was driving.
There was definitely a story there.
While I liked my fucking to be commitment-free, I also enjoyed a challenge—and Cassia Flynn was going to be a fucking challenge. I could feel it.
A minute later, a dickhead in a monster truck pulled up and laid on the horn. The night’s main-stage entertainment came teetering out of the club in her stilettoes and climbed into the cab.
That was another thing I avoided—cheating whores. Not my style. I had zero interest in monogamy, but I wasn’t going to be anyone’s back-door man. Bennett had once called monogamy my kryptonite, but just because Wonder Boy was desperate to settle into domestic bliss didn’t make it my fucking life’s goal.
My rules were simple.
One: Consenting adults.
Two: No virgins, no attached broads. I’d made an exception for Bennett’s ex when they’d been together, but that had been to prove a point. Namely, that my friend had been about to marry a cheating whore. Gretchen. What a fucking harpy. He should have thanked me for fucking her.