by Meghan March
His eyes flash with mischief. “Is that the appeal of little Miss Wannabe Stripper? She’s a challenge? Because if she comes to work here, she’s not going to be one anymore. If you’ve been striking out, which must be the case if you’re still interested, then maybe it’s your key to getting a piece of that sweet ass.”
“You’re going to drink your Scotch and never fucking mention this again. Understand me?”
Brandon jerks back at the vehemence in my tone. “Got it, man. Sorry, I was just giving you shit.”
Not wanting to taint the night of his celebration, I reach for my wallet and toss a fifty on the table between us. “No harm, no foul. Now, why don’t you get that private dance you were wanting? On me. Congrats on the promotion.”
The waitress returns with the Scotch, and I pay her before Brandon rises and walks toward the skinny redhead with enormous tits he’s been drooling over since we walked in the door. Which frees me up to find out just what the hell Justine was doing.
Tucking my wallet back in my pocket, I head for the hallway.
Chapter Nine
Justine
I knock on the door marked Manager, and the only positive thing I can come up with to focus on is the fact that I don’t have anything in my stomach to throw up because I couldn’t summon up an appetite while I was getting dressed for my . . . interview.
The door jerks open, and I do a double-take when I catch sight of Marv.
Except I know him as Marvin. Gramps’s next-door neighbor. The one who would come over and fix leaky sinks and shovel snow off the front walk when Gramps’s health started declining. He’d bring over a couple beers, and we’d listen to Gramps tell stories about World War II.
No. Freaking. Way.
His eyes light with the same recognition the moment I step into the room. “Justine? What the hell are you doing here?”
I struggle to find my voice. Do I lie? Do I tell the truth? If I lie, he’s going to know I’m lying. So I go with the truth.
“I . . . uh . . . I’m here to see about a job.”
Confusion crushes his bushy brows together on his forehead. “You graduated from college. With honors. So I repeat, what the hell are you doing here?”
My mouth opens and closes as I try to find the words to explain how badly things are screwed up right now.
“Sit down, kid. You’ve got some explaining to do.” He nods at the chair across from the desk.
I cross the room and drop into it. “I’m so screwed.”
I proceed to spill the entire story of what happened with the scholarship, the details about my parents I wasn’t sure Gramps had shared, and my aversion to debt. If I expected sympathy from Marvin, that’s not what I would get.
“You’re a smart girl, Justine. I refuse to believe this is the best idea you’ve got.”
Fixing a scowl on my face, I glare back at him. “How can you judge me for this? You’re the manager of the place!”
“And there are plenty of girls here who don’t have the options you do. Not only would I not hire you because my slate of dancers is completely full, but because I respected the hell out of your grandpa, and he’s gotta be rolling in his grave right now. I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with stripping, because there ain’t, but this isn’t for you.”
“I don’t have any other options if I want to stay in school. Don’t you understand? There’s no job I can get that will pay me enough to cover my tuition.”
“And you think this one could?” He shakes his head. “You’d be the new girl. Bottom of the ladder. You’d get the crappiest shifts with the worst tips. There’s no guarantees you’d make any more here than anywhere else. It’s not like money falls from the sky when these girls strip. This ain’t some fancy club in Vegas.”
“What about another club?”
Marv leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. “It’s gonna be the same no matter where you go. Besides, I know most of the managers, and I promise you that you’ll find yourself blackballed if you apply.”
What the hell is his problem? “Why would you do that? I need the money.”
“Told you, I respected the hell out of your grandpa. He’d have my balls if I let you get sucked into this world. You’re a smart girl. Find another way.”
I open my mouth to protest one last time, but he shakes his head. “It’s good to see you, Justine, but you need to get the hell out of my club.” He stands and comes around the side of the desk, reaching out a hand to pull me to my feet. “Someday you’ll thank me for this.”
Marvin escorts me to the door of his office, gives me a hug, pushes me back out into the hallway, and shuts the door in my face. But not before telling me to keep my ass out of strip clubs until I have a bachelorette party.
I sink against the wall across from his office door and whisper, “What the hell am I going to do now?”
A deep, familiar voice comes out of the darkness. “I want to know what the hell you’re doing here to begin with.”
No. Freaking. Way.
Chapter Ten
Justine
I whirl around in the hallway to face him as my stomach sinks to my feet and the burning heat of mortification fills me.
Ryker stalks toward me, stopping a foot away.
Seriously, Universe? How is this even fair? Of all people . . . why him?
“What the hell are you doing here?” Ryker asks again.
My eyes dart from him to Marvin’s office door. It won’t take Ryker long to guess why, if he hasn’t figured it out already.
“None of your damn business.” And it’s not. Nothing about me is any of Ryker’s business.
“That’s where we disagree.”
Screw him. I don’t owe him any explanation. Striding forward, I intend to sidestep him, but he wraps a hand around my wrist. Before I can yank it free, he spins us both and pins me against the wall.
Memories of the back hallway at the bar bombard me, but I shut them down. I need to get out of here.
“Let me go.” I shove both hands against his chest.
“No. Because someone needs to have a come-to-Jesus talk with you. See, I know for a fact that you lost your scholarship, and I also know you’re too fucking smart to think stripping for your tuition is a good idea.”
“It’s none of your business what I do for my tuition.”
“You get up on that stage and I’ll carry you out of here myself.”
I have to grit my teeth to stop from telling him I couldn’t even get a job as a stripper. Before I can think of a suitable reply, Marvin’s office door flies open.
“What the hell? You better get the fuck off her, man.”
Ryker drops his hold on me instantly and steps back.
Marvin storms closer, looking from me to Ryker and back to me. “You okay? I’ll get security to haul his ass out of here.”
I shake my head. “I’m fine. It’s . . . a misunderstanding. That’s all.”
Marvin glares at Ryker. “You lay a hand on any woman in this place, and I’ll take you apart myself.”
“He’s fine, Marvin. It’s all good. I’m gone.”
I don’t wait for his response. Call me a coward, but I need this night to be over. Now. So I bolt.
Merica’s never going to believe any of this . . .
Chapter Eleven
Justine
Professional Responsibility isn’t anyone’s idea of a good time, but it’s a required class. For some crap reason, it’s only offered on Friday afternoons, which means any chance at a three-day weekend is eliminated if you also happen to have a Monday class, which I do. For now.
I don’t know why I’m holding on to hope and continuing to go to class, but I can’t give up. This is where I belong, and I’m not ready to let go. Not yet. I’ll keep coming until they throw me out.
I study the seating chart on the PowerPoint slide until I find my assigned seat. This professor is old school and goes strictly alphabetical. I can’t stop myself from checking the G’s.
Grant, R. Two rows ahead of me on the opposite side of the room.
Of course he’s in this class. Why would I expect anything else? I tell myself I’m not going to look in that direction, but obviously I fail. He’s leaning back in his chair, fingers laced behind his head in a casual I don’t give a shit pose.
King of the Douche Bags, I remind myself.
Professor Babcock waits until the time ticks over to one o’clock. She assigned reading in advance, and she wastes no time diving into the first case. With my two-year-old laptop at the ready, a gift with my defunct scholarship, I take verbatim notes as she discusses the general rules of professional responsibility.
She rattles on for twenty minutes before looking down at her copy of the seating chart and calling on a student for the first case.
“Mr. Grant, go ahead with the facts.”
My attention, like everyone else’s seated behind him, goes to the back of his head, which is now lowered over his closed laptop. I’ve been in enough classes over the last two years to realize this isn’t normal Ryker behavior.
“Sorry, Professor Babcock, I’m going to have to pass today.”
Spoiler alert: There is no passing in law school. At least, not in this one.
“Excuse me, Mr. Grant?”
“I said I have to pass. I haven’t read the case, so I don’t have the facts.”
Professor Babcock’s tone borders on incredulous. “You haven’t read the case.” It’s not a question.
“No, ma’am.”
“And do you have some excuse for why you failed to be prepared for this lecture?”
“Not one that’s going to get me any sympathy.”
I think every mouth in the class drops open in shock. What the hell is he doing? Trying to piss her off?
Babcock bristles behind the lectern. “Feel free to exit the room right now if you’re not interested in participating. You can always take this required class again next semester when you’re feeling more engaged.”
Wow. Just. Wow.
I don’t know what the hell has gotten into him, but this is a completely new development.
Ryker wraps a hand around his unopened laptop and grabs his backpack with the other. “Thanks for the tip.” He walks out of the silent room, the door slamming behind him.
“Holy shit,” Leslie Pope, the girl beside me, whispers. “Did that just happen?”
Holy shit is right. Ryker might not be a 4.0 student, but he’s far from stupid, and what he just did qualifies as idiotic.
He was at the strip club last night. Maybe he’s still drunk?
The rest of the class passes without any more fireworks, but in the back of our minds, we’re all wondering what the hell happened to transform Ryker from regular cocky law student to idiot asshole.
As soon as class is dismissed, gossip runs rampant as most of the students, including Merica and me, head downstairs to the café. Did you hear about Ryker Grant walking out of Professional Responsibility? Did he do that in any other classes? Is he smoking something? If so, where can I get some?
The questions run the gamut and it seems no gossip is off-limits. For some strange reason, people keep coming to me for answers, like I have some.
“He’s always asking you out,” Merica says when I complain about the third person to ask me if I know what’s going on with him.
“He was. Past tense and over with.”
Merica eyes me sharply. “You don’t think he was working up to asking you out again when you made a break for it last night?”
When I’d called her on my drive home from the Vu, she’d practically deafened me with how loudly she’d laughed. There had been no sympathy, only relief that I wasn’t taking up stripping as a part-time job.
“I have no idea, but I sure wasn’t sticking around to find out. Besides, let’s not pretend I’m upset about this change of pace.”
I pretend that last bit isn’t a lie. My pride still stings from being stood up last summer after he kissed me. All I want is an apology, and then I can move on.
“Riiight,” Merica drawls, sipping on her can of Diet Coke. “I would call bullshit, but you’re so far in denial it won’t do any good.”
I don’t dignify her words with a response. We both know she’s right.
“But seriously, do you have any idea what the hell that stunt was? His dad is going to be pissed when he finds out. Didn’t you say that he’s got grand plans of Ryker going on to clerk for the Sixth Circuit Court of Appeals? Or even the US Supreme Court? I don’t think all the favors in the world are going to help if Ryker decides he’s had enough of ‘playing at law school.’”
It was common knowledge in Justice Grant’s chambers that he had lofty aspirations for his son, and up until today, I would have said that Ryker was falling in line with what his father wanted.
Leslie Pope sidles up between Merica and me. “So you know how Ryker walked out of PR?”
“Mm-hmm,” I mumble. Given that I was sitting beside her when it happened, the question is ridiculous.
“I heard from Kristy Horner that he hasn’t taken any notes all week. She’s got some history with him, so she notices these things.”
We’re all aware of Kristy’s “history” with Ryker. She’s made no secret of the fact that she considers him to be her property. She also doesn’t like me a whole lot, because apparently she considers me competition. She should thank me, in my opinion, because I’ve purposely gone out of my way not to be competition. And I’m definitely no competition now.
“Really?” Merica prompts her, giving me the side-eye me like no other. “What else did Kristy say?”
Leslie lowers her voice as if someone is going to overhear her. “Apparently he hasn’t even opened his laptop in a class yet. It’s like he’s deliberately trying to fail this semester. Kristy said she’s worried about him.”
“If Kristy’s so worried, maybe she shouldn’t be spreading gossip around,” Merica says, letting her trademark snarkiness bleed over into her words.
Leslie shrugs. “I’m just telling you what she told me.”
“That’s pretty big speculation considering we’re only a week in. Maybe he’s just bored with this first-week-of-class song and dance.” Why am I putting out some kind of explanation for this? It’s not like I care either way what Ryker is doing or what the gossips are saying, as long as it doesn’t include me.
“I heard from Heath Whitehouse, who clerked with him all summer in Justice Bryant’s chambers, that he was totally apathetic from day one. It’s like someone flipped a switch. He went from being normal Ryker without a care in the world to a real prick.”
“Aren’t you just full of gossip today?” Merica sips her Diet Coke again and meets my gaze.
“Didn’t you have an externship with Ryker’s dad last semester?” Leslie asks me.
I nod.
“Did you find out anything about him that could explain this?”
“He didn’t come up as a topic of conversation.” My tone is dry, and I hope she picks up on the fact that I’m over this conversation.
“Then I guess this remains an unsolved mystery,” Leslie says with another shrug. “Anyway, I gotta get going. I’m heading up north with a couple of my undergrad sorority sisters for one last weekend of fun. Talk to you Monday!”
We watch Leslie bounce away, apparently thrilled that she has shared all the gossip in her arsenal, and Merica pushes aside her now empty can of Diet Coke.
“I’m ready to get the hell out of here. You?”
“More than ready.” We both gather up our backpacks, and Merica tosses her can in the recycling bin as we walk out of the café.
“Are you coming over tonight for the New Girl marathon?”
I debate my options. Sitting at home and thinking about all the things I can’t change, or hanging out with my best friend pretending my problems don’t exist. Choice number two is the clear winner.
“Absolutely. See you at seven?”
�
��Perfect. I’m ordering pizza, so come hungry.”
“You know I will.”
Chapter Twelve
Justine
An unknown number shows up on my phone, and out of instinct and caution, I let it go to voice mail. Yes, I screen all my calls.
As soon as the voice mail pops up on my notifications, I check it.
Part of me hopes to hear Ryker’s familiar deep voice, but I slap that part upside the head. But shockingly, I’m not that far off.
“Justine, I’ve been thinking a lot about your predicament, and I want to make sure you’ve found a suitable solution. Feel free to come by my chambers before six tonight if you’d like to discuss it.”
He doesn’t even say his name, and he doesn’t need to. I’d recognize Justice Grant’s voice anywhere.
I wonder if he’s already heard through the grapevine that Ryker walked out of class. As a member of the board of trustees, I imagine that word travels pretty quickly to his ears when something happens concerning his son.
For a second I feel a flash of pity for Ryker, but it evaporates just as quickly. Because his dad is a trustee, he doesn’t have to worry about paying for tuition. And yet he still walked out of class today like the entitled jerk I’ve called him more than once. Who does that?
Doesn’t he realize how good he has it? He drives around in his Camaro, has the latest and greatest MacBook and access to opportunities most students can only dream about, and now he’s spending week nights at the strip club, walking out of class, and apparently is willing to throw it away?
I grow more and more pissed as I ride the bus to the commuter lot and finally climb into my car. My Honda Civic may only be five years younger than me, but she still gets me from A to B.
I’m only partially aware of the turns I’m making until the majestic building housing the state supreme court comes into view.
Apparently when this Grant calls, I come running. But how many other people have called me to inquire about my situation? Asked if I’ve found a solution? Besides Merica, no one else cares whether I drop out of school or not.