by K. A. Tucker
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“How about over here?” Ginger says, her hands gesturing to the long wall in my apartment. The living room is small and yet she’s managed to make the movers lift, drag, and drop the soft, gray microfiber couch to five different spots. All it has taken her are a few winks, “my-what-big-arms-you-have” touches, and a slice of her homemade peach cream pie. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she is seconds away from asking the blond guy back to her apartment to “move” her bed. I’m certain, by the way he’s dogging her around, that he’s hoping for the same thing. The woman is almost as deceptive as I am.
Ginger hasn’t left my side all afternoon. She insisted on going grocery shopping with me, doing laundry with me, waiting on furniture with me, unpacking with me. Either she’s lying and she really is hoping I swing her way or that whisper I caught from Cain to her earlier was a directive to not let me out of her sight.
I follow the movers, begrudgingly handing them a thirty-dollar tip on account of Ginger’s demands, and stay a few minutes to look out over what she told me is called the commons. Beads of sweat instantly form on my skin from this crazy Miami summer heat, and I remind myself to be thankful for the air conditioner in my apartment. It’s almost six and Tanner is out there—his plaid shorts showing off those knobby knees—spraying a flaming hibachi with a two-handed children’s water gun. He looks absolutely outrageous but quite content. The air smells of burgers again. I’m guessing Tanner is one of those bachelors with a very uncreative meal plan comprised of grilled meat.
I’m still watching him when an apartment door across the way opens and a dark-haired man strolls out.
My breath hitches.
Cain.
He doesn’t look my way, so he doesn’t see me as he strides quickly past Tanner with a half-salute, seemingly in a rush to get out of there. When I glance back to the apartment he left, I find China leaning in her doorway, in the tiniest, tightest pair of short shorts and tank top, watching his retreating back, her hair tousled, a secretive smile softening her features.
She turns to go back into her apartment but stops, her stony eyes locking on mine. A wide smirk of satisfaction spans her face and I assume she has figured out that I saw Cain leave her apartment. Stretching her arms over her head, she slowly turns and saunters back inside. I’m instantly hit with an image of a cat, gratified after devouring a can of salmon and ready to mosey over to bathe in a patch of sun.
“Never, my ass, Ginger,” I mutter. I’m pretty sure Cain was her can of salmon.
China may be unfriendly and arrogant, but she’s probably very talented. I’m not surprised and yet I can’t ignore the heaviness of disappointment, knowing that Cain would be interested in someone like her.
“Hey! Why do you have all these wigs?” I hear Ginger call out. I deny my panic from surfacing as I spin around and stalk back in, finding her prancing around with my long black wig on her head.
Bloody hell! At least she hasn’t found my gun yet. “I’m in theater. Those are props,” I answer simply.
“Huh . . . theater. You know, I have a thing for dark-haired women,” she says with an exaggerated wink.
I sigh.
chapter eleven
■ ■ ■
CAIN
Charlie doesn’t trust me.
Though she kept her face carefully controlled, she couldn’t hide the hard look in those eyes as we stood in her new apartment.
I should have warned Ginger against telling her that I owned the building. Fuck, I wish no one had ever found out to begin with! I know what I look like, having several of my dancers live there. And now Charlie, too.
Still, I’m relieved that she’s questioning my motives. That tells me she’s smart and less likely to get taken advantage of. I thought about swinging by her apartment after finishing up with China but decided against it. Ginger’s there, anyway. I asked her to stay—to help Charlie get settled in but, more importantly, to make sure she’s really okay after what happened earlier today.
I’ll get to see her again tonight, anyway.
I grit my teeth against the unwanted excitement that goes along with that thought.
chapter twelve
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CHARLIE
“One minute, Charlie,” Terry mouths, just like he did last night. I stand within the shadows, just like I did the first night, waiting for the first chords of my song to blast through the speakers—“Supermassive Black Hole” by Muse this time. Only tonight, I’m no longer on trial. I have the job. Despite my relatively modest outfit, my lack of crowd interaction, and my strange song selection, Cain hired me. I should be happy. I should be less nervous.
So, why am I seconds away from having pee run down my leg?
I instinctively curl my arms over my chest.
I’ve been at the bar for several hours now. Given that I have absolutely no experience behind a bar and, some would argue no business being anywhere near a bar, I stuck to cleaning, stocking, and cashing out. It was a good distraction.
But now I’m here, cowering. I’m about to get on that scary-ass roller coaster for the second time, even though I know just how scary-ass it is. Maybe it won’t be so crowded tonight. Maybe . . . Holding my breath, I peek out around the divider and see a sea of heads. They may have multiplied in the last ten minutes.
This is ridiculous. I’m playing a part. Charlie Rourke is a confident pole-dancing diva. That’s all this is. An acting role. Actors do uncomfortable scenes all the time. I am an actor and this is merely an uncomfortable scene.
That I will play over and over again.
Six nights a week.
For months.
Oh, God. I’m going to be sick.
I take a deep, calming breath and remind myself with a mutter, “You deserve this, you drug-trafficking wench.”
“How’s your stage-fright thing?” a husky voice calls out behind me.
“Ginger!” I shriek—partly in happiness, mostly in panic that she may have heard my little pep talk. By the smile on her face, I know she didn’t. I throw my arms around her neck, as I did the previous night. “I hate doing this,” I admit in a rare burst of weakness.
“Wow, you really do have bad nerves.” She chuckles as I peel myself off her. “You’ll do fine. You’re incredible up there.” Waggling her eyebrows, she adds, “I should know.” There’s a pause and then a tiny smirk curls her lips. “Cain’s watching.”
“What?” I feel my eyes widen as I spin and peer out again. Sure enough, I spot his lean frame hanging over the railing next to Nate, his gorgeous dark eyes on the stage. Quietly waiting. My heart starts pounding against my chest wall. “You said he never comes out to the club!” He wasn’t out there when I left the bar area to get changed.
And I know because I was watching for him.
She shrugs in an I-don’t-know-what-to-tell-you way. “He doesn’t. He never watches the dancers, Charlie.”
“Yeah, he also never sleeps with the dancers, right?” I mutter derisively, earning her questioning frown. With a sigh, I explain, “I saw him leave China’s tonight. It was pretty clear what our pimp daddy was doing over there.”
“Oh.” Ginger’s face scrunches up tightly as she waves me off. “He was helping her study for her GED. The girl is majorly dyslexic. She couldn’t string five words together when he hired her and now she wants a high school diploma. That’s all that was. Trust me.”
I look out at the suave strip club owner. Helping her study? Really? “She sure didn’t make it look like that,” I say and my doubt is obvious in my tone, though I feel a wave of relief course through my body.
“Of course she didn’t. China’s been in love with Cain for years. Any chance she gets to claim her fictional territory over him, she’ll take it. And, word of warning,” she adds, “don’t ever let Cain hear you calling him a pimp. That’s a sensitive s
pot for him. Your favorite, Rick Cassidy, called him that once, to his face. Cain beat his ass good. Nate pulled him off before he could kill the guy.”
I try to picture that reserved man out there pounding the crap out of someone. It’s hard. Even today, when he was dealing with my crazy neighbors, he was unusually calm. The only signal that he was ready to deliver a beating was the tensed hands at his sides.
“Why is he out there, Ginger?” The last thing I want to do is make Cain regret hiring me.
“Well, according to Ben, Cain really enjoyed your show last night.”
“Enjoyed as in . . .”
I look over to find a lascivious grin. “As in enjoyed.” How the hell would Ben know? Were they talking about me? A new and more powerful rash of nervous flutters hits me. I tense as her cool hand rubs over my shoulder. “So you should go out there and tease him.”
“What?” I shriek. Cain does not seem like the kind of guy who would appreciate teasing.
Her slender, bare shoulders shake as she giggles. “Look, if I had to go out there and strip for a bar full of men, I’d pick one and pretend no one else is out there. One who I’d actually want to strip for in a room, alone. You know . . . if I weren’t a lesbian.”
“You’re nuts.” A knock against the glass above me tells me Terry’s about to hit play and my stomach constricts.
“I am, but that’s beside the point. Hannah hates getting up on the stage and so that’s what she does. It works for her.”
“Why Cain?”
She snorts. “Because I know you think he’s gorgeous. And I can tell you for a fact that he is an incredible man. And because every single one of the dancers here would die to have Cain’s attention on her. So take advantage of it. He’s sexy and he’s safe.”
Music starts pulsing through the speakers.
Strip for Cain. “I don’t know if doing that is going to help with my nerves, Ginger.”
She shrugs. “Worth a shot. You said you were into acting, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, go and act like you’re trying to seduce your sexy, gorgeous, rich, untouchable boss. He can be a prop, like your wig.” She snorts. “Could be fun.”
■ ■ ■
There’s a chance I just got myself fired.
I don’t know why I listened to Ginger. Probably because I was desperate. And stripping for Cain would be enjoyable. Ideally, not with a hundred other men watching. And, truth be told, it did make being on that stage a little easier.
The fact that Cain apparently “enjoyed” watching me last night spurred a need in me to please him again. But the fact that he has already asked me not to take my clothes off for him should have stopped me.
Maybe he didn’t notice what I was doing? By the cool, hard expression on his face, and the way his body shifted until he was standing stiffly, I’m seriously doubting that.
When he approaches me tonight, I’ll deny it, of course.
But he doesn’t approach me after the show. He leaves immediately after I get off the stage and no one sees him out there again.
And so I finish my shift, pushing the reality of stripping into a tiny, neat box. I tuck it away into the recesses of my mind, as just something I have to do, for now. Just like what I do for Sam.
It won’t be forever.
chapter thirteen
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CAIN
Show Number Three
I thought it was my imagination yesterday. Just my dick’s wishful thinking.
I came out to watch Charlie perform. Call it a gut instinct. More like a groin instinct, if I’m being completely honest. Either way, I came out to see if her second night would be as good as the first.
It wasn’t.
It was better.
Because her eyes were on me the second she stalked out. And they kept stealing passes on her way around, sliding over mine intimately, as if sharing a secret.
And each article of clothing that came off was done facing me, so I got the full impact of the reveal, her breasts springing out to greet me.
So did every other guy in my vicinity, but fuck them.
My dick told me that was all for me.
So of course I needed to come out here tonight, just to see if my dick was playing tricks on me before.
I think Charlie just winked at me.
I shouldn’t be enjoying this but I can’t help myself. I am. Too much.
I need to stop coming out here when Charlie dances.
chapter fourteen
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CHARLIE
Show Number Seven
I’m playing the role of a stripper who’s taunting her stoic boss. That’s all this is.
And I must be doing it very well, because there’s no doubt in my mind that Cain is enjoying it. I can tell by the way he leans forward, the way his mouth parts, the way his hands grasp the railing so tightly that the tension ripples up through those arms . . . By the very fact that he’s out there, watching. Night after night.
I take a deep breath and roll my hips with the slow guitar twang of Head of the Herd’s “By This Time Tomorrow” as I reach up to loop my finger through the tie of my bikini top. Baring my breasts like this still feels like a punch to my stomach. The only thing that makes it easier is ensuring that I’m facing Cain when I feel the cool air hit my skin and I toss the small scrap of sequinned material down. I don’t mind Cain looking at me like that, and it helps block out the random catcalls and hoots of appreciation from the real customers.
I do that again now, as I have every night since my second show, slowing my hips and locking eyes with his as I toss my top in his direction. Normally I’ll catch his eyes drop to my body for a second before lifting to my face again.
Tonight, though . . . Cain’s hand slides off the railing to reach down and adjust himself. I’m not sure if he meant for me to see it. It would be the first time he’s done something so visibly sexual. I can’t help my jaw from dropping for a split second. When my eyes snap back up to his face, I see his usual indecipherable mask and I assume he doesn’t realize that he did it.
Until he winks.
The simple act sends a jolt through my body, right down to my thighs. Taking a deep breath, I’m unable to suppress my smile as I dive into an invert.
It appears that I’m not the only player in this little game anymore.
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“Oh, come on. Like you weren’t trying to make those drinks unpalatable,” Ginger mutters, pouring a round of Guinness as her hips bop to the music. Ginger doesn’t stand still. Ever. “Who doesn’t know how to mix a Harvey Wallbanger?”
My third night here, Ginger decided it would be a good idea to move me on from pouring straight shots and pints of beer to mixing cocktails. Without instruction. The customers didn’t seem to mind, especially when she announced my “de-virgining” was on her.
After my first creation twisted a customer’s face so sickly that DeeDee ran for a bucket, it quickly became a game. Ginger makes me do at least one foreign-to-me drink per night, awarding my concoction with a new name based on her mood and what that brave customer’s face looks like the instant his taste buds get assaulted.
The names usually make my jaw drop.
Ginger has a surprisingly foul imagination.
I raise one hand to cheek level. “Clearly, me.”
“Oh, still so much to learn,” she murmurs, winking at me as she slides the drinks over the counter. “I swear I’d think you never partied a day in your life before Penny’s.”
Do high school house parties with cases of beer and Smirnoff coolers count? Sam was strict about only a few things, and drinking was one of them. He said it was dangerous, that you end up saying things you shouldn’t say and getting yourself into a lot of trouble. Well, I sure didn’t want to slip about anything I wa
s doing, so I avoided alcohol for the most part, nursing a drink all night just so I wouldn’t be empty-handed. So I’d fit in.
I’ve been working at Penny’s for over a week and, as shocking as it is to admit, I don’t know that I’ve ever had more fun in my life. Hanging out with Ginger and DeeDee on the bar all night is entertaining, the nights go by quickly, and I’m making good money. Not as good as what I’d be making in the V.I.P. rooms, but Cain hasn’t allowed it yet. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t relieved about that. And dreading the day he gives his okay.
Because then I’ll have no valid excuse.
Stripping onstage is still a horrendous, nerve-wracking four minutes, at best, but my mind no longer has to wander off to the mountains and the beach and all those other places I imagine myself going when I’m finished being Charlie Rourke. It keeps getting stuck in a dimly lit room, alone with Cain.
In his office.
In a V.I.P. room.
In the walk-in beer cooler.
Really . . . anywhere.
Ginger has created a monster.
And what feeds these illicit thoughts is the fact that Cain keeps coming out to watch. There haven’t been any more cock-adjusting, winking moments. He’s made no effort to speak to me since hiring me. The few times I’ve crossed paths with him in the back hallways, I’ve gotten nothing more than a nod.
But while I’m on that stage, I feel those dark eyes on me, like those of a predator stalking his prey, while the music vibrates through my body, and my limbs coil around the cool brass, and my hips swirl and curl and dip and bend.
I really am a fantastic actress.
And Cain is an even more fantastic distraction.
■ ■ ■
Show Number Thirteen
I’ve become bold. I’ve switched up my short shorts because, despite what he said, I don’t want Cain getting bored. So I’ve adopted this little short-skirt–bikini-bottom combo that is more revealing but not completely. Like a skimpy bathing suit, I tell myself.
