by Joanna Wylde
Or maybe I was just losing my mind. That bartender had me all paranoid, I decided. And God only knew what Lisa had been talking about.
“Let’s talk in my office,” he said. I stood and started in the direction he pointed. His hand came around and touched the small of my back just a little too firmly. It wasn’t just a touch designed to guide me—it felt controlling.
We went through a door down a long, black hallway that ended in an emergency exit door. A big man stood in front of it, and as I walked toward him, his eyes slowly and deliberately crawled up and down my figure.
I didn’t like this place. I really, really didn’t like it.
“Here’s my office,” McGraine said, opening a door on one side of the hallway. It was a good-sized room, with a broad desk, a couch, coffee table, and two comfortable leather chairs. At the far end a pole had been installed on top of a low-rise section of dance floor.
McGraine closed the door and leaned against the front of his desk. He didn’t invite me to sit.
“So, have you danced before?”
“My mom taught me,” I said. “I grew up in California. She worked in a lot of clubs down there.”
“Why do you want to work here?”
I smiled, thinking the answer should be obvious.
“I want to earn better money than I get waiting tables. I’m in school and I don’t have a lot of employment options right now.”
“And why did you choose Vegas Belles?”
To avoid the Reapers.
“Because you’re new, and I heard the girls here make good money.”
“You try out at The Line?”
“No.”
He raised a brow.
“You have a problem with the Reapers MC?”
I shook my head quickly. Too quickly, I realized, because he smirked. Sheesh.
“Okay, take off your clothes and dance for me,” he said. “We’ll see what you can do.”
I swallowed, because this was it. I caught the edges of my shirt, then looked down, thinking. The last time I’d done this had been in my stepfather’s house. He’d been watching. With his friends.
I promised myself I’d never do it again—not like this.
“What kind of shifts do you have open?” I asked suddenly, feeling desperate. “I mean, if you like what I can do.”
“Right now we have weekdays.”
“No evenings?”
“Not for someone new, no,” he said. “We’ve got new girls in from Vegas all the time. Locals get day shifts unless they work their way up.”
Something like relief flooded me. I couldn’t work day shifts—I’d lose my spot at school. They’d already been great about working around my schedule, but the reality was that I had to be there in the afternoons. Otherwise I’d never graduate.
I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t give up the future I’d worked so hard to create to earn money for Mom—I didn’t even know for sure whether she was telling me the truth . . . She’d always lied to get money. That’s how she lived.
“I’m sorry, I made a mistake,” I said quickly. “I can’t work weekdays. I should go.”
He nodded his head slowly, pushing to his feet.
“Sure,” he replied. “If you change your mind, come back. I haven’t seen your moves yet, but you’re my type. We can probably find something for you.”
His eyes flickered across my boobs when he said “my type” and I thought I might throw up. Thankfully he opened the door and I was able to leave quickly. The bartender winked at me as I walked by, feeling icky and disgusted with myself. Outside the air was fresh and the sun was bright—the strip club had felt like being trapped in a crazy, alternate-world pit. Of course, that was mostly in my mind. The building itself was nice.
Being inside just felt so wrong. Guess I wasn’t as tough as I used to be. Of course, in my new life—my sane life—I didn’t need to be.
Now I had to figure out some other way to save my mom. I climbed into my car and drove to the library, figuring that was as good a place to start as any—if nothing else, I could use their computers. I might not be able to send her as much money, but there had to be resources for women in her situation . . .
Two hours later I had everything I needed.
There was a women’s center right in my old hometown, and I’d even talked to the manager on the phone. She promised me that when Mom was ready to go, they could send out a squad car with a trained counselor to pick her up.
They just needed a time and location.
I clutched the phone numbers in my hand and stood outside in the green grass. There was a nice spot under a tree across the parking lot. I walked over and lowered myself to the ground, determined to get it over with. Then I dialed my mom’s number.
“Are you getting the money?” she asked. I braced myself, my face flushing with emotion.
“No. I wasn’t able to get any more money. But I have something better—I’ve found some people who can help you. Rescue you. All you have to do is call them and they’ll come out with the police to pick you up. They do this kind of thing all the time. One phone call—that’s all it takes. They’ll even help us buy a bus ticket so you can come stay with me in Callup.”
She didn’t speak for a minute. Then she screeched so loud it nearly broke my eardrum.
“You ungrateful little shit! If I thought some bitch with the police could help me, I’d have called her already. I have a goddamned phone. You’re so fucking high and mighty that you’ve forgotten what it means to take care of your family. I don’t care how you get that money—steal it, fuck someone, do whatever it takes. Otherwise—”
I turned off the phone and dropped it into the grass.
Holy. Shit.
I felt tears well up in my eyes, and then I wiped them away, because fuck her.
Puck was right.
Mom was playing me. Again. I’d offered her a way out and she wouldn’t even consider it, which meant that she’d never been serious about coming up here at all. Why the hell did I even take her phone calls, anyway? I was done. Done. No more. She could fuck right off, and I wasn’t sending her what was left of my money, either. I’d use it to pay my damned bills like a responsible person.
I grabbed my phone and stood, walking toward my car. I’d drop off my utility payment before driving home and baking pie for Earl. Then I’d go have dinner with him and Regina—my real family—and forget all about that hateful bitch down in California.
Just because she’d given birth to me didn’t mean I had to take her shit.
During the drive home I played all my favorite music loud, singing and rocking out along the way because for the first time in my life I felt truly free.
I had my own life now and it was good. Maybe Puck would spend the night again. The thought put a smile on my face.
She didn’t get to ruin it—I wouldn’t let her.
TEN
Two hours later smoke filled the kitchen and the smoke alarm was screaming. It was loud, too. Earl didn’t believe in fucking around when it came to alarms. I’d smelled the pie burning just seconds ago, yet now it was like a bomb had gone off in my kitchen.
Crap.
I opened the oven to discover I’d put in too much filling. It’d bubbled out and over the sides of the crust, dripping down onto the bottom of the oven. Grabbing a couple of towels, I pulled the pie out and set it on a cooling rack, then slammed the oven shut and ran to open the windows.
That’s when someone knocked on the door. My heart raced . . . Puck? He’d mentioned coming over for a slice of pie, but I hadn’t seen his bike when I got home. I’d tried calling his place. No answer. I assumed he had a cell phone but even if I’d had the number it would’ve been useless here in the valley.
“Hey there,” I said, opening the door wide. Puck did that thing of his, catching me by the back of the neck and pulling me in for a long, hot kiss that left me breathless. Finally he ended it, resting his forehead against mine.
“Is there a particu
lar reason your kitchen is on fire?”
I shook my head slowly, loving how his head moved with mine. It was cute—the kind of thing girls did with their boyfriends on TV.
“The pie boiled over,” I said. He drew back, frowning.
“That mean I won’t get a piece?”
“What if I told you we’d have really great sex instead?”
Still frowning, he raised a brow.
“You didn’t answer the question.”
I smacked his shoulder and he smirked, pulling me into his side before dropping a kiss on my head.
“I’ll take the sex,” he said. “But I gotta admit, I’m disappointed about the pie.”
“It’s fine. Some burned on the bottom of the oven. It’s not the prettiest, but it’ll still taste good. I’m taking it out to Earl and Regina’s, though.”
“They’re old, so they won’t be able to eat all of it. Bring me leftovers and I’ll survive. Now let’s move on to the sex option.”
I glanced at the clock.
“We’ve got about half an hour before I leave,” I said. “But I need to clean up first.”
“Not a problem.”
Ten minutes later he had me up against the wall of my tiny shower, one leg cocked up and over his hip, mouth attached to my neck as his fingers plunged deep inside. It was cramped and awkward and beautiful all at once.
“Holy crap,” I moaned. “I can’t believe how good that feels.”
“About to get better,” Puck said. Suddenly his hands caught my thighs, lifting me enough to slip his dick inside. He filled me, hips crushing into mine as I squished back into the shower wall. It should’ve hurt but it didn’t. Not at all.
Somehow the moment was perfect in every way.
Then he started moving and I realized “perfect” was more of a state of being than one particular position, because I swear it felt better every second.
“Damn, that’s good,” he muttered, starting to move more quickly. I felt the tension build, faster than usual. This felt different, better than before. Slicker, hotter . . . harder.
My fingers dug into his muscles. Then he hit that special spot deep inside and my back arched, dragging my nails across his skin. If he noticed, he didn’t show it. Now my entire body was wound tight and I felt that sweet relief hovering just out of reach.
“Harder,” I moaned. “Fuck me harder.”
“Keep talking,” he grunted. “It’s hot as hell.”
“Your cock feels better than . . .”
“Do not say some other guy’s name.”
A snort of laughter escaped me.
“No,” I gasped. “I wasn’t thinking that.”
“What were you thinking about?” he asked, giving his hips a hard swivel.
“My vibrator,” I managed to gasp out. “Sometimes at night I imagine it’s your dick.”
“Jesus Christ.”
Impossibly, he found his way deeper inside and I realized walking afterward might be a bit of a problem. Not that I cared. I was about ten seconds away from coming.
Five . . . four . . . three . . .
Boom.
My world exploded. I clenched him so hard it should’ve hurt, but he just stiffened and I felt the hot spurts deep inside. Water poured over us as we clung to each other, trying not to collapse under the weight of our shared pleasure.
Then Puck was pulling free, lowering me gently to the floor.
“I think you tore strips out of my back,” he said. I turned him around in the tiny space.
“Crap.” Sure enough, my nails had left bright red trails of blood dripping across his skin. “That’s a little gruesome. I’m really sorry.”
“I’m not,” he said. “I like playing rough, Becca. You push as hard as you want.”
I wasn’t sure what to think about that, so I decided to ignore it in favor of cupping water in my hands to rinse between my legs . . .
Oh. Fuck.
“We didn’t use a condom,” I whispered, horrified. “We didn’t use a fucking condom!”
Puck stilled.
“Didn’t even think of it,” he admitted. “I just wanted inside you. You aren’t on anything?”
“No,” I said.
We stared at each other, stunned.
“Huh,” he said finally. “You have any idea where you are in your cycle?”
“You know about that stuff?”
“I’m a grown man, Becca,” he said. “Not a twelve-year-old. Of course I know about that stuff. What are the odds we just knocked you up?”
I shook my head and shrugged.
“No idea,” I admitted. “I’ve never been very regular.”
“Then we’re probably just fine,” he said. “I don’t have anything, in case you’re worried.”
I blinked, trying to process what he said.
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
“Um, I think I need to wash my hair before I leave,” I said finally.
“That your hint you want me out of the shower?” he asked, a touch of humor in his voice.
“Yeah, I think so.”
Puck caught me close, one hand on each side of my head as he searched my eyes.
“It’s gonna be just fine, all right? You get ready, then go out and enjoy your dinner. Don’t worry about it.”
Yeah, right. No worries at all.
—
Earl’s huckleberry pie was still steaming when I left the apartment at five thirty p.m.—Regina served dinner at six, sharp, and she didn’t have a lot of patience for people who found themselves running late.
The rush was worth it, though, because I loved Regina’s cooking almost as much as I loved sex with Puck.
It wasn’t anything fancy but it was always good because Regina didn’t like to do things halfway. Nope. When she served mashed potatoes she boiled them herself, then used real butter, real cream, and a hint of salt to create something that bore no resemblance whatsoever to that shit you buy in the store.
After Earl’s heart attack, I’d talked to her about changing her ways. She’d looked at me like I’d lost my mind, declaring she’d stop using real butter just as soon as he stopped drinking and smoking. If he didn’t care enough about his own health to change, no reason she should have to eat food that tasted like Elmer’s glue.
Needless to say, real butter still sat on her table.
Tonight’s dinner was just as good as always—roast venison (compliments of Earl), veggies, potatoes and gravy, followed by the pie served warm with ice cream.
Regina and Earl never pushed me to confide in them, and I hadn’t intended to bring up my mom at all. Something about sitting at the table together always got me talking, though, and tonight was no exception. As I watched Earl cut the roast, I found myself sharing the phone calls and my afternoon visit to the Vegas Belles Gentlemen’s Club.
“I can’t believe I fell for her bullshit again,” I said, poking at my potatoes with a fork. “You’d think I’d be smarter by now.”
“We’re hardwired to love our parents,” Regina said. “It’s part of being human. Something went wrong in your mama’s wiring, otherwise she’d treat you better. That doesn’t mean you should beat yourself up for having a heart.”
“What did you think of that strip club?” Earl asked, his eyes bright. I choked.
“Nice try,” Regina said, smacking him with a serving spoon. “Our girl nearly found herself taking off her clothes for strange men. You really want a club description?”
Regina continued to mutter as Earl caught my eye and winked. I bit back a giggle—the man had always been a joker, and he loved messing with his wife’s head. She never saw it coming, no matter how many times he did it.
“Should I go get the pie?”
“Damned straight,” Earl said. “Ice cream, too?”
“Would I let you eat huckleberry pie without ice cream?” Regina asked sternly. “You may be a forgetful old fool, but I’m still playing with a full deck. Becca, come to the kitchen with me.
”
I shot an eye roll at Earl, then followed her out of the dining room. Their house was nothing special—just a little two-story that was nearly a hundred years old and showed every minute of its age. Nothing felt as safe and warm as this place, though. I never had a home with my mom, but I definitely had one here.
“You do the honors,” she said grandly, gesturing toward the pie. This was a Big Deal—usually she served the pie, pawning ice cream duty off on me. “I’m proud of you. You drew a line and stopped that woman from taking advantage of you. I know it wasn’t easy.”
“It wasn’t,” I admitted, pulling out the pie server and a sharp knife. “I’m glad I did it, too. She’s already caused enough damage.”
“Damned straight.”
Regina let me lead the way out of the kitchen, carrying my pie proudly. I set it down in the center of the table, wishing it didn’t have a ring of bright purple juice and ooze leaking from the side.
“Looks great,” Earl said.
“It looks like a two-year-old made it,” I replied, my tone rueful.
“Doesn’t matter what it looks like,” Regina said. “Taste is what matters. Don’t just stand there—serve the dessert before we all starve to death.”
Earl and I started laughing, because nobody could ever starve in Regina’s house. The real danger would be waking up one day weighing five hundred pounds. I sliced through the flaky crust, the still-warm filling welling up. Regina handed me a plate and I lifted it out, going back a second time to scoop up the tiny berries that spilled out the sides.
“So,” I said casually. “I have some more news. I’m seeing someone. At least, sort of seeing someone.”
“Really?” Regina asked, deftly plopping ice cream on the plate and handing it off to Earl as I scooped a second piece. “Is it that Collins boy? He’s a good sort.”
“Union boys say he’s got potential,” Earl added. “You could do worse.”
I swallowed. “I’m seeing Puck Redhouse.”
Silence.
Looking up, I found both of them staring at me.
“I know things were strange between me and him . . .”
