Sex Therapy

by Jillian Quinn

  I look at the men surrounding us, standing a few feet back from the stage, thanks to our bouncers.

  “Make eye contact,” Bruno always says to us.

  So, I do, my eyes traveling around the room, never stopping on anyone in particular.

  With this job, at least I don’t have to wear a G-string, take off my clothes, or have sweaty, horny men touching me. They only stare at me with their mouths open wide, whistling and screaming, as I throw my leg around the pole. After I twirl a few times, dancing nonstop, my body and the pole are now slick with sweat. Under the heat from the lights and the steady pace we have to maintain, I practically melt into a puddle on the floor.

  I tighten my grip on the pole and hop off before I fall and embarrass myself, like when I first started out. Counting down the minutes in my head until the end of this shift, I keep going and force my body to move, already feeling my leg cramping up. I hate when that happens because it makes standing in these heels ten times harder.

  When the song changes to a more techno beat, I inch forward, in sync with the other girls, and we gyrate to the beat of the music. I took ballet, tap, and jazz lessons when I was younger. But I never thought I was any good.

  One of the girls I met while working as a lawyer at the public defender’s office told me about a club that paid well for dancing without taking off your clothes, and I was banging on Bruno’s door the next day, begging him for a job because I was so desperate for cash. The life of a public servant has zero rewards. On my measly public defender salary, I barely made enough money to pay a few bills and treat myself to a manicure once a month.

  Once our set ends, I stop for a second, sweat dripping into my eyes and down my face. With the makeup and lights blinding me, I can hardly see the faces in front of me. Blinking a few times as I step down from the platform, I grab ahold of a bouncer’s arm, and he escorts me out of the room. I’m thrilled that I have thirty minutes before I have to go back on again.

  I need the money. But I hate this job.

  Our next shift moves to the main room of the club where girls are dancing inside cages suspended from the vaulted ceiling. Bruno used to switch me with the girls who normally worked above the dance floor, but one night, I got so sick from the height that he hasn’t forced me to go up there since. Now, he wants the girls to dance on top of a long mahogany bar at the center of the club where everyone can perfectly see us as we step onto the stools and climb up onto the bar.

  I almost lose my balance when my shoe collides with something wet, causing me to glide toward one of the six poles bolted into the ceiling and fixed to the wood. On my first night as a dancer, I didn’t adjust to the black lights, and I walked into the bottom of the stage, falling onto the platform with my arms sprawled out and my legs sticking up in the air. It was beyond humiliating. I thought about quitting after that night, but Donna convinced me to stick with it, said things would get better as time went by. She was right. But that does not change how I feel about this job.

  I could have worked a different job, apart from the public defender’s office, but I wanted to make some fast cash to pay off my debts. According to my projections, it will be at least one year, if not more, before I am debt-free. My pride has to take a backseat to the mountain of bills and collection agencies hounding me on a daily basis. I am flat broke and drowning in school loans.

  “No touching!” the bouncer yells at a guy who has grabbed my leg, his sleazy hand running up the length of my calf. “I said, no touching.”

  I try to shake him off, holding on to the pole and hopping around, as the bouncer peels the guy’s fingers from my skin and grips him by his shirt.

  When the bouncer turns to manhandle him, my hand slides down the metal of the sweat-coated pole. With the slickness from spilled drinks on the bar, I fall forward after the guy releases my leg, having nothing left to keep me from tumbling to the ground. Except my body never hits the floor because strong arms have wrapped around me. The scent of musk and laundry detergent fill my nostrils as my nose crashes against the neck of the man who caught me.

  “I got you, beautiful,” he whispers into my ear, his voice deep and sensual.

  He sets me on the floor his striking green eyes luring me in. The dark tats on his muscular arms cause my heart to flutter a bit. Damn if he’s not one of the sexiest men I have laid eyes on in a long time. I was already curious about the man who saved me, but now…

  Fashioned into tiny spikes that stick up in different directions, his dark auburn hair has more brown to it than red, somehow making him even more alluring. He has a trace of stubble along his angular jaw, completing the younger, sexier Michael Fassbender look.

  My God, he’s gorgeous. Can I even use that word when talking about a man?

  “I’m sorry about that!” he yells over the music. “My friend is an asshole. Let me make it up to you. What are you drinking?”

  “I can’t, not when I’m working.”

  “After work then.”

  Before I can respond, a bouncer pulls me away from him and pushes the guy further into the crowd.

  My cue to get back to work.

  Bruno watches us from camera feeds in his office. I have no doubt, he is pissed about me taking a minute to talk to the man who spared me massive humiliation.

  You okay? Donna mouths to me as I climb onto the bar.

  I try to compose myself before getting back to our routine. With a quick nod, I continue moving to the beat of the music, falling in line with the rest of the girls on the bar with me. It’s rare for a customer to ever get close enough to us that we have cause for concern—not unless they’ve paid for a more intimate experience in the VIP room, but even that premium service only gets them within a few feet of the girls.

  Among the guys in the crowd, I spot him instantly. He’s the kind of guy who stands out. He must be in his early twenties, though he could pass as older.

  The boy who touched me must have evaded the bouncer because he’s found his way back to the group of guys surrounding my tatted savior. He chases the boy away with a wave of his hand, his mouth twisted in disgust while speaking to him, and then he steps next to a tall, dark-haired man with a scruffy beard and unkempt appearance. They do not look like friends. I’m shocked someone so yummy would even hang out with guys like the troll next to him and the skeevy dude who tried to feel me up. But the two guys to his left, the ones with beautiful women dangling on their arms, are even better-looking, similar in height, and just as well built.

  Despite my rule of not focusing on anyone too long, I cannot take my eyes off him. And, once he leans into his unattractive friend to talk to him, our eyes meet at the same time, and I forget I’m supposed to be moving to the beat and following a routine. My body does what it wants, repeating the sequences from memory. He stares so hard, so intense, that, if the lights weren’t so damn hot already, I’d melt under his gaze.

  He sifts through the crowd and steps in front of the bar to order, his eyes never leaving mine. After the bartender hands him a drink, he licks his lips at me and takes a sip from his glass. Lost in him, I don’t even realize the song has ended until Donna taps me on the shoulder, snapping me out of my trance.

  “C’mon, Liv. Get your ass in gear.”

  Ending our staring contest, I turn around, giving him a nice view of my ass in my barely there outfit, and I hop down from the bar. I look over my shoulder at him one last time before I follow behind Donna. He smiles and raises his glass at me, and I grin like an idiot.

  I walk into the dressing room with Donna at my side, the other girls ahead of us.

  Donna pats me on the back and pulls me closer. “That was a close call, huh? He had his hand wrapped pretty tightly around your leg.”

  “I didn’t even have time to react before the bouncer threw him out.”

  “You should’ve kicked him in the face for getting so close.” She tilts her head back and laughs. “That would’ve taught that bastard a lesson for touching the goods.”

 
Taking a seat in front of my dressing table, I sigh. “I’m fine. It’s not like I haven’t had dudes try to touch me before. Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

  Donna sits beside me, pressing down on the corner of her eye to hold her fake lashes in place. “At least you start your new job on Monday. You won’t need this place soon enough.” She turns to me and frowns. “I’ll miss you when you are a hotshot professor and have dozens of published papers in some fancy law journal.”

  “It’s only an associate professor position at Strickland University, not Harvard.”

  “Strickland is still a prestigious school. Give yourself some credit. Not too shabby for your first teaching gig. And it beats the hell out of the public defender’s office.”

  I shrug, nonchalant, even though I know the position is the opportunity of a lifetime. “You’re acting like I scored a job as a department head. I will still be here, shaking my ass next to you, until I have my freedom back.”

  She grabs a bottle of water from the vanity and holds it up. “To freedom and making money. I’m so happy for you, Liv. Professor Ford has a nice ring to it. Professor Olivia Ford. You sound very official.”

  Her comment brings a smile to my face. “Thanks, D. I guess you can say, teaching is in my blood.”

  “I bet your dad was a good teacher. He can teach me quadratic equations any day.” She licks her lips and winks at me.

  “Gross!” I throw a tube of lipstick at her, laughing. “That’s my dad you’re talking about. He’s retired and…just ew.”

  She shrugs. “What? He’s cute for an old dude.”

  I grew up in a middle-class neighborhood in Northeast Philadelphia with parents who were both schoolteachers. My dad taught high school mathematics and met my mom shortly after when she applied at his school to teach English. I’m a little bit of each parent, good with both numbers and words.

  Instead of teaching, I went to law school and landed myself a job at the public defender’s office after I passed the Pennsylvania Bar Exam right out of school. I had offers from top firms in the city, but I chose the life of a civil servant because I wanted to help people. Too bad the job paid shit. With all the loans and credit cards I had racked up while I was in school, the pittance of a salary I made wasn’t enough to keep food on my table, a roof over my head, and the collection agencies off my back.

  I loved my job…until I had that one case—the one that rips you apart and tears you to pieces. Every lawyer has one client who tests their limits, their morals, and their judgment. Glen Brandis, aka the Wissinoming Park Rapist, was the straw that broke my back. I lost all desire to practice law after his case. I still lose sleep at night over what happened in the courtroom that day.

  “Let’s go, ladies!” Tamara, the grouchy woman who manages the dancers, screams through the dressing room door. “You’re on again in two minutes.”

  I groan and slide off my stool. “I seriously hope I won’t have to endure much more of this before I can make my escape.”

  Donna laughs. “You only have to slum it a little bit longer, Teach,” she says, calling me by my dancer name.

  TEACH is available now!

  Read TEACH for FREE with Kindle Unlimited

  PARKER

  If you like sports romances, keep reading for a free excerpt of Parker, the first book in the Face-Off series.

  Parker is available now!

  Read PARKER for FREE with Kindle Unlimited.

  Meet Alex Parker, the NHL’s most notorious bad boy both on and off the ice.

  As the top defenseman in the league, Alex was on a winning team, so close to the Stanley Cup, before he hooked up with the wrong puck bunny—the team owner’s granddaughter. Oops! So, they sent him packing to Philadelphia to play for the Flyers, one of the worst teams in the league.

  His agent wants him to clean up his act. He drinks too much. He sleeps around too much. That’s why his agent assigns Charlotte Coachman, aka Coach, to whip him into shape. Coach is a sexy sports agent that challenges him, makes him want to become a better man, and every time they are around each other, it's as if they're having their own face-off.

  After Coach takes him under her wing, Alex wants her all to himself. She has strict rules about dating clients, and he likes breaking them.

  PARKER EXCERPT

  Chapter One

  ALEX

  Most people hate the loud, obnoxious noise a hockey goal horn makes, but I’m not one of those people. Because that means my team has scored and is one step closer to another victory.

  But, this morning, the sweet sound I associate with winning wakes me from a drunken sleep, and for the third time this year, I know the person on the other end of the line is calling with bad news. I lift my head from the pillow, one eye open, as I reach for my cell phone on the bedside table.

  Except I’m not in my bedroom. This is not my apartment.

  Where the hell am I?

  I spot a pink fuzzy robe draped over the closet door, reminding me of something a child would wear. A Harry Potter poster is on the wall above a small desk with a computer, a schoolbag slung over the top of the chair. The room is about the size of a dorm room.

  No, this can’t be happening.

  When I roll onto my back and sit up, I lean against the headboard, my legs too long for the twin-size bed, and see a naked blonde sleeping next to me. Her arm covers her face, so I can’t tell if I chose well before we left the bar last night. The entire evening is a blur.

  Please don’t be a dorm room.

  She stirs, a sound escaping her lips.

  I silence the ringer on my phone and sigh when I see that it’s my agent calling. This is not good. Answering his call will only confirm that my future with the Washington Capitals is over.

  I banged the wrong chick—and not the one next to me.

  How was I supposed to know that smoking-hot puck bunny was the granddaughter of the wrinkly old fuck in charge of my paycheck?

  I have to man up and face reality, so I return my agent’s call, praying that the owner has granted me a reprieve after another phenomenal season. I think I’ve earned that much. We’re first in our division, and we have the best penalty kill record in the league, thanks to me.

  “Hey, Mick,” I say, my hand shaking as I hold the phone to my ear. “Let me—”

  Before I can finish my thought, Mickey Donoghue—also known in the sports agent world as Mick the Dick—screams, “Pack your bags, jerk off; you’re going to Philadelphia. Don’t fuck this up, you understand? This is your last chance!”

  I sit up straight, my heart pounding out of my chest, unable to process his words. The Philadelphia Flyers are not the worst team in the league, but they’re not the best either. I worked my ass off to make my team worthy of the playoffs. We almost won the Stanley Cup last year. Starting over with a young team is not ideal. In fact, it’s bullshit.

  After eight years in the league, I should have my pick of teams. But, after my last fuckup, I lost some of my sponsors and was lucky that Mick was enough of a dick to keep me in Washington, DC. The team refused to sign me with a no-trade clause because of my past indiscretions, which meant I had no choice in where they wanted to send me.

  “Can I just meet with the owner? Let me explain to him that it was all a misunderstanding.” I had a good relationship with the owner of the team before the scandal, before I banged his granddaughter in an elevator at The Ritz-Carlton. “Mick, I thought—”

  “No, you don’t think, kid. That’s your problem. You let the wrong head do the thinking for you, and the result is the same every time. Look, you’ve got a lot of talent. I know your father wouldn’t have wanted this for you.”

  He’s right about that. My dad would crawl out of his grave just to kick my ass if he knew what I had become since his death. A lot can happen in six months. I screwed up worse than normal, and now, I have to sack up and head to Philly to play for one of the last teams I would’ve ever chosen.

  “Alex,” Mickey breathes into the receiver,
“you’re my godson, and you have been with me since the start of your career. Your old man was a good guy, a talented player, and an even better coach. He was my closest friend, and because we’re like family, I try to look out for you and your best interests, as if you were my own son.”

  “I know. I appreciate everything you’ve done, but you—”

  I can almost see Mickey on the other end of the line, holding up his hand to silence me, cutting me off. “Think of this as a chance to start over with a less experienced team that can use your skill set. You can teach these young guys. With a lot of patience and time, you can build this team up and help them get into the playoffs.”

  I don’t want to be someone’s mentor. I want to win the Stanley Cup.

  A brief moment of silence passes between us before Mickey clears his throat, snapping me out of my daze. My head is pounding, as if it has its own pulse, and the foul taste in my mouth makes me want to vomit. I want to drink myself into oblivion at the thought of leaving my team. But I don’t have a choice.

  “When do I leave for Philly?”

  “You have to report for practice at the Flyers Skate Zone in Voorhees, New Jersey at the end of the week. I rented you an apartment, about thirty minutes away in Philly, from an agent who owns a few properties on the waterfront. I’ll text you the address. After we hang up, my office will give you a call to work out the details, and I’ll make sure someone is at the apartment to meet you with the keys. Since you already live like a drifter, I doubt you have much to pack, but I arranged for a moving company to help you with your transition. The movers will be at your apartment at nine a.m. tomorrow. Make sure you’re awake. No more bullshit, Alex. You’re twenty-seven years old. It’s time to grow up and act like an adult.”