by K. A. Tucker
The cackles of laughter in the dressing room don’t settle down, even as the door bangs open and China strolls in, carrying her stage outfit and wearing a bikini made for an eight-year-old. I’m surprised she bothered putting anything back on after her show. That woman is missing all modicum of modesty.
“What’s so funny?”
“Oh, New Girl was just telling us how she plans on polishing the boss’s knob in his office tonight.”
I feel my face burst with heat as I shake my head. These women are not only crass; they’re relentless.
“Of course.” China’s mirthless chuckle follows her as she takes a seat by a locker. “Though I’m sure New Girl already knows she doesn’t have what it takes to interest a guy like Cain.” Her sharp eyes roll up and down my frame with a pointed smirk.
There’s an edge to her tone—a warning, almost—that I catch immediately. And it annoys the hell out of me. Instead of being decent, this woman made me want to cry coming off the stage that first night. Since then, she’s done nothing but shoot me vicious glares. I’m pretty sure she started the rumor that I’m a terrible lay. And that I have crabs. Now, she’s trying to put me in my place, and that place is clearly beneath her and away from Cain.
I’m no idiot. I dealt with jealous girls all through high school. But I should probably be careful around her. Sam taught me to always keep my thoughts to myself. “Guard your words,” he’d say. “Only reveal what is absolutely necessary.” The way I was raised, the real me avoided confrontation and argument. I was complacent to let others lead, to go with the flow.
But Charlie Rourke is not putting up with this bitch. She has enough to put up with. “I’m sure if the new girl were interested, she’d have his cock in her hands in under two seconds,” I answer sweetly, as I pull my shirt over my head. I silently thank my sophomore drama teacher for casting me as Regina George in our school’s modified rendition of Mean Girls.
Of course, there was no cock talk in that performance.
But Charlie Rourke can adapt to any situation.
A loud eruption of whistles and catcalls fills the room, followed by slaps on my legs. I guess that means I’ve officially joined the inner stripper club. Unfortunately, the raven-haired viper staring at me with an icy gaze right now isn’t rolling out a welcome mat.
* * *
I watch Ginger with interest as she accepts a twenty and throws a suggestive wink at a customer. It’s fascinating—the way she flirts with these men, I’d never in a million years guess that she’s not interested in anything but their tips. And, by the beaming grin that explodes on the man’s face, neither would he.
“Hey,” Ginger says as she adjusts one of her messy spikes that has lost its height and is now falling over her eye. “When’s your birthday?” It’s late and the bar has finally slowed down, allowing us a chance to chatter.
“February fourteenth,” I automatically answer as I dump the limes and ice out of the dirty cups.
“Valentine’s Day?” she exclaims, excited.
I freeze. That’s not Charlie’s birthday. That’s my real birthday. Dammit! I grit my teeth, angry with myself for the slip-up. I’m normally so good at keeping my stories straight. Ginger has a way of relaxing me, though, of making me forget why I’m here in the first place. Charlie’s birthday is September twenty-third, but it’s too late to correct it now. As long as she never sees my ID, I should be fine. “Why?”
She shrugs. “Just thought I should know. I see you every single day, after all. Wouldn’t want to be sitting around, talking about . . . I don’t know . . .,” she pauses, searching for something no doubt appalling, “Brazilian waxes and toe fungus, when I should have baked you a cake.”
I wrinkle my nose in feigned disgust, while inside my head, I’m doing the math. I should be gone by next February, so I won’t have to worry about it. I’ll be completely alone in the world to celebrate the day. The thought brings a pang of sadness to my chest. Given our proximity at home and work and Ginger’s forceful nature, we’ve become close friends in a short period of time.
I’ll miss her.
“Well, mine’s December twenty-fifth, by the way. So we both have easy birthdays to remember. Start thinking about an awesome gift for me now.”
“Huh. You’re like baby Jesus.” I mentally make a promise to send Ginger a card every year, no matter where I am.
“Didn’t you know? I’m the second coming. Commence bowing now.”
I launch a straw at her head instead, earning a wink.
“Or maybe I should be bowing down to you.” She begins scrubbing the counter, avoiding my questioning look. “Cain should be out shortly.” She shoots those cat eyes at me with a pointed glare, adding in dry tone, “Again.”
Of course.
“Something you want to admit, Charlie?”
Passing through the entry of the bar and rounding the corner to wipe a spill over the counter, I can’t help the grin from stretching across my face as a thrill courses through my body. It makes the denial that’s about to come from my mouth sound completely dishonest.
“Oh, just forget it!” Ginger snaps, her hand waving me away.
I’m giggling when I hear, “Hey, beautiful.” A tall, lanky middle-aged guy leans into the bar next to me. I’ve seen him here before. He’s a regular on weekends. He’s careful not to rub up against me, for which I’m thankful. “Weren’t you up on that stage earlier?” His eyes drift down to my chest and my mind automatically converts his question to, Weren’t those breasts up on that stage earlier?
I’m getting used to this. It happens every night. The fact that I’m not available for private dances seems to make me that much more appealing. I offer him a tight-lipped smile—the same one I offer to all the guys who approach me at the bar, while I wait for a bouncer to chase them off—and shrug. “Maybe.”
By the crooked curl of his lips, he must think I’m playing coy. “Well, maybe you could give me a one-on-one reenactment. I know the going rate’s six for an hour, but seeing as I heard you don’t do private shows,” he says as he starts to pull his wallet out, “I thought a grand might change your mind.”
I fight to keep my eyes from bugging out. I could make a thousand dollars for an hour tonight if I could just do what I do onstage, in a private room? Well, there’d be more to it than that. Ginger explained exactly what’s involved with a “full-friction” dance. My eyes drift to the row of five tequila shots that DeeDee’s pouring. Maybe if I down all of them right now . . .
A protective hand lands on my shoulder. “I think Mercy—the blond in the red dress over there—is available to give you that dance,” Ben announces, wedging himself between me and the guy, squashing the proposition like a bug. The lanky guy quickly vacates the bar area with a nod and a sheepish smile.
“Thanks, Ben,” I offer. Ben is usually the one rescuing me.
He flashes those dimples at me. “Beating guys off you is my job.”
“And beating off is your hobby. Hey! Ho! . . .” Ginger sings, following it up with a silly arm-waving dance, earning chuckles from the patrons around us.
I roll my eyes but laugh. “Well, either way. Can you believe he offered me a grand?” I peer up at Ben’s pleasing face with incredulity. We’ve ended up chatting a bit over the last couple of weeks, enough that I might call him a friend. An attractive, funny, sometimes offensive friend who would have his pants undone in under two seconds if I invited it.
But still a friend.
“I’m not surprised in the least.” His eyes slide down for a split second and I know he just stole a glance at my cleavage. Ben’s a boob guy. And a leg guy. And an ass guy. “But I’m glad you’re not taking it.”
“Yeah.” I shift my body slightly to wipe up the rest of the beer with my cloth. Why is that, again?
“How’s everything out here tonight?” the familiar smooth male voice behind me asks, and a blip of nerves spikes in my stomach. Turning, I find Cain flanking my other side, one hand resting on the
bar, the other sitting in his pocket.
Oh, that’s right. Because my sexy boss—who allows everyone else to—won’t allow me. Ginger said his reasoning doesn’t make sense. It’s busy enough that, if I were to do one or two private dances a night, none of the other dancers would get her feathers in a bunch over it. Except for China, of course, but she’s pissed with me no matter what.
“All handled,” Ben mutters, taking a step back, a mixture of annoyance and amusement on his face. “Just another guy who finally grew a set and approached Charlie. Probably comes here every night to watch her dance.”
A rare flash of anger sparks in Cain’s eyes, but it quickly vanishes at the sound of Ginger’s voice. “Cain! What a surprise!” The playfulness in her tone is impossible to miss.
Those two have no shame when it comes to teasing their boss. Then again, apparently neither do I. Only, I’m doing it in a very different way.
Cain ignores them, turning his focus on me. “How are things going for you, Charlie?”
My mouth opens but I falter for a second. “Uh, good . . . Good.” He’s talking to me. It’s been weeks and he’s actually talking to me. Peering up into that gorgeous face as his eyes settle on me, I feel heat instantly rush up my thighs. Thanks to the unconventional and completely unfulfilling foreplay between us, I’m feeling all kinds of awkward right now.
His gaze drifts down to my chest and then snaps back up. I let a satisfactory smile touch my lips so that he knows I caught him. Could Cain actually be attracted enough to me to do something about it? It’s impossible to tell. I’ve spent time studying him: his face is usually without expression, regardless of the situation. Like mine. I wonder if he comes by it naturally—like me—or if he has consciously trained himself to be so unreadable. His hands remain still when he talks, and when he’s listening to others speak—which is often, because Cain seems to prefer listening—he’ll absently trace the rim of his glass with his fingertip.
He has no issues with eye contact, though. Those dark brown eyes drill right into you. You get the feeling that he’s mentally trapping your words for future reference.
He has only a few habitual moves. The most common is when his hand absently rubs the side of his neck, behind his left ear. Where that tattoo is. And, occasionally, when he catches me studying him, his top lip will curl up on one side in a crooked smile.
And he’s caught me staring at him. A lot.
“Things are fine, Cain,” I offer, adding, “Though it’s hot. Miami’s hot.” The weather. Boring, but safe.
He shifts his body to face out, his elbows resting on the bar, stretching the material of his shirt over his taut chest. In the club, Cain always wears a fitted button-down shirt and dress pants that highlight his ass nicely. With the air cranked to the max, he can easily get away with it.
And dammit if it doesn’t make him even more attractive.
My nose catches a hint of his delicious woodsy cologne and I inhale deeply.
“That’s right, you’re not from here originally. Where are you from?”
“Indianapolis.”
He nods slowly. “Did you live there long?”
“All my life.” The trick to keeping the lies straight is to make them simple to remember. Charlie Rourke is from Indianapolis. Period.
I watch as Cain lifts his glass to his lips to take a small sip, holding a bit of the liquor in his mouth for a moment before the muscles in his throat tense to swallow. Hell, even his swallows are sexy. “And your parents? Are they still there?”
My gut tells me this is a fishing expedition, and that makes me nervous to say anything at all. “Yup.”
His gaze rolls over the crowd again, never stopping on the stage as the dancer named Delyla peels off another layer. “Do they know about you dancing?”
I frown and shake my head. That sounds like the right answer. What parents would want to know their kid is doing this? Sam actually did know about my pole-dancing lessons. He didn’t seem to care about it. It worked well as a cover. I’d hand a small bag to one of the managers there once a week before class.
“Money is good, right?”
“Yeah, money’s good.” The money is really good. Between the bar and the stage, I’m bringing in several thousand a week. “Could be better, though. A guy just offered a grand for an hour. Isn’t that crazy?”
I catch the almost imperceptible tensing in Cain’s jaw. “Not surprising.” There’s a pause. “Are you upset with me for not putting you in there?”
I should say that I am, but my head is shaking before I can get the lie out. When his shoulders seem to sag in relief, I’m glad I told the truth.
“You’ve never worked a private room before, right?” He asks it so gently, and yet panic suddenly courses through me. Has he figured out that I lied about stripping in Vegas? Is he going to fire me? Is that why he’s out here, talking to me now? Ginger said it’s next to impossible to get fired from Penny’s, but she also said not to lie to him.
And all I’ve told him is lies.
Biting the inside of my mouth to keep my alarm from showing, I look out over the crowd as I decide how to answer. If he told me right now that I could work those rooms, could I?
I was alone in a room with Sal when it happened. He said it was standard to remove your pants for a search. Hiding my panic, I laughed in his face and told him I wasn’t new to this. Then I asked him if he demanded that of all the men who came to visit him, too. Sal flashed a wicked grin—complete with crooked, stained teeth—before gripping the back of my neck and slamming my body over the table, asking me if I wanted to go about this the easy way or the hard way.
I’m still not sure which way he went about it.
I remember holding my breath and watching the door, waiting for the other guy—the one I normally dealt with—to come back. He’d always been respectful to me, as far as drug dealers go. He wouldn’t allow this.
Sal didn’t rape me in the traditional sense, as surprising as that is, given everything else he did to me. Sometimes I still get flashes of his rough, callused hands as they delved into my body. When I didn’t react—not a sound, not a tear, even when I should have cried out from the pain—I guess he got bored. Like a cat batting around a mouse that doesn’t run. He called me a cold bitch and turned his back on me to check the delivery, giving me time to pull my pants back up. At the time, I was relieved that he let me go without taking full advantage. Most men would have.
It wasn’t until after I ran to my car, after I drove to the drop site, after I burst into tears in front of Sam, that the shock wore off and the worst part of it all hit. The part where I emptied my stomach of the vileness but didn’t feel purged. Where I stood under the scalding-hot water until my skin was raw but still could not feel clean. Where I put fresh clothing on and still felt naked. Where I curled up into a ball until the sleeping pills kicked in, only to wake up squeezing my thighs together, feeling like his dirty fingers had just been there.
The actual event with Sal, while horrendous and humiliating, lasted no more than thirty seconds. But the feeling of complete and utter filth lingered for weeks. “Charlie?” Cain’s voice calls breaks into my thoughts.
“I just can’t do it.” The truth slips out of me before I can control it, and I feel Cain’s eyes bore into the side of my face.
I’m surprised when a warm hand curls around my arm, the pad of his thumb running up and down my bicep affectionately. Turning, I find Cain’s normally expressionless face pinched with worry. “If you ever feel like you can do it, promise me you’ll come talk to me?”
I nod in response. I know without a doubt that Cain would certainly not make me feel vile. Cain would make me feel really, really good.
And now I’m pretty sure I know why Cain didn’t allow me to work the floors. Ginger was right. It isn’t about being overstaffed. He knows I haven’t worked one of those rooms and he’s doing his best to keep me away. To keep me safe.
I’m living a life where safety is a luxury, w
here the only family I have risks my well-being without thinking twice. Yet it took this man—a stranger—mere seconds to decide that he would protect me.
Beyond my frustrated physical feelings for Cain, I feel a pang of something new. Something unwanted. Something that Sam would never approve of.
It’s only amplified by Cain’s next words. “You know that you can come to me for anything at all, right, Charlie? I will help you however I can.”
Pursing my lips together, I nod as I struggle to wrap my mind around this version of Cain. This interaction is so different from any other that we’ve had. I’m forced to come to the conclusion that Cain just may be a truly good man.
A man who deserves a good woman.
The tightness in my chest tells me that woman is not me.
But whether I deserve his attention or not, the devil in me wants it. “How are you enjoying the show?” I ask, keeping my tone casual.
I catch the flash of surprise before he dips his head and chuckles, his hand sliding over that tattoo. His mouth opens and closes several times before glancing back up at me with a dangerous look, his tone having suddenly dropped by a few octaves. “It’s quite the game you’re playing, Charlie.”
I shouldn’t ask. I shouldn’t. Don’t ask. Don’t . . .
“And do you like playing it?” I’m surprised he even heard me, what with my voice as low as it is.
But he must have—that or he read my lips, where his focus is locked right now—because he steps in closer, until our chests are almost touching but aren’t. I hold the air in my lungs as he leans in toward my ear, his warm breath skating along my neck. “Yes, I do. Too much.”
I watch his retreating back as he turns around, unable to breathe for several long seconds as the butterflies thrash about in my stomach.
And I wonder if maybe there is also another side—a darker, less controlled, not so good side—to Cain, after all.
chapter seventeen
* * *
CAIN
