by Aubrey Cara
“Yeah, well, I think we all knew that girl was going to stomp all over you. I mean, when you met her she’d been on a date with another guy,” I say, still smiling.
At the sink, rinsing out his bowl, Wyatt laughs. “Man, I’d forgotten about that. You got to admit, I got game. I mean, I poached a chick on her date!”
I just shake my head grinning. I’m not about to point out the fact that the girl was easily swayed and faithless. “Whatever. If you want a ride to the airport you better grab your shit, so we can go. I have a thing this afternoon that I have to do for Slater.”
Pulling up to the departing flights drop off, I let Wyatt out between JetBlue and American. We clasp forearms, this stupid thing we started doing one drunken night ages ago because the Vikings had done it, or some stupid shit reason like that. I can’t even remember.
Hell, it seems like a lifetime ago.
“I’m going to miss you, brother,” Wyatt says, wearing a serious look.
I get a sense of finality. Like this is where our roads are splitting. I’m not bent up about it. This is how life goes. We’ll always be friends, but it’s never going to be the same. We’re not the roommates and wingmen of our crazy youth. We haven’t been for a while now, but there had been no reason to go our separate ways, until now. I’m going to miss the cocky bastard. “Yeah, try not to get anybody pregnant.” Our first year in, our CO said that every time anyone had leave.
“Goddammit, condoms were made for a reason,” Wyatt says, completing our CO’s speech.
As I drive away from the airport I try to get into the appropriate headspace for my meeting this afternoon, but damned if my thoughts don’t circle back to Candi. I’m not really an apology kind of guy, not that I’ve ever been in this kind of position. The position where I have a falling out with a chick and I still want to see her again.
When I dropped her off that should have been “sayonara, have a nice life.” My sigh sounds loud in the car. I’m already worrying about the fact that she doesn’t have a vehicle and she has no money to get it fixed. Shit, and it’s sitting in Sugar Daddy’s parking lot. I should call and have it towed. I glance at the time and reason I can get cleaned up and call her before this meeting I have to go to. She may not even answer. Or I could just stop by her house. That’s not weird and bipolar after being a dick and basically shoving her out the door this morning. Not. At. All.
Shit.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CANDI
I’m late. Not late, late, but Dom strikes me as the type of person who expects punctuality. It’s one-seventeen on the nose when I pull into the parking lot of Sugar Daddy’s. Byron fixed the hose that was leaking on my jeep, but it took him longer than he anticipated, causing me to be late. I don’t think Dom will care for my excuse.
Hightailing it to the front door I find them locked. I knock, then cup my hands around my eyes and try to peek inside, but I can’t see anything through the tinted black glass. I knock a few more times before a big bald guy without a neck, and muscles on top of muscles answers the door. He’s got tattoos everywhere there’s skin showing, and he’s wearing jeans with those flashy studs along the front and back pockets. He looks me over with interest, but instead of saying anything he just raises a questioning brow.
“I have a meeting w—”
He rolls his eyes and nods, moving back to let me in. He points a thumb in the direction of Dom’s office then locks the door behind me before walking away in the opposite direction. It takes my eyes a second to adjust to the dim lighting. The place has a different feel during the day. I’m not sure how it’s possible, but it seems sleazier. Without all the lights, people, and beautiful half naked women as a distraction, the overall dinginess of everything from the carpet to the stage shows through.
I rap twice on the door and hear Dom’s cultured voice. “Enter.” Unlike last night as soon as I walk in, he leans back in his chair, giving me his full attention. “Well hello there, Ms. Dawson,” he says as if he weren’t expecting me. “I was under the impression our meeting was at one-fifteen.”
I’ve been so wrapped up in the crap storm of other things going on in my life that I hadn’t been nervous when I got here. Now, standing here in front of him, in almost the exact same spot I stood last night, my stomach’s turning, and my palms are sweating.
“I’m sorry.” No excuse is good enough for my tardiness, so I don’t give one. “I have considered your offer, and while I appreciate it, I would like to dance,” I say without preamble. No need to beat around the bush.
“Would you, now?” he says looking me over, his face a blank mask to what may be going on in his mind. I’m nearly shaking with nerves wondering what he’s going to say or do next by the time he says, “Fine. Strip.”
“Like, right here? Now?”
He nods and makes a “get on with it” motion with his hand.
I’m not sure why I’m surprised. I was expecting the unexpected, and this certainly is it. Before I can think better of it, I grab the hem of my shirt and lift it—
“Stop. Seductively,” he says exasperated, as if I should have known.
Right. I’ve never tried to be sexy, outside of a hot outfit and killer heels. I’ve conquered all the levels of ass sashaying, but that’s it for my ‘seductive’ skill set. I’m not sure if that’s pathetic or normal. From a young age, I accepted that people viewed me and treated me a certain way because of my looks. I used being a brainless, dumb blonde to my advantage on a regular basis, but I’ve never purposely been sexy. I have a feeling being seductively sexy is a necessary life skill I better get on board with.
“Is there any music?” I’m uncomfortably stalling and I’m pretty sure he knows it.
“None of my girls who work here need music.”
Of course they don’t. They probably just need a few grams up their nose now and then. My mind stutters on the unfair assessment. Who knows why the women who work here do what they do. Just because they work for a drug boss…I glance at the drug boss in question and he’s looking mighty impatient.
My hips start swaying on their own volition, like my body has more survival instincts than my brain. When I reach for the hem of my shirt again my hands are shaking, but I tease the material around my body. An image of Hank pops in my head. Would he disapprove or would he find the sight of me stripping sexy? I try to block out Dom sitting behind his desk with a bored look on his face. It’s Hank I picture as I inch my shirt up, my body moving in dips and sways, as if to music. It’s Hank I unbutton my jean skirt for and play peek-a-boo with as I slide it down and back up again, finally letting it drop as I step out of it.
“Better,” he says. “Bra and panties, too.” His voice cuts me out of my Hank fantasy.
“But none of the girls I saw danced naked.”
“Well, if you want to be treated like the other girls,” he says pushing back his chair and going for the closure on his pants.
I’m feeling defiant as I unclasp my bra, rip it off my chest and hold it at arm’s length before letting it drop. He’s wearing a self-satisfied smile as I do much the same with my panties, kicking them off after I shove them all the way to the floor in one motion.
He gives me time to grow uncomfortable in my nakedness as he looks at me. The most disturbing part is that he stares me right in the eyes. His eyes are like crystal blue, soulless chips of ice. I hold his gaze for as long as I can, trying not to show any kind of weakness. But I crack.
When I finally look away, he stands and comes out from behind his desk. He circles me while I hold still, hardly breathing. I can smell the mints on his breath even though he’s a foot away from me. I don’t believe I’ll ever be able to smell that scent again without my stomach rolling.
“Bend over.”
I lean forward trying to keep from trembling, or being sick on the carpet.
“You can do better than that, dear. Touch your ankles.”
Tears sting my eyes as I bend myself in half for his sick amusement. I ca
n feel his eyes on me and I’ve never been so aware of my own vulnerabilities. After what I experienced last night with Hank I can’t fathom allowing anyone else to touch me let alone…horrifying scenarios of what Dom’s about to do to me are playing in my head and I have to shut them down so I don’t start crying.
“Lovely. Nice and bare,” he says, running a finger over my ass and mound. He scratches his nails down my right butt cheek and I bite my lip so hard I’m going to draw blood, but it’s taking everything in me not to flinch away. “These bruises,” he says in reference to the little purple and blue smudges on my hips and inner thighs from Hank’s hands and hips. “Someone’s been a busy girl. You’ll need to put makeup on them.” Where he’s scratched me throbs and stings but it’s nothing compared to how sick I am to have him checking me over this way. My tears run up into my hairline from my bent over position, but I don’t move or make a sound. He’s standing behind me, and I’m braced for more of his touch, but it doesn’t come. Instead, there’s a shift in the air as he opens his office door.
“Well, come along. Let’s see what you can do on stage.”
I take a moment to regain my balance from the head rush standing up causes and swipe away any telltale signs of tears hoping he doesn’t notice as I follow. There are a few workers milling in the back of the club that hadn’t been there when I first got here. They seem to be going over and restocking the bar, not paying the least bit attention to me peering out at them from the doorway. Stepping out into the main club takes Herculean effort on my part. It’s not just the other people that unnerve me. I’ve never been naked in such a large open space before.
My stomach is in so many knots I’m shocked I haven’t thrown up. Any confidence or defiance I had in the office has deserted me as if it never existed.
Dom smirks at me, reading my discomfort and I try like hell to shake it off.
“All right. On stage with you,” he says standing casually with his hands in his slacks’ pockets.
The sounds of lights being switched on echoes in the room as I climb the stairs up onto the stage. I’m in the spotlight the second I hit the last step and raise my hand to block being blinded by the light. R. Kelly’s song Cookie comes on and I groan. Shielding my eyes, I see Dom smirking as he makes a “cut it” motion across his neck to the back of the room.
“Play that one that Sabrina danced to last Saturday,” he calls out. Lana Del Rey’s West Coast comes on. He makes the “get on with it” motion again with his hand and I walk up the stage, stiff and unsure of myself as I try to relax. It’s a sexy song and I try to harness that in dips and rolls of my body and hips. I walk around the pole, holding on to it as I shimmy down and back up. I’m getting into it and I have a moment I think about jumping on the pole, but abort the idea and stumble a little as I swing around it with my feet on the floor. I catch myself and keep dancing. The song has an effortless grace in which I’m lacking and I’ve never been so relieved than when the last chords play and the music is shut off.
Dom’s standing at the end of the stage. Him looking up at me in no way makes him less intimidating. “Not too bad,” he says now looking me over from head to toe. “Not particularly good either, mind you. Luckily you’re hot enough no one will care. You can start on the floor. Even you can’t fuck up lap dances. Be back here at four—”
“Oh, but I have a shift tonight at the bar I work at. I’m filling in for someone—”
One glance at his face tells me he doesn’t care. With my hands clasped together, I ask, “May I please start tomorrow night, sir? Please?” I’m just short of falling on my knees, but if I don’t show up at the bar tonight, Hank might come looking for me. Or he may fire me. Either way John will be informed. After everything John’s done for me I don’t want him to be disappointed in me, so, like a fool, I throw myself into trying to sway Dom. I know I’m the picture of witless innocence. It’s something I’ve been perfecting from the time I was eight and my dad started taking me with him to seedy joints for high stakes poker games.
Dom’s face is amused, like he knows my game. He crooks a finger at me, so I sit on the end of the stage and hop off, slowly walking up to him as if he may bite. Knowing him, he just might. His face is relaxed but that in no way puts me at ease. He’s like a viper who’ll strike without warning.
Standing in front of him, he pets my cheek and a chill sweeps through me. Just one touch and my insides feel frozen. I’m waiting for him to grab me like he did the other night. I’m braced for the pain and shock of whatever comes next. He stares at me so long, I’m sure the grass outside has grown an inch. The entire time I try to keep my expression blank. Witless. I’m sure I’m failing and I look more like a rabbit about to be devoured by a rabid wolf.
“Tomorrow then,” he says, finally. He turns and is walking back toward his office. “I hope nothing happens to your brother between now and then. It would be a shame if his military aspirations have to be cut short because his big sister is not being a cooperative girl,” he says not even turning.
My lungs burn before I realize I’m not breathing. My body is numb and flashing hot and cold. I take a few deep, steadying breaths, hoping I’m not about to pass out.
Dom strolls back out of his office with my clothes in a neatly folded pile. “You seem to have forgotten something, dear,” he says handing them to me.
I nod and take the clothes.
“Say thank you,” he says.
“Thank you,” I parrot.
There’s a glimmer in his eyes that wasn’t there before. He knows he’s scared the shit out of me, and he loves it. He casually fingers a strand of my hair, as if it’s the softest most fascinating thing. “Oh, and my offer? The one you so graciously declined?” he says, bringing the strand of hair to rub against his cheek before dropping it. “Letting you think you had a choice was just a courtesy on my part. If I decide I want you, you better make yourself accessible to me.” He winks with a triumphant smirk as he strolls away.
It shakes me out of my blind terror and I straighten my spine as I methodically get dressed. I’m still trembling with nerves, but I now have a new resolve to find a way out of this. In helping my brother, I’ve failed myself. This is never the life I wanted, and I’m not quite sure how I got here. Blindly stripping for a man who still at some point may rape me. I’ve let myself down. From a young age, I’ve watched the men in my life royally fuck up. I always thought I was better than them. It’s horrible to acknowledge, but I did. I was better than them and I was going to be the Dawson who turned things around.
Now I’m in the middle of a strip club, putting my panties on.
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice the men in the back of the club are now setting up for something. Mr. Bald No-Neck with the flashy jeans and way too many muscles is unlocking the door for me and I’m surprised to see two men on the other side of the door waiting to be let in. Both men are tall, one is the epitome of a wealthy Texan. Clean cut with a cowboy hat, blazer, and a western bolo tie with an ornate silver and gold emblem of Texas on it, stiff dark dress jeans, and fancy cowboy boots. The other is scruffy, with greasy, dark hair pulled back into a man bun, and a beard. He’s wearing a trendy but worn leather jacket, Henley t-shirt, dusty jeans, and brown biker boots.
I move out of the way so they can enter. They barely give me a glance as they head for the back of the club. Dom’s coming out of his office to meet them. I snatch ahold of Mr. No-Neck before he can walk away. “What’s going on?”
He raises an eyebrow, and I realize I’m in danger of being the girl that asks too many questions. I’m pretty sure criminals are the people who invented the phrase “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell”. Still, like an old familiar friend, I recognize a poker game being set up when I see one. I counted cards for my old man for nearly seven years. He was the eccentric widower who brought his kids with him wherever he went, and I was the unwanted accessory to my father’s gambling addiction. No one notices the kid.
By the time I was old enough to ca
use notice we’d been working together for years, and people knew of us. When I was fifteen someone asked for me to be added to the pot. My father shook his head and said I wasn’t for sale, but he hesitated before he said it. He thought it over. He actually thought about selling me into the pot of a poker game. I realized we weren’t a team. I was my father’s means to an end and his gambling would never end. The price to play would never be too steep.
I haven’t picked up a deck of cards since then. My brother is really the only person I could play against and he knows he can’t win. It takes the fun out of it.
Another man arrives. He’s fat and old, wearing a pinstriped shirt, and navy dress slacks with loafers. I’m still standing by the door and from the look I’m getting from No-Neck I’ve overstayed my welcome, but I’ve got a crazy idea that’s keeping my feet glued in place.
Part of me is screaming to get the hell out of here ASAP. I should go grab my brother and get as far from Texas as fast as we possibly can. Just pack a bag and disappear. The other part of me, the part that’s keeping me from running for the door is telling me I have to get in on that poker game. Before I can think better of it I’m wandering over to the table. “Y’all playin’ poker? I love poker.” I make my eyes big, like I don’t have a thought in my head. And maybe I don’t, because what I’m doing is suicidal.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CANDI
I’ve got the attention of every man at the table. Mr. Texas looks amused, but the other two men look annoyed, and Dom’s look…his look promises retribution even though he appears unfazed, like it’s perfectly acceptable for me to be walking up to their very private poker game, when I know it’s not. Had Dom wanted the ambiance of beautiful women milling about or dancing in the background, they’d be here now. The fact that the club is empty means it’s supposed to be empty.
