Harlequin E New Adult Romance Box Set Volume 1: Burning MoonGirls' Guide to Getting It TogetherRookie in Love

by Jo Watson

  And in five, four, three, two…Oh my God, I got it! And I couldn’t believe it.

  I swung around to confront Damian and voice my vehement disapproval, but he was already walking inside. I folded my arms angrily. There was no way I was going into an establishment like this. No way.

  But then I looked around me; I was alone, in a dimly lit and excessively red alley, surrounded by scantily clad women who oozed sex and desperation, drunken men who were thinking with their dicks and people who kind of looked like boys, but also like girls.

  I’d never been to a strip club before, so had no way of knowing what lascivious things lurked around the corner. But, there was now a disgusting-looking old, fat man licking his thin lips and making a beeline for me at great speed.

  Now what?

  (Think of Brad Pitt in Fight Club.)

  So what does the inside of a strip club look like?

  I was absolutely not looking forward to venturing inside. I’d never actually been into a strip club and I imagined it would be dirty. Very dirty. G-strings, pink feathers and nipple caps probably lay strewn across the floor, while rats used them to make their little nests with. But I didn’t see another option. The man outside had crossed the street and was winking at me with his one eye. Okay I’m making that last part up, but he really was awful. I clutched onto my shopping tightly, and with great fear and trepidation, shuffled inside. But the interior was nothing like I’d imagined. Not at all. It was clean, shiny, well decorated and there were no rodents or discarded tassels in sight. It was also gay, which I hadn’t expected, but was very happy about. I’d always felt comfortable around gay men.

  I scanned my surroundings; there was a lot of pink. The tables were full of older men with large sunglasses perched on top of fashionable haircuts—even though it was night and we were inside. There were many tight vests, a lot of unnaturally white porcelain veneers and spray tans.

  Because there was nowhere to sit, I slunk into the shadows, hoping to somehow blend in, and preferably disappear. I had no idea what to expect next, and that made me very, very nervous.

  “Oh em gee sweetie. You look like a hobo Marilyn Monroe loitering there with all those bags.”

  Huh? Was someone talking to me? I stuck my head out of the shadows and surveyed the area. Someone was waving in my direction—a rather flamboyant, red-haired man dressed in a purple silk shirt.

  “No, this simply won’t do. Don’t you think, Bruno?” he said, turning to the man next to him.

  The man I assumed was called Bruno nodded.

  I pointed at myself. “Are you talking to me?” I shouted over the music.

  “No, Nora, I’m talking to the girl standing next to you!”

  Red jumped up and sashayed over to me.

  “A virgin, right?”

  “What?” How did he know?

  “First time in a strip club? You have that poor, frightened deer-in-the-headlights thing going on. Nothing to be ashamed of. We all need a dose of beef from time to time.”

  “No it’s not like that,” I quickly corrected him. “I’m not supposed to be here. It’s an accident really.”

  “Mmm.” He eyed me knowingly. “That’s what they all say, sweetie. Come sit with us. I swear we won’t bite.” And then he quickly added, “Unless you want us to!” He threw his head back and shrieked with laughter. Without giving me much of a choice, Red grabbed my bags and dragged me to their table. “Come, babes, it looks like you’re in desperate need of rescuing.”

  And he was right. I definitely did need rescuing.

  “I’m Mark, and this is my ball and chain, Bruno.” I looked at Bruno. He was a man in possession of the type of jaw that could easily secure him a starring role in a soap opera. It was that square. He was also a man of few words—perhaps his jaw impeded his speech in some way—he just nodded.

  “Champagne?” Again, Mark gave me no choice and simply poured me a glass. Though I wasn’t complaining—I think I needed the social lubricant.

  “Is that fake Chanel I see?” Mark said, leaning over and practically climbing into one of my shopping bags. “Don’t you just love how cheap everything is here? Hey, Bruno?”

  This time Bruno gave a grunt.

  I sipped my champagne and looked at my new friends and was very glad they’d saved me from the embarrassment of looking like a pervert leering from the shadowy sidelines. I was just about to thank them when…

  The lights dimmed.

  “Here we go, here we go,” Mark said, downing his champagne and squealing like a piglet.

  I felt a series of frantic tap-taps on my shoulder. “Hold onto your panties, sweetie. It’s about to get steamy.”

  By now, I’m sure you’ve become aware of the subliminal messages I’ve been planting in the pages? (Think of Brad Pitt in Fight Club.)

  So now the time has come to really think about that image. Imagine it for a moment. Let it marinate, simmer and smolder. Keep it in the forefront of your mind as you carry on. And if you’re struggling to visualize it, for heaven’s sake go and look it up on Google, now.

  Multicolored lights illuminated the stage and a loud puff of smoke came billowing out from behind a red velvet curtain. The song “I’m a Slave 4 U’” by Britney filled the air and everyone started screaming like high school girls. All I could think about was what a cheesy choice of song it was, but looking around, it was clear that no one else shared this sentiment. But my train of thought was cut short when I saw Damian burst onto the stage, dressed in a suit and tie. The shock was instant and I buried my face in my hands, no doubt going bright red in the process.

  “Oh no you don’t,” Mark said, pulling my hands away from my eyes. By this stage, I wasn’t sure if I was more embarrassed for Damian or myself. But I was cringing so badly I didn’t think I’d be able to watch.

  Now in my mind, a strip show is a seedy affair, punctuated with much grinding and thrusting and rubbing and gyrating. But this wasn’t the case at all, because as soon as Damian started moving around the stage, it became obvious he was hamming it up. He started his routine with a cartwheel, which made the audience laugh, whoop and whistle. And then in a very dramatic move, he whipped off his jacket and waved it around his head like a lasso, which caused even more laughter and whistling. I felt an elbow in my ribs. “Mmm, yummy, delish.”

  Next came the tie, which he made one of the very obliging men in the audience remove. Damian then used the tie as a whip and gave the air a few playful lashings; of course this just caused more mirth. The whole event was ridiculous, he danced around the stage like a clown and at one point did something that crudely resembled the Macarena. By now my initial anxiety had left me, and I was starting to relax and get into the spirit of things, when, without warning, Damian changed it up and pulled out the big guns…

  He suddenly slowed everything down.

  His face became serious.

  His black eyes, dark and broody.

  Then one by one, and very, very slowly, he undid his shirt buttons. He looked directly at the audience this time; a wicked, naughty-boy look glinted in his eyes. I buried my face in my hands again, but Mark was on it.

  “Eyes to the front, this is the good part.”

  Damian’s movements were slower, more fluid and highly seductive now. He pulled one of his shirtsleeves down and a surprisingly muscular shoulder slid out. And then another one and then the shirt dropped to the floor and…

  A collective gasp of appreciation rose up from the crowd.

  They were all silent for a moment; I think it was awe and wonder.

  Because he had a body just like—yes, you guessed it—Brad Pitt from Fight Club.

  He was lean, and ripped and chiseled and muscled and lined in all the right places. Who knew that hiding under those dirty, ironic T-shirts was the most perfect male torso? His most striking feature, by far, were those two lines that went straight from his sides down into his pants. The hot lights were making him sweat just enough that his body was moist and slightly gliste
ning. My heart started to pound, and my breath kept getting stuck in the back of my throat. I reached for the champagne and took a sip in a desperate attempt to rehydrate my dry mouth. I felt a little dizzy looking at him. And the dizziness only escalated when I remembered holding hands with him. The way it had felt. The way he’d looked at me. Damian ran his hand through his hair and his six-pack responded by tightening and rippling, this only accentuated those two defined lines that ran all the way down to his…

  At this point, the crowd was going ballistic; the mania had built to fever pitch. But then Damian’s mood changed to playful again as he reached for the button on his pants and started teasing the audience, until a collective, “Take it off, Take it off” rose up from the crowd. I felt another elbow and another whisper.

  “He’s a God. And you can see he’s dirty in bed. That guy would give you a good spanking if he could!”

  The mere suggestion of Damian in bed was enough to make me wiggle in my seat. I swallowed hard as the button was undone and the zipper slid down. He taunted the audience a little longer before dropping his pants to reveal a rather silly pair of boxer shorts.

  Another roar of laughter rose up and as if it had been rehearsed, men began pulling out their wallets and hurling wads of cash at him. If ever a strip show could be described as funny, sweet, sexy and silly, this would be it. The song was coming to an end and I assumed the show would too, but for me it was only just beginning.

  The house lights flicked on, illuminating the room and I saw that Damian was looking directly at me. I must have flushed the color of a fire truck and looked as coy as a toddler trying to get out of trouble. I averted my eyes and my eyelashes fluttered. Yes they did, they bloody fluttered, and they had a mind of their own. There was no controlling them.

  He smiled at me, standing there in nothing but his boxer shorts.

  And then he moved toward me…

  Oh please, oh please do not let this be happening.

  Too late. Damian had jumped off the stage and he suddenly appeared at my table. The crowd went mad and Mark jumped up and down like a possessed teenage girl at a 1D concert. There was no way I was going to be dragged onto that stage; I would rather die!

  Famous last thoughts. I dug my heels in to resist. I held onto the chair and I begged and pleaded, but Damian was too strong to resist. He pulled me all the way through the now-standing, clapping men and onto the stage.

  “Please don’t do this. Please,” I begged Damian, but alas, I was completely ignored.

  Instead he swung me around as if we were doing the tango and then dramatically dipped me until the world was the wrong way up. The song had ended by now and I saw the upside-down figure of Mark stand up and shout.

  “Kiss her! Kiss her!”

  Oh, holy crap.

  “Kiss her. Kiss her, kiss her!” He chanted and clapped until the rest of the club joined in. Damian pulled me up. We were face-to-face now. My body was pressed against his, and I was acutely aware that he was practically naked. He looked me straight in the eyes and said, “Well, you heard the men.”

  I was simultaneously excited and panic stricken. This was it. He was going to kiss me, right there, right then, in front of all those people. He took my face between his hands and looked at me for what seemed like forever. I wished I knew what he was thinking.

  “Kiss her, bloody hell!” Marks shrill voice pieced through the chanting.

  He leaned forward, and I closed my eyes.

  I waited to feel his lips touch mine.

  The chanting in the club seemed to fade away into the distance.

  All I could hear was Damian’s breathing, just inches from my face.

  And all I could feel was the heat of his hands.

  His lips finally touched mine, and I felt a flame of red-hot fire lick my spine.

  His lips were soft.

  Gentle.

  Tender.

  He let his still lips linger for a few seconds, before lightly planting another soft kiss on mine.

  My lips parted slightly and I let out an involuntary breathy whimper, which I wished I hadn’t.

  The tips of our noses touched.

  I felt him run one of his hands through my hair and around the back of my neck.

  He pulled me a little closer; you couldn’t have gotten a sheet of paper between us if you tried.

  His other hand dropped down and I felt it slink around my waist.

  His hand settled in the small of my back.

  I let out another breathy whimper. (God, I wished I hadn’t.)

  He pressed his lips against mine again and my legs went weak.

  His lips parted ever so slightly and he gently kissed my bottom lip.

  And then he let go of me.

  Completely.

  Took a step back.

  The spell was broken.

  The bubble had popped.

  I was giddy and confused and looked at Damian. He had the strangest look on his face now.

  Regret?

  “I’m sorry, Lilly. I should never have done that.” His voice was deeply apologetic.

  Why was he sorry for kissing me?

  I felt my heart crack a little.

  I wasn’t sorry.

  Chapter Ten

  When I was six, I was the only girl in my class who didn’t get a Valentine’s gift. I’d started at yet another new school, because my mother had moved us halfway across the country to be with her yoga instructor, an old white guy named Bhagavaan.

  A week before Valentine’s Day, the boys’ craft teacher had them make gifts for the girls. It was very sweet—one of the boys made a heart from bent paper clips and someone else made a necklace with bottle tops. Come Valentine’s Day, they whipped out their respective creations, brimming with pride and accomplishment and handed them over. But they’d forgotten about me—yes, I was new, but it still hurt. I remember standing there among the sea of shiny crafty things feeling like no one cared about me. It was also embarrassing, and I didn’t want anyone to notice, so I snuck outside and hid in the playground.

  And that’s how I felt right now as I stood outside the club.

  It hurt that Damian regretted kissing me. It was the sharp pain of rejection, mingling with the sting of embarrassment, mixing with the dull ache of disappointment that took me right back to being that little girl who’d climbed into the colorful tunnel and cried softly to herself.

  God, I felt pathetic. But I was also angry with myself for letting it get this far. I was clearly vulnerable and this was no time to open myself up to anyone, certainly not to Damian. And I didn’t even like him…did I? Whatever feelings I thought I had for him were obviously of the rebound ilk. I felt so alone and was overcome—once again—with a need to spy on Michael. I took out my phone and realized that it was flooded with messages: Mom, Dad, Val, Sue and even Stormy. I flicked through them quickly, not really absorbing much, although I did see that Stormy had cast a spell on Michael and with any luck, she said, he should have genital warts within a day or so. I logged onto Facebook and was about to go to Michael’s page, when I saw I had a friend request. I clicked.

  Damien Bishop.

  Damien with an “e.” I’d spelled his name incorrectly. My heart conveniently forgot that it was on lockdown and I accepted his request, went straight to his page and opened his photos.

  And there he was. Beautiful Damien with an E. I got this strange feeling as I scrolled through his pictures, it was a feeling of familiarity—as if I was looking at photos of my oldest and dearest friend. But then I stopped. All the blood that usually pumped around my body drained out of me in one fast whoosh.

  A photo caught my eye. It was of Damien, happy, smiling Damien, with his arm around a hot chick. She looked like his type, too: she was petite and her dark hair was cut into a severe bob with dead straight bangs. She had huge blue eyes and was dressed in black skinny jeans and a casual T-shirt with a Barbie doll print. Is there a shop somewhere that sells ironic T-shirts to cool people? I kept scrolling
and she kept making more and more appearances. Yep, there they were in London together; yep, that’s them in front of the Eiffel Tower; and yep, that looks like them having lots of fun at some party somewhere. It hadn’t even occurred to me that Damien might have a girlfriend.

  Suddenly, I felt cheated on. Damien was cheating on me with some hot, skinny hipster chick. She was probably cool, but in that I-so-don’t-care-what’s-cool kind of way. She was probably fun and rebellious and had tattoos and a nipple ring. They probably tattooed each other as foreplay. She probably didn’t even need to read Fifty Shades of Grey; she’d moved on from whips and ties years ago and was probably doing something that hadn’t even been invented yet. She and Damien probably had wild, loud, hot sex while hanging upside-down like vampire bats and listening to obscure bands that made avant-garde noise music on vinyl. I continued to scroll through the pictures and she was everywhere. Wearing more ironic T-shirts, large, big black-framed glasses and strange vintage shoes that might have been worn by a vagrant, but with the addition of knitted laces made from reclaimed wool—the look went from homeless to hipster. But the photo that grated me the most was the one of her lying on the beach wearing a yellow polka-dot bikini, ironically. She had one of those thin, hipster-girl bodies and you just knew she’d probably Instagrammed a photo of herself eating some kind of fattening vegan treat just minutes previously.

  I was so jealous of her!

  The door swung open and Damien stepped out. I jumped as if I’d just been caught doing something naughty, which I had been—I was stalking his hot girlfriend on Facebook. I had this sudden mad urge to confront him about his infidelity, but then my sanity slapped me in the face and told me to pull myself together and turn the phone off. The only reason I was still there, standing outside the club waiting for him, was that I didn’t want to attempt escaping the red light district alone—who knew what could happen?

  “Do you think you can help me get back to my hotel?” My statement was curt.

  “Sure,” he said, striding out into the road. There was definitely a weird vibe between us.