by Sky Corgan
To my surprise, I feel something soft touch my hands. I look up to see the T-shirt the man had been holding. He guides my hands through the sleeves and pulls it down over my body, shielding my nakedness. I'm confused and relieved at the same time. What is he doing?
“Lift your legs, one at a time,” he tells me.
When I do, he slides the shorts on me, pulling them all the way up to my waist. My breath hitches as he wraps his arms around me to pull the drawstring in the front and tighten them. Our bodies are pressed together, and I can feel the hardness of his arousal on my backside. He doesn't molest me though. He simply ties the strings in place before stepping away. I glance over my shoulder, watching him return to the dresser to retrieve my shoe.
Once he has it in hand, he catches me looking at him. “You can turn around now.” I bite my bottom lip as he approaches, facing him. He kneels in front of me with the shoe in hand. “Let's see if the slipper fits, Cinderella.” He positions the shoe on the floor, and I step into it. Then he fastens the strap on the back before grabbing my other shoe and doing the same thing. When he's finished, he stands up with a soft smile. “There, all done.”
I study his face for a moment. This isn't the same man I was with just moments ago. It can't be. This man is sweet and gentle and kind. What he just did was completely unexpected.
“Thank you,” I manage to say.
“You're welcome,” he exhales deeply. “I'm sorry I frightened you. That was never my intention.”
My eyes fall to Ethel's blue dress on the floor. I quickly bend to pick it up. “Well, I should be going now.”
“You should stay and hang out with me for a while.”
“No. I need to get home.” I shake my head. This night has been too bizarre. And to be honest, I'll feel a lot better once I'm out of his bedroom and this house.
“Then let me call you a cab,” he offers.
“You can call me a cab, but that's not my name,” I joke stupidly.
“What is your name then?” His face brightens.
“It's not important.” I avert my eyes, wishing I hadn't tried to be playful.
“It's important to me.” He's staring at me again. His blue eyes are so intense, it's as if they're looking right into my soul.
“I don't have enough money for a taxi,” I confess.
“I suppose that makes sense.” He grins slightly. “A stripper who doesn't strip doesn't get paid, does she?” I can't tell if he's teasing or not, but it makes me uncomfortable. “Don't worry about it. I'll take care of the bill.”
“That's awfully generous of you.” I can't help but wonder if that's another offer with an obligation attached. I probably shouldn't be taking charity from him.
“I'm a generous man,” he replies proudly.
“Well, I guess I'll go wait downstairs for it then.” I need to get away from him. He makes me so unbelievably nervous.
“You could wait up here with me.” He looks around the room.
“I'd rather not. No offense.” I shy away from him, taking a step towards the door.
“Alright then. I won't force you to keep me company.” He sweeps around me to open the door.
When I step outside the room, it feels like oxygen rushes in to fill my lungs. It was so stifling in there with him. Perhaps I forgot to breath.
I give him a timid glance before I head toward the staircase. I expect him to follow, but he stays on the top floor, leaning over the balcony. I keep going, hoping that I can make it to the front door without further incident.
When I reach the foyer, I glance back up at the balcony. He's still standing there, staring at me. I return my attention to the door and walk out of the house, thankful to be free of it. I take long strides down to the street, not caring about the strange glances people are giving me. In my new wardrobe, I look completely out of place. I am out of place though. I never should have come here.
Oh crap, I hope he doesn't want his clothes back. I never even thought to ask him. I was so obsessed with getting away. I'll just mail them back to him. Without a return address, of course.
When I get to the bottom of the driveway, I pull my phone out of my purse and type the street number of the house into my notes program, then I sit on the curb and wait for the taxi to arrive. Thankfully, I don't have to wait long. It shows up in about five minutes. I climb inside and watch as the house moves further out of view, grateful that this horrible night is over.
CHAPTER THREE
When I get home, I text Ethel to let her know I left the party, then I take a shower and promptly crawl into bed. I'm absolutely exhausted, but that doesn't keep me from dreaming. The night is filled with thoughts of the handsome stranger and all the scenarios that could have happened. My subconscious mind gives over to desire freely. I picture what he looks like naked, what our bodies would feel like entwined. It's sinfully delicious and oh so wrong.
When I wake the next morning, I realize that he's not the monster I made him out to be. Things could have gone so much worse. He could have taken what he wanted, and there wouldn't have been anything I could do about it. But he didn't. He overcame his basal nature to show me compassion.
I lay on my back for several moments, thinking about him, wishing we would have at least traded names. It doesn't matter now. That's in the past, and it's better left there. Today I return to my normal life—my boring safe normal life.
I put thoughts of the stranger behind me and wonder instead about what happened with Ethel. For a moment, I think about peeking inside her bedroom to see if she's there, but if I did that, and she saw, we would fight. As convoluted as it is, she's allowed to barge into my room whenever she wants, but I'm not even allowed to look inside of hers. And heaven help me if I wake her up. It's always just easier to let her come to me instead.
So I wait. And I wait, and I wait. And eventually it's time to get ready for work. About an hour before I'm supposed to leave, she finally comes plodding into my room uninvited, as usual. There's a tired but happy look on her face. The night must have gone well for her.
“Did you just get home?” I ask.
“Nah. I got home around 5AM. I've just been sleeping all day.” She drops herself heavily onto the corner of my bed.
“I'm glad I took a taxi home then,” I sigh, trying to hide my disappointment in her.
“Why did you leave?” She lays back, making herself comfortable.
“It's a long story, and it all started with you stripping in the middle of that room.” The smile that crosses my face is completely sarcastic. Blaming her for anything is a recipe for disaster, but it's just so hard not to. If it wasn't for her stupid plan . . . That guy flashes through my mind. It seems like every time I think about him, he gets more and more handsome. What's wrong with me?
“I knew you were going to bail.” She waves her hand at me absentmindedly.
“I met someone,” the words sound foreign coming from my lips—and like a lie. I'm making it seem like I met some amazing Prince Charming, not a shady guy who wanted me to strip in his bedroom for him.
“Oh?” She props herself up on her arms in interest. “Tell me about him.”
“He was . . . handsome. And intense.” I picture the man's stunning blue eyes and the way he looked at me. At the time, I was too afraid to appreciate it. No man has ever looked at me in that way before.
“Well I met a whole lot of guys,” she ignores my need to talk about this, insistent on one-upping me. She's always been like this though. I don't know why I try to talk to her about things to begin with. She's a horrible listener.
I reciprocate her interest, letting her words go right through me as she yammers on about this guy and that guy. It's not until she tells me she made over three grand in tips that I actually start to pay attention.
“Holy hell. Really?” My eyes widen at the sum.
“Mhm. I'm a damn good stripper.” She bobs her head with attitude. “That haul was so good, I'm thinking about doing it professionally.”
; “Your father would be so proud.” I roll my eyes at her.
“Whatever, Miss Morals. It's better than working at some crappy job like yours. Miss Barista. You enjoy your bullshit minimum wage. I'm going to go make some real money.” She pushes herself off my bed to leave. I'm thankful. We're one hair away from fighting. In fact, the only thing keeping us from it is the fact that I'm biting my tongue. “Where's my dress?” she barks at me before she leaves.
“I'm having mom take it to the cleaners. I accidentally spilled some champagne on it.” I try to twist the truth so that she won't freak out.
She huffs, putting her hands on her hips. “See, this is the kind of thanks I get. I take you out to have a wonderful night, let you borrow my dress, and you go and get it all filthy. Let's see if I let you borrow anything of mine ever again.”
My eyes water involuntarily at her harsh comment. Maybe I'm not completely over the emotional overload from last night. As soon as she sees she's hurt me, she leaves, satisfied with herself. I sit there and cry silently until it's time to go to work. Then I pull myself together and head out for another night of minimum wage labor, keeping in mind what I'm actually doing it for.
***
Life returns to normal. Ethel gets over being angry at me for messing up her dress. Mom has it dry cleaned fairly promptly, so that helps. I return the heels to Ethel, and we make peace. I'm just glad it's all over. Hopefully, she'll never ask me to do something like that again.
I'm working an early shift at the coffee shop. The morning rush has just passed, so I'm taking time to restock the baked goods. It's hard not to want to eat everything in sight. We have bear claws and muffins and cake pops. It all looks so yummy.
I'm lost in thought, trying to get the display just right. I'm anal like that. Everything has to line up perfectly. Apparently, I'm too into my job, because I don't even notice a customer walking up. He taps on the glass to get my attention. When I lift my eyes to look at him, my heart falls to my feet. Those blue eyes.
He seems equally surprised to see me, but as soon as that passes, he smiles broadly. “Is this your day job?”
“It's my only job.” I scowl at him, though I don't know why. Maybe I should keep my mouth shut, but now that I'm not upstairs in his bedroom, I feel a lot safer about telling the truth.
“Now you're being honest,” he quips.
“What do you want?” I close the display case door and move over to man the register.
He pulls his wallet out of his pocket and opens it up, extracting a card and tossing it out on the counter between us. It's the At Your Service Strippers business card Ethel made for us. My cheeks heat up as I look at it.
“I called the number on this. It belongs to a residence,” he tells me.
“That's because it's fake,” I confess, taking the card, ripping it into pieces, and quickly throwing it in the trash before anyone can see it.
“You know that fraud is a criminal offense. So is trespassing.” My chest tightens from his words. Is he actually threatening to call the police on me?
“It wasn't my idea to be there,” it's the only thing I can think of to counter with, and it's hardly believable.
“No. I don't imagine it was. Last I remember, you tried to flee the scene as soon as the actual stripping began. Isn't that right, Cinderella?” He glances down at my name tag, and I weakly move to cover it with my hand. What does it matter if he knows my name now? It's not like it will hurt for him to know it . . . unless he's trying to figure out who to tell the cops to come pick up after he calls them.
“Can we not talk about that,” I grumble. “I just want to forget the entire night.”
“Shame. I rather enjoyed myself, Sarah.” My name sounds strange on his lips. When my eyes flit up to meet his, he's gazing at me intensely. It's intimidating and a bit disturbing. Every time he looks at me like that, I want to cower.
“What do you want?” I grab an empty coffee cup from the cup rack, preparing to write down his order. I need a distraction. Any kind of distraction.
He snaps out of his trance, looking up at our drink menu. “What do you normally have?”
I turn toward the menu as well, though I know the whole thing by heart. Heck, I've been working here since high school. If I didn't know all the drinks on the menu by now, I'd be in trouble. “I usually have the caramel decaf iced coffee. Sometimes I get the chai tea.”
“I don't think I could handle decaf.” He shakes his head.
I stare at him for a moment. The mouthy part of me wants to gritch about why he asked in the first place, but I refrain. That wouldn't be very good customer service.
“I'll take a large caramel iced coffee with a double shot of espresso and your phone number,” he says finally.
I begin writing his order on the cup and then pause when he gets to the and your phone number part. “What?” I look up at him stupidly.
“I can't ask you out on a date if I don't have your phone number,” he says matter-of-factually.
I set the cup down on the counter, steadying myself against it as I use my other hand to brush a strand of hair behind my ear. My cheeks are warm. For a split second, I wonder if I heard him right. “You want to ask me out on a date?”
“Mhm. Did I stutter? Because I don't think I did.”
“Now you're being rude.” I avert my eyes.
He guffaws. “Is there no pleasing you?”
I'm not sure what to say, so I say nothing. As excited as I am at the prospect of seeing him again, the timid part of me just wants him to go away. Being around him seems to turn my life upside down.
“I'd like to take you out on a date, Sarah. The least you can do is accept after you broke into my house and lied to me.” His lips curl into a confident smile. He knows he has me. How can I say no?
If nothing else, the fear of going to jail causes me to respond with a quiet, “Okay.”
“Excellent. You can jot your number down on my receipt. Here's mine.” He thumbs through his wallet to pull out another business card, tossing it on the counter between us. “That's my card. And yes, it's a real business card. My cell phone number is on the back.” He smirks.
I quirk my head to look at the card, since it landed sideways, as if touching it will give me some kind of skin disease. The card is surprisingly plain, with the words Locke Aircraft in the middle and a name on either side. On the left side is Shawn Locke. On the right is Tristan Locke. “Which one are you?” I ask.
“I'm Tristan.”
“Shawn is your father?” I take a guess.
“My brother,” he sighs. I can't tell if he's annoyed at my questions or if there's something more behind it.
“Well, Tristan, I'm Sarah. It's nice to finally trade names.” I offer him a weak smile.
“Indeed.” His expression brightens as I show him the first sign of kindness since we began talking.
“I suppose you want that coffee now.” I pick up his cup, writing his name on it.
“That would be nice. You're going to make it for me, right?”
“Y-yes. Why?” I quirk an eyebrow at him.
“Cause that would make it extra special.” He winks, and I can't help but laugh at how cheesy he's being.
“Alright, Tristan Locke, I'll go make you a special coffee.” I turn around with his cup, grinning like an idiot. Only a few minutes ago, I would have wanted to make it special by spitting in it, but he's such a charmer. And he's definitely every bit as handsome as I remember. Well groomed blonde hair that's slicked to the side. Amazing blue eyes. He's tall and broad with the slightest five o'clock shadow. If I had met him anywhere other than that party, I might have been smitten with him right away. As it is, I'm still a bit wary of him, but my guard is slowly coming down.
I'm all smiles while I'm making his coffee, still in disbelief that he asked me out on a date. Will it really be okay? He tried to make me strip for him in his bedroom, but at the time, he thought I was a stripper, so is it really that odd? Still, it speaks about the ki
nd of man he is. He's the kind of man who hires strippers. That's a bit of scummy. Not my ideal type. Oh well. I'm thinking way too far into this. I owe him a date for trespassing. I can't get out of it, so I might as well enjoy it.
When I finish making his coffee, I bring it to the register and ring him up, taking the receipt and penciling my cell number on the back of it. I can feel him watching me. He's always watching.
“That better be your real phone number, because if it's not, I'll just hunt you down here again.” There's only the slightest hint of humor in his voice, little enough to let me know he's serious.
“It's the real deal, Bill.” I hand the receipt to him.
“My name is Tristan,” he reminds me with a hurt look.
“It was a joke. It rhymes, you see. Real. Deal. Bill.” Oh my God, that was lame. Am I really that crappy at jokes?
“Ah, gotcha.” He points at me, making a clicking noise with his tongue before taking the receipt and putting it in his wallet. “Well, Cinderella, this Prince Charming needs to go to work. I'll call you tonight to set something up for the weekend.”
“Alright. Sure.” I push a strand of hair behind my ear again, watching him walk away. As soon as he's out of the building, I sigh deeply, staring at the door as if I could will him to come back. He's such a strange guy. I can't help but be intrigued by him.
“I wish a dude that hot randomly wandered in here and asked me out on a date,” Jennifer, my co-worker for the day, comments.
It only makes me smile more. He is hot. Smoking hot. The kind of guy I bet Ethel wished she had picked up at the party instead of me. While she was shaking her butt in the hopes that a guy would take interest in her, I didn't even have to try. I one-upped her, but I'd never have the guts to tell her that.
CHAPTER FOUR
I keep my phone next to me like I'll die if it's out of reach. While I want to tell myself that I don't really care if Tristan calls me or not, the truth is that I do care. Perhaps way more than I should. He's so different. So exotic to me.
