Married a Stripper

by M. S. Parker

  “Really?” I shivered as his hot breath brushed against my skin.

  “But I’m hoping I can convince her to do another series,” he continued.

  “More nudity and paint?” I asked. Things low inside me clenched at the memory of that day.

  “No.” His hand twisted and something between his fingers sparkled. “I’m thinking maybe this...and nothing else.”

  My breath caught in my throat. It was nothing like the giant emerald and diamond ring Edward had given me. This one was simple...and perfect. A white gold or platinum band with three diamonds, the largest in the center. Not too flashy, but definitely not cheap either.

  “Flynn...” I could barely manage his name.

  “I wanted you from the moment you flipped me off.” His arm tightened around my waist. “And even though I couldn’t admit it to myself at the time, I fell in love with you when I took those pictures. Fell in love with how you were determined not to let me get the best of you. The way you challenged me. The light in your eyes...”

  I turned in his arms so that I was facing him. I’d wore high enough heels that I barely had to tilt my head back to look at him.

  “I’ve never loved anyone else.” His eyes were practically glowing. “And I never want to. Will you marry me?”

  “That depends,” I said, a mischievous smile dancing on my lips. “Do I have to let your mother help plan the wedding?”

  He laughed and shook his head. “No. Whenever, wherever, you want. As long as you’re mine.”

  I slid my arms around his neck and brushed my lips against his. “I’m yours,” I whispered. “Now and forever.”

  He kissed me then, a hard, bruising kiss full of promise for the night ahead. My body thrummed with desire and I could feel the same radiating off of him. If we’d been alone, there would have been no way either of us would have still been clothed after a kiss like that.

  I reluctantly pulled back and then held up my hand. “Let’s see what that looks like on.”

  He smiled and slid the ring onto my finger. I felt like Cinderella as it settled into place. The fit was perfect and it looked natural there, as if I’d always worn it. He rubbed his thumb across it, then raised my hand to press his lips against the band.

  “How does September sound?” I asked.

  “September?”

  “September in Tennessee,” I said. “Family and close friends only.”

  “It sounds perfect.” He wrapped his arms around my waist and pulled me tight against him. “I was thinking of starting work on a new project and this fall would be a great time to start it.”

  “A new project?” I raised an eyebrow. “I thought you wanted me to pose for you again.”

  “I do.” His gaze was heated. “And I plan on that being the prequel to the main event.”

  “And what would that be?” I asked, my body responding to his. I suddenly wanted this show to be over.

  He grinned at me; that same cocky grin that had always gotten me. “I’m calling it ‘Giving Gabriel a Cousin’.”

  I pressed my thighs together, suddenly wet. “Oh, really?”

  He nodded. “It’s going to be a lot of hard work, but I’m willing to put in the hours.”

  “Hours?” I said, raising my eyebrow. “A little sure of yourself, are you?”

  “Tennessee, you know there’s nothing little about me.” He winked at me.

  I made a frustrated sound.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  I frowned. “We still have two hours left before everyone leaves.”

  He released me and reached down to thread his fingers between mine. “Come on.”

  “Where are we going?” I asked as we started to walk towards the back of the building.

  “We’re going to find a nice, quiet spot where I can give you a preview of what’s going to happen when we get back to the hotel.”

  Fuck.

  I wanted him, but I still protested. “But what about all of the people here to see you? What about your family?”

  He stopped suddenly and cupped my chin. His eyes were dark. “They can wait.” His voice was low, rough. “I need you, Tennessee. Now.”

  “I need you too.”

  And it was true. We needed each other. We’d taken a round-about way to get here and things had happened that I regretted, but if that had been the only way for me to be here, now, with him, I would’ve done it all over again. He was mine and I was his.

  Now and forever.

  The End.

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  One

  Daniela

  Another day, another dollar.

  That’s what I tell myself as I clean a glass and place it carefully underneath the bar at Trinity, a local dive in Chicago. I wash another one, doing my best to ignore the creep who continues to edge toward me from his side of the bar.

  “Hey, baby, come on,” he says, cocking his head, his hands straying closer to me. “When do you finish your shift? We could get a drink.”

  “I’m good,” I respond calmly, but I’m starting to get pissed. He’s been at this for the last half hour, and since I’m the only bartender on duty right now, I’m an easy target. At this time of day, there’s only a handful of other people scattered around the room. The odd couple having a conversation in hushed tones next to the window, and a woman drinking alone at the other end of the bar.

  “What can I do to convince you?” he whines, sounding like a toddler denied his favorite toy.

  Okay, now I’m getting seriously pissed.

  I slam down the wine glass I’m cleaning on the bar between us. “I’m not interested. Okay, buddy?” I lower my eyebrows, giving him my best glower. “Either cut it out or go to another bar.”

  Of course, the universe immediately punishes me for standing up for myself.

  As soon as the words are out of my mouth, he raises his hands in a defensive gesture and knocks the glass off the edge of the bar. Even as I reach for it, I know that I should just let it smash, clean it up, and use it as an excuse to kick his ass out. But instead, on instinct, I try to catch it. As I lunge forward, it hits one of the shelves beneath the bar, cracks into several pieces, and a large fragment spins off, landing a deep cut between my thumb and forefinger.

  “Motherfucker!” I yell, too annoyed with myself to register the pain as blood begins to drip steadily from the gash in my hand. My eyes shoot up, and the guy’s face goes white. He quickly looks away, pretending he doesn’t see the chaos he created.

  “Asshole,” I mutter to myself as I grab a towel and head toward the employee bathroom to clean up.

  As I run the water, I’m so focused on my hand that I barely notice Tina enter the room. She must have just gotten in to join me for the evening rush. She’s been mixing drinks here at Trinity Sports Bar for as long as I’ve known her and is actually the one who recommended me to the manager.

  “Shit, Daniela!” She takes my wrist and pulls it towards her. “What happened?”

  “Nothing,” I mumble, but she’s already leading me through to the staffroom.

  “I’m getting you bandaged up,” she says firmly and reaches for the first aid kit. I feel my head start to swim as I watch her try to fix me up. The blood doesn’t seem to want to stop.

  “What’s going on in here?” Dennis, the manager, appears at the door. He sounds even more pissed off than usual.

  “Uh, there was a guest out there.” I nod toward the bar. “He was hassling me, and–”

  “He says you went crazy on him.” Dennis raises his eyebrows and crosses his arms. “Says you threw a glass at his head.”

  “Jesus Christ, Dennis. Can’t you see how badly hurt she is?” Tina snaps. Dennis shoots her a look, and she quiets down. She needs this job as much as the rest of us, no matter how much of an asshole our boss is.

  “Is that true? Did you throw a glass
at him? Is that how you got that cut?”

  “Bullshit!” An unfamiliar voice enters the equation. “That’s so not what happened.”

  We all turn, and Dennis steps aside to reveal the only other woman in the bar standing behind him. She’s taller than she looked sitting down.

  “I saw everything,” she continues. “That asshole was the one who shoved the glass off the counter. She went to catch it, and that’s when she got hurt.”

  She shoots me a conciliatory look, and I nod back with a grateful smile. With only a few words, my ass is officially saved.

  The woman steps into the room. “He’s really drunk. I don’t even think he should be in here, but yeah...it was totally that guy’s fault.”

  “Thanks for your help.” Dennis plasters on his prime customer-pleasing grin. He turns to me with a rare look of apology on his face. “I’ll get him chucked out,” he mumbles and then gestures to my hand. “You should get that looked at. Take the rest of the day off.”

  After the nurse practitioner at the urgent care center dumped a glob of what looked like superglue in my cut and steri-stripped it together, I’m on my way with a warning to keep the wound dry for a couple of days and watch out for signs of infection. A nice tetanus shot rounds out the visit, and I know I’ll feel that muscle for a while.

  “Thanks, Mom,” I mutter, feeling petulant and childish, but unable to help myself. I love my mom, but she checked out of this world a couple years ago, overtaken by bouts of depression so deep she’s been hospitalized several times. I have great sympathy for her illness, but sometimes, I just need my mother to answer the phone. I miss talking to her and asking things as simple as when my last vaccinations were.

  Guilt immediately follows these negative thoughts, and I cross the street, heading to the nursing home located down the block. Outside its doors, I take a deep breath and plaster a smile on my face.

  “Hi, Judy,” I say to the receptionist as I sign in.

  The older lady gives me a motherly grin. “Hi, Daniela. You’re here awfully early today.”

  I hold up my bandaged hand, and her smile fades away. “It’s no big deal. Just got me out of work earlier than usual.”

  She gives me the same watch out for infection lecture I’d just endured, then buzzes me through the security door. I walk the familiar hallway, then bounce up the stairs until I’m on the third-floor residence hall. Here, the living accommodations are more like apartments and couples can live together in the space with minimal assistance from the staff. When we moved to Chicago a couple years ago, finding this place was like a miracle for both of my parents.

  Outside of their room, I take another deep breath and gently push open the door. Mom is lying on her bed, curled up in a tight ball while Dad watches TV from his, the dialysis machine churning its blood cleansing wheels beside him.

  “Hey, Dani-bean,” Dad calls out when he sees me. I frown at how pale he is. I plaster on the smile again and walk over to his bed. He clicks off the television and pats the mattress for me to take a seat next to him. I do and am soon enfolded next to his warmth – the safest place I’ve ever known.

  “How are you feeling?” I ask him after a few minutes, but already know what his answer will be.

  “Fine and dandy,” we say together and laugh. It’s the same response I get every day.

  Diagnosed as a teenager with what was then called juvenile diabetes, his disease has been progressively working on his kidneys until it became clear that a transplant was his only option. I hug him tighter, willing his name to miraculously jump up higher on the donor list before his body is too weak for the operation. Normal wait time is four to six years, and he’s already been on the list for nearly three.

  I stay until he grows tired, then kiss him on the forehead and say my goodbyes. I step over to Mom’s bed and give her a kiss too, wishing there was an operation that could fix the progressive deterioration of her mind and spirit.

  Minutes later, I’m sitting in a cab on the way back to my apartment. Well, our apartment – it still feels weird to think of it that way. Pete and I have been dating almost two years and have lived together for one. We met at a club where he was DJing. I was tending the bar and we bumped into each other when we both headed outside for a break. The rest is history.

  Before we met, I was living in a cramped apartment with three roommates, so moving in with him saved my sanity. I look at my watch and smile. Pete should still be home, and I could use a little sanity saving right now.

  Pete is a self-diagnosed sex addict, and he never stops going at it. If I just hint that I’m in the mood, he’ll be rubbing up on me in a nanosecond. Even though he’s twenty-four now, he still has the libido of a fifteen-year-old who’s just seen his first pair of tits.

  I squirm in my seat just thinking about being with him. He’s by far the hottest guy I’ve ever slept with, although that’s not saying much. There wasn’t exactly a wide choice of sex gods back in my little hometown of Pella, Iowa. So when Pete entered my life, all muscles and cropped hair and cheekbones, I felt as though I’d hit some crazy lottery. Yeah, he’s not the smartest, and he flirts too much with other women, but hey, with that body and face, I can’t complain.

  I’m ready for something wild…maybe anal? Pete always asks, but we’ve never actually done it because I’m nervous it might hurt. But today, a little pain, followed by a delightful orgasm, might just be what the doctor ordered to make me forget this entire day. I run my fingers through my hair and pull out my phone, inspecting myself using the selfie camera. I look a mess, but a dab of makeup will cover up the worst.

  I pay the driver and hop out of the cab, fumbling awkwardly with my opposite hand in my pocket to find my keys. I unlock the door and sashay my way up the stairs, doing my best to feel sexy as I open the door to the apartment. That’s when I hear it.

  The unmistakable sound of sex coming from our bedroom.

  Bedsprings are creaking rhythmically, and Pete’s small moans of pleasure echo throughout the house. I close the door quietly, not sure how to react, and make my way across the hall. I press my ear to the bedroom door, and I could swear that…

  Before I can finish my thought, the door flies open, and I tumble into the room. I gape at the display before me. Pete is standing in front of me, stark naked, and in our bed is a…guy. The covers are pulled haphazardly around him so I can’t see if he’s naked too, but I’m not stupid enough to place money against that one.

  My face feels numb as all the blood drains into my toes. I open my mouth to say something–

  “I’m sorry,” he blurts out before I can utter a sound. “I thought you were at work.”

  “S-so?” I manage to say, clutching my hand, which has started to emit a low dull throbbing in rhythm to my pounding heart.

  “So…” He gestures to the guy behind him. “I know I should have told you sooner–”

  I begin to snap back into reality. “Wait, how long has this been going on?”

  “Uh, a couple weeks?” Pete flashes me a smile as if I’m just going to roll over and take this.

  “And is he the first…?” I trail off, not sure whether I should specify gender. I’m too shell-shocked to really know what I need to find out.

  “Uh, yeah,” Pete runs a hand through his hair, and I can see that he’s lying.

  “Hey, you want to join us or not?” The guy in the bed props up on his elbows and raises his eyebrows at me.

  My mouth opens in disbelief, but nothing comes out. Again, I’m speechless.

  Pete scratches the stubble on his chin. “Could be fun.”

  “Fuck you!” I snap, finding my anger at last. “I’m leaving.”

  “When will you be back?” Pete asks casually as if this is nothing more than a mild disagreement.

  “I won’t,” I snarl. “We’re done.”

  “Dani, wait!” he calls as I storm out of the room. I ignore him and slam the door so hard I hear the bed shake. I’ll come back later to pick up my stuff, but r
ight now, I need to get the hell away from here.

  I make it down to the street before it hits me. Just like that, I’m single again. And homeless. I don’t cry, which surprises me. After my last breakup, I bawled my eyes out for a full week, and we’d only been together six months. I guess somewhere in the back of my mind, I always suspected that Pete wasn’t entirely faithful, but his bisexuality, well, that was a surprise.

  It’s a hot and humid Chicago day, and the sweat is pouring off me as I walk fast, barely noticing my surroundings. I’m trying to put as much space as I possibly can between my cheating ex-boyfriend and me.

  I look up and realize that I’m outside of work. The faded Trinity Bar sign sits a few feet over my head, and I sigh when I think about what this says about me. My safe place is my job? That’s shitty. Since I’m here, I might as well find out if I can make up the hours I missed earlier. My hand feels better, and I could sure use the extra tips.

  Inside, it’s even more humid than on the streets. The crowds are gathering for the Friday night drinking marathon. I squeeze through the reams of people, exchanging a few loaded looks with a couple of cute guys who give me the up and down. I can’t imagine I’m looking my best, but I appreciate the attention.

  Dennis has left, replaced by Sheila, the night manager. Everyone prefers her to the asshole because she’s a lot easier to get along with.

  “Hey, Sheila.” I stick my head into her office, and she jolts slightly at my appearance.

  “Surprised to see you here,” she says and leans back in her seat. “Dennis told me you had a pretty nasty accident earlier today. He sent you to the ER, right?”

  “Yeah.” I fight the urge to roll my eyes at the mere mention of Dennis’s name. “But I’m all put together again, and I’ve got the evening off, so I thought–?”

  “If you think I’m going to let you out there on a Friday night with your hand sliced and diced, you’ve got another thing coming.” Sheila gets to her feet and steps toward me. “Come on. Go home, get some rest. Get that cute and sexy boyfriend of yours to look after you.”