by Max Monroe
His eyes sparked with a cocky light, and I nearly laughed. I could remember being like him in the beginning, thinking my college career was somehow important enough that people knew me.
I’d eventually learned that it was a way better use of my time to assume people didn’t know who the fuck I was.
But cocky newbies were a dime a fucking dozen, and this guy wasn’t different from any of them.
That didn’t stop me from giving his ego a little reality check, though.
“Aren’t you the one who ran the ball in the wrong direction in overtime?”
His head jerked and his eyes widened as he tripped all over himself to dispute my bullshit.
And that’s what it was. I hadn’t heard shit about anybody fucking up that bad, but just a little seed of doubt about his reputation planted at the right time could go a long way to making him humble.
“What? No. Fuck. Definitely not me. When did that happen? Last season?”
I shrugged. “Huh. Just seems like that was how I’d heard your name.”
“Fuck no. I didn’t run the wrong fucking way. Jesus.”
I had to tuck my chin to my chest to hide my smirk some more.
“Oh well. Must be mistaken.”
His nod was jerky and enthusiastic, and I danced inside. Man, this was fun. I really needed to get my shit together so Mr. L would assign me to do this kind of thing more often.
I pulled on my underwear under my towel and then unwrapped it before unceremoniously dismissing him with a chin lift. “Guess I’ll see you in August, then.”
“Yeah,” he muttered, staring at me briefly before making an awkward exit. When the door finally shut behind him, I allowed myself a little laugh.
I might be pathetic when it came to love, but I could still screw with a new draft with the best of them.
All in all, it was shaping up to be a good day.
And, if my fucked-up attachment to the stripper flares up like I suspect it will, probably a good night too…
Music pulsed and lights danced as Chastity worked the stage. Three hours into the night, and it’d all already started to blur.
My real job. My real friends. Who I could trust and who I couldn’t. Even the light at the end of the tunnel seemed duller than usual.
Marco had taken a group of men into the back an hour ago, but thanks to a bout of strep throat making the rounds through the cocktail waitresses and a bunch of us having to pitch in and help serve drinks, I hadn’t even had a chance to attempt to feel it out. It seemed like that was my luck more often than not lately, and as a woman who had no natural compulsion to spend any more of her days as a stripper than were absolutely necessary, it was starting to get frustrating.
The corners of my mouth turned down as the bartender, Guthrie, set a fresh bottle of Bud on my tray as one song turned over into the next, and I had to work to school my face into something less moody as Star leaned in to whisper in my ear.
“Isn’t that the guy who punched Pauly in the face a couple weeks ago?”
Grabbing a few drinks for a group of middle-aged men celebrating their buddy’s big retirement from the banking world sank like lead to the bottom of my priorities as my head whipped around.
“Huh?”
“Over there,” she said with a slight nod toward the back corner of the main room, and I followed her eyes all the way to the truth.
Handsome face, strong jaw, captivating brown eyes, and a body that probably had been fantasized about by millions of women across the country, Star’s assumption had been spot-on.
Mr. Persistent, aka Cam Mitchell, was here. In the fucking flesh.
Jesus Christ, I’m in trouble.
Why the hell didn’t a famous football player have better things to do than track down a stripper named Trixie? I mean, surely there were things on his schedule he could use to better occupy his time.
“That’s him, right?” Star asked, the giddiness in her voice making it easy to mask mine. Because my excitement, as much as I worked to hide it, was purely against my will.
“Yeah. That’s him,” I confirmed, giving myself a full minute to look him over for torture’s sake.
I knew I couldn’t have him. I knew he was bad for me and bad for the case and bad for everything I spent my life fighting for.
But as he sat by himself on one of the large black leather sofas, looking back at me with a small little smirk that lifted one sexy corner of his mouth, his knowing eyes glued to my face, I felt all of those reasons—hundreds of reasons—start to crumble.
And I couldn’t afford—Hoboken PD couldn’t afford—for me to break.
“You do realize he plays for the New York Mavericks, right?” she questioned on a soft laugh.
Apparently, I was the only one in a fifty-mile radius who couldn’t spot a New York Maverick from a mile a-fucking-way.
“If I were you, honey,” Star added, “I’d be thanking my lucky bank account stars, not looking like I was getting ready to give Lonnie a lap dance.”
Seeing as Lonnie was one of our regulars who wore fucking sweat pants to the club, I probably needed to check my annoyed emotions at the door. Trixie the stripper would be nothing but excited for her luck on another big payday.
“He’s probably not here to see me.”
I knew he was here to see me. I knew to the bottom of my feet and the core of my heart, my problem-free night had just gotten more complicated.
“Are you sure about that?” Star asked just as Cam took that exact moment to lift his hand and curl one index finger in a come-hither motion. “He seems pretty keen on spending some time with you.”
My heart flittered and flipped a little inside my chest.
Son of a bitch, Lana. You should not be even the slightest hint of excited about this.
“What are you waiting for, sweetie?” Star questioned as I stood there arguing with myself. She grabbed both her drinks and my drinks and placed them on her tray without waiting for me to answer. Without giving me the chance to say It’s really fucking complicated, and going over there is a mistake. Without listening to me blather on about what a bad idea it would be to get attached to a man I in no way had the opportunity to get attached to, and that every second I spent with him was a second more of feeling like I should be reckless.
“Go talk to the beckoning superstar. I’ll handle the randy retirees.”
My chest squeezed, and my throat threatened to close. I tried one last time to back out, but even I could admit, the effort was lacking. “You sure?”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m as sure as Chastity’s tits are fake.” With the tray of drinks in her hand, she playfully bumped her hip to mine. “If you don’t go over there now, I’m going to start questioning your sanity.”
She might also start questioning my Trixie role.
I forced an amused smile to my lips. “Thanks, girl. I owe ya one.”
“I’m sure I’ll find a way to make you pay up,” she said quietly over her shoulder with a wink. “Maybe when the Yankees come to the club or something.”
As Star headed toward the rowdy group of forty- and fifty-something men, it was time for me to face the music. Fingers and toes crossed Cam Mitchell’s version only consisted of a one-hit wonder and not an entire platinum fucking album.
I was already on the brink of giving in to everything I knew I shouldn’t, and he’d barely even tested my resolve. I wasn’t so sure what I’d do if he tried to make things like phone calls and drop-ins into a frequent occurrence.
Cam watched me closely as I walked toward him, never breaking contact with my eyes to rake his gaze over my exposed skin. It was crazy how his abject avoidance of all of my exposed flesh in deference for my eyes felt even more vulnerable than the opposite.
When I stopped in front of him, every pretense melted off of his face and straight into a smile.
I bit the inside of my cheek against the swoony powers of a simple curve of his mouth and held my ground.
“The way I see
it, there’re only two options for your newfound, and what appears to be frequent, presence at this club,” I said by way of greeting and rested my hip against the edge of the sofa he was comfortably sitting on.
“And what exactly are those options?” he asked without pause. His confidence, even in the face of my less than complimentary greeting, was unflappable.
I fought the very strong urge to find it attractive.
“Option one is that you’re trying to get the MVC at Skins.”
He quirked a brow and a grin at once. I glanced over my shoulder and back again to avoid focusing on it too long. “MVC?”
“Most Valuable Customer.”
A soft, surprised chuckle left his lips. “Is that a thing?”
“Yep.”
“Are there any perks to this award?”
I shrugged. “Besides a free lap dance? No.”
He laughed at that. “And what’s option two?”
“You’ve decided to hang up your helmet and pads, and you’re looking for a little guidance in your new career path.”
“And what would my new career path be?”
I glanced around the room. “Considering you’re currently sitting inside of a strip club, I’d say that answer is pretty obvious.”
“Stripping?” he questioned, now completely amused, and I nodded. “Well, if that is my new career path, I hope I follow in Magic Mike’s footsteps.”
Fuck. Confident, attractive, and he was funny too. If I weren’t careful, the little seeds he was planting would grow straight into addiction.
I playfully scoffed and shook my head at the same time. “Sorry, Mr. Football God. No one can simply follow in Magic Mike, aka Channing Tatum’s, footsteps. You’re either Channing, or you’re not Channing. There are no in-betweens.”
“Mr. Football God?”
“I might’ve heard a rumor or two that you don’t just spend your free time going to strip clubs. You also play for the Mavericks.”
“Cat’s outta the bag, I guess,” he said as he reached forward to grab his glass of ice water off the table in front of the sofa and take a drink.
My eyes found their way to his biceps, and I didn’t miss the way they flexed and rippled with even the littlest of tasks like lifting a glass to his mouth.
I had the urge to reach out and run my fingertips across the smooth, firm lines of his big muscles.
Damn. He sure has a nice body…
Before my mind started to wander toward thoughts of what that body of his looked like beneath his clothes, I forced my focus back to our conversation.
“Honestly, I’m a bit surprised you didn’t open with the whole ‘I’m a New York Maverick’ introduction the other night.”
He set the glass back on the table and quirked a brow. “Why’s that?”
“I don’t know,” I replied with a little shrug. “Most guys would be pretty fucking proud to be able to say something like that. Probably arrogant about it, even.”
He shrugged as though he’d never even considered the possibility of using his celebrity status to gain attention. “I guess I’m not most guys, then.”
“I guess not.”
We stared at each other for a long moment, and I wasn’t sure whether to come up with some random excuse to walk away, let my traitorous body have what it wanted and move closer, or worse, reach out and touch him without invitation. Luckily, he spoke before I could take the leap in any one direction.
“It’s option three, by the way.”
I narrowed my eyes. “I didn’t give an option three.”
“I know. But I’m giving it to you now.”
“And what exactly is option three?”
He let a good ten seconds go by, searching and roving the depths of my eyes so thoroughly I felt exposed, transparent even, before he simply yet firmly responded.
“You.”
Stunned to silence, I stood there gaping like a fish as his face found its way back into its most impressive smirk.
“You’re option three,” he elaborated. “Well, actually, in my head, you’re the one and only option, but you really opened my eyes to both one and two. Now that I know them, discounting them entirely feels a little like a crime.”
My heart twisted and turned inside my chest and attempted to relocate to my throat, but I swallowed hard against that far too excited—and extremely ridiculous—response.
Trying to avoid the overwhelming spiral of emotions, I glanced up from Cam’s smile and soft brown eyes and landed right in the bottomless pits of Marco’s black ones.
He smiled, looking between both Cam and me, and it didn’t take a genius to understand where his thoughts lay.
Marco loved big-name clients. He loved when professional athletes or celebrities or pretty much anyone with a name that encouraged press stepped into his club. And he never faltered in making sure those kinds of clients were one hundred percent satisfied with their strip club experience.
Fuck.
The last thing I needed was Marco encouraging Cam’s presence at Skins.
And the last thing Cam needed was to have any association with a guy like Marco Sabella.
Teasing hormones forgotten, I forced my eyes back to Cam and laid down the truth.
“I’m not an option.”
He just grinned. Not the least bit affected by my passive yet extremely firm no.
God, I hated how much I was starting to enjoy that confidence of his.
I hated how much I liked being in his presence.
And I especially hated how he intuitively knew how to soften me up around the edges, so much so that I found myself answering him as Lana instead of Trixie.
Cam Mitchell was too much. And I needed some fucking space.
Marco stood from his cozy spot at his favorite booth, and as he made his way through the crowd, saying hellos and greeting his customers, I knew it was only a matter of time before he’d make his way to us.
And that matter of time passed at lightning-speed.
“Cameron Mitchell,” Marco greeted and shook Cam’s hand. “Sadly, the last time you were here for Quinn Bailey’s bachelor party, I wasn’t able to introduce myself.”
“Hello.” Cam stood up from the leather sofa, and it felt like he held zero familiarity with Marco.
I didn’t think Cam or any of his Mavericks teammates had any connection with Sabella, but a good detective never assumed anything. A good detective considered everyone a suspect until proven otherwise by fact and certainty.
Marco had his hands in all sorts of illegal pots, and it was only a matter of time before he, and everyone associated with him, was pulled from their criminal glory and sent straight to prison hell with handcuffs and a lackluster future behind bars.
I hoped I wouldn’t have to watch Cam be a part of that.
“Marco Sabella. Club owner and master of making sure everyone inside of this fine establishment enjoys themselves.”
Cam offered a neutral smile. “Nice to meet you.”
“I also wanted to apologize for my brother Pauly’s bad behavior,” he said with a dramatic sigh. “Sometimes, he gets a little too drunk and little too excited when he sees one of his favorite girls.”
One of his favorite girls? Give me a fucking break.
Pauly Sabella didn’t have any favorite girls. He liked all the girls. And when alcohol was roaring through his bloodstream, he often thought he could do whatever the fuck he wanted.
If anything, that knockout right hook Cam had bestowed upon him had been deserved. And inevitable.
“That was your brother?” Cam asked, and Marco nodded.
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“Well, I’m not a fan of starting shit just for the sake of it, but with all due respect, your brother needed to learn some manners. Alcohol or not, you don’t treat women that way.”
“Couldn’t have said it better myself.” Marco grinned and patted Cam on the shoulder. “And by way of apology and making sure you enjoy yourself tonight, I’d like to
buy you a lap dance on the house.”
“That’s really not necessary,” Cam said, but Marco wasn’t the kind of guy who took no for an answer. Not now. Not ever.
“I’m sure Trixie here will take very good care of you.” He winked at me. “Why don’t you take him to one of the private rooms, sweetheart? Show him a good time. Surely, a man like this needs to take a load off from time to time.”
For the first time in my professional career, I had the irrational urge to drop the act and tell him to fuck off.
But I was a detective through and through. A slave to my badge. And when it came to the job, I was a woman who refused to back down, no matter the consequences.
“Of course, Marco,” I said with a little giggle and flirtatious wink.
He grinned at me and leaned over to whisper into my ear. “I’m sure I can trust that you’ll be more than accommodating and give him what he wants, right, sweetheart?” he asked and leaned back to assess my face.
I couldn’t decide if he was testing me or just being his usual narcissistic self.
But I didn’t waste time pondering the answer.
With another giggle and flirty flip of my hair over my shoulder, I nodded.
Pleased by my response, he offered one last pat to Cam’s meaty shoulder and headed back in the direction of his favorite booth.
And all I could do was follow through.
“C’mon,” I said and took Cam’s big hand into mine. “Let’s relocate to somewhere a little more comfortable.”
He faltered in his steps, on edge with the whole exchange, but I stayed true to my role.
And maybe, a little true to my real self too. Giving Cam Mitchell a lap dance—making him believe he was the only object of my affection—well, that would be the most natural move I made all night.
“I mean, you can’t learn to be Magic Mike on that couch,” I teased, and the slightest hint of a smirk kissed his lips. “Sometimes, in order to achieve our biggest dreams, we have to get our hands a little dirty and dive headfirst into challenging experiences.”
“And just how dirty are my hands going to get?”
I shrugged. “Only time will tell, I guess.”
Fuck. I was probably having too much fun with this. With him.
