by Layla Frost
Best Kase
Scenario
© 2015 Layla Frost
All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
The detectives who investigate these crimes… Oops, wrong thing.
Subtle butt touches and giant thanks to:
My Naughty Cupcakes. The kind words, encouragement (and cracked whips!), and naked men pictures mean so much to me. Especially the naked men part. Hot ones. Tattooed ones. Plus, that one guy with the big, giant… smile. Yup, smile. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.
My betas. Thank you for taking the time to read, send notes, and work with me. I hope you see the tweaks and know how much I appreciate you all!
T and J, thank you for all you’ve done to keep me sane(ish) on this journey. I can’t tell you how much it’s helped to not be a newb all alone. Professionally and personally, you’ve both been there for me and I can’t thank you enough.
My brain trust, S and L. Thank you for the conversations, the confidence boosters, and the endless supply of dick pics. Thank you for letting me bounce ideas off you, helping me research, and distracting me. Your friendship means the world to me.
To the fellow authors, bloggers, and readers who have done so much to promote me, I can’t even begin to thank you enough. The romance world is a tight group, and I’m so grateful to have a place in it.
A special amazingly artistic thank you to:
A, for all the gorgeous teasers that I wanna make slow, tender love to.
Redbird Designs for the gorgeous cover. Despite my limited help and ideas, you managed to make something so perfect, it took my breath away.
And to M—
You’re my support and my safety net.
You keep me totally stocked up on iced coffees and chocolate.
You still haven’t had me committed for talking about the people in my head like they’re real.
That’s impressive.
I love you whole bunches.
Other books in the Hyde Series:
Hyde and Seek
Chapter One
Balls and Stilettos
Harlow
Balls.
I was in trouble.
Speeding in my piece of shit car, I checked the clock. I was dangerously close to being late.
Maybe this is the universe trying to tell me something.
I hesitated for a second, easing my foot off the accelerator before pressing down again. My poor car lurched forward, squeaking its protest.
I may not have wanted the job, but I needed it.
If someone had told me five years ago that I’d be trying to get a job as a stripper, I’d have laughed. Maybe even slapped them.
Most likely I’d have slapped them while cracking up laughing.
But that was when my life was different. Back when I slept well and breathed easy, and it didn’t feel like the weight of the world was on my chest.
A lot changes in five years.
For instance, I’m on my way to becoming a cliché. The wholesome tale of the heart of gold stripper, working her way through college.
Pulling into the strip club parking lot, I wanted to hang a u-ey and burn rubber back out. I put the car in park and dropped my head to the steering wheel, closing my eyes.
A month before, I’d been standing around at the bar I was working at with eighteen dollars in my tip jar. I was up with the sun and crashing shortly before it rose again. And not just for that one day.
For months.
I was averaging a few hours of sleep a night, all so I could have eighteen dollars in my tip jar?
I was done.
I was beyond done.
Unfortunately, finding a night job wasn’t easy. And eighteen bucks might not have been much, but it was something.
That night, a former server came in with some friends. While we caught up, Becca told me about how she was making hundreds a night dancing.
Hundreds.
With an s.
Plural.
Multiple hundreds.
I couldn’t make hundreds in a week, and she was making it in a night.
When Becca had suggested I go and talk to the owner of the club, I’d laughed. Really hard. Right to her face.
Those stage lights hitting my pale skin?
Either I’d blind someone or they’d think there was a flippin’ ghost stripper.
It just wasn’t happening.
No way.
Totally not me.
That was until a week later when I’d gotten fired.
Business had been excruciatingly slow and only one bartender was needed at night. Though I was better at the job, the other girl had been giving the owner a little something special when she worked.
She’d really gone above, and from behind, for her job.
I wasn’t interested in using that kind of elbow grease, so when they had to let someone go, it’d been me.
Shocking.
I’d handed in applications at every bar I could, but hadn’t found one that worked around my schedule.
Which was what lead me to Wicked.
Inhaling deeply, I forced myself out of the car and into the club. It wasn’t a dump near an airport, but it also wasn’t something from a music video.
That’s disappointing ‘cause I could totally use someone making it rain hundreds on me all at once.
“You here for the interview?” a sketchy looking guy asked as I approached the bar. His eyes traveled slowly over me.
“Uh, yes, I’m—”
“I’m Eddie, the owner. I’ll be right with you,” he interrupted.
I was afraid you’d say that.
Trying to look patient and natural, I glanced at Eddie.
He was exactly what I pictured a stereotypical strip club owner looking like, down to the greasy hair and velour track suit. There was an emphasis he put on his job title that filled me with unease.
I can do this. I can do this.
I have to do this.
Repeating my mantra, I picked at my black slacks. I hadn’t been sure what to wear to an interview that involved me taking off my clothes, but I was suddenly feeling both under- and overdressed.
“Have a seat,” Eddie said, grabbing my attention as he pointed to a table. As we sat, a lecherous smile spread across his face. “So—”
“Hey, sorry, lost track of time,” a deep, rough voice said as a man entered the room.
And what a man he is.
At least six foot three, all of it muscle, he looked giant. His dark hair was shaved close to his head, and the dark stubble on his face emphasized his strong jaw and cheekbones. The sleeves of his quality dress shirt were rolled, showing off his tattooed forearms.
I didn’t work there, but I was tempted to give him a lap dance. I wouldn’t have even minded if he didn’t make it rain.
“I’m Lars. You must be Harlow,” he greeted, holding his hand out with a non-lecherous smile.
Why is it always the ones I want to flirt that don’t?
“That’s me.” I shook his hand.
What’s the proper etiquette for interviewing at a strip club? Do I thank them fo
r being willing to see me naked?
Thankfully, Lars launched into the questions. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-two.”
“Ever danced before? Gogo, lessons, anything?”
“I took ballet as a kid for a few years. But nothing like this, no.”
He gave me a reassuring smile as he made notes on some papers. “That’s okay, a lot of the girls don’t have this kind of experience when they start. Any dancing makes a bigger difference than you’d think.”
It almost felt like a regular interview, minus all the various poles.
How do they get them so shiny?
“You got any ugly tattoos?” Eddie snapped, annoyed. “Quality ones are fine. But some guy’s name, a Tinkerbell that looks like she has a mustache, home done shit aren’t. Anything jacked?”
“No, none at all.” As much as I loved ink, my extreme fear of needles basically guaranteed I’d always be admiring them on someone else’s body.
I wonder where else Lars is tattooed?
“Scars? Stretch marks? Shit like that?”
I shook my head.
Eddie clicked a pen impatiently as he looked me over. “You gonna be able to get up and do your thing? I don’t wanna put you on the schedule and have you chicken out. Then I’m out the time and down a dancer. The other girls flip their shit and I gotta pay more, so I’m out money, too.”
“No, I can do this.”
I think.
Maybe.
God, I hope so.
“Alright, the rest is moot if we don’t see what you’re workin’ with.” Eddie leaned back in his chair, King of Sleazeland.
I was ready to bolt when Lars stood. His expression was a weird mix of kind, apologetic, and pissed.
I was glad only the first two were directed at me.
He pointed to an entryway. “Head down that hallway, second door on the right. Sasha is back there, she’ll get you set up.”
When I got to the door, I opened it without knocking.
Note to self: Always, always knock on doors at strip clubs.
Always.
“Sorry—” I said, turning away from the topless woman.
“Hon, I’ve been stripping since I was sixteen. You’re not the first person to see my rack.”
“Right,” I muttered. As much as I wanted to believe I could do this, I was seriously doubting myself. If one skeezy guy and one topless chick were enough to fluster me, I wasn’t sure how I could handle it night after night.
Sasha turned from the scraps of fabric and costumes she was searching through. “Relax. It’s not as bad as it seems. And don’t let Eddie scare you away.”
I nervously laughed. “Is it that obvious?”
“Oh, sweetheart, most of the girls leave when they meet Eddie. The fact you’ve made it this long is impressive. Don’t worry though, he’s hardly ever here. Lars runs things, and he’s a prince. Never flirts, doesn’t get handsy, and doesn’t skim from the top, you know?”
I was relieved to hear that I’d barely be seeing Eddie, and that Lars wasn’t a wolf in sheep’s clothing.
I nodded, feeling a smidge better. “Thanks for the heads-up.”
Sasha stood and looked closely at me. Disconcertingly so. Before I could ask what was going on, she turned back around. “I thought your eyes were just blue, but they’re also green.”
“Yeah.” I gestured down to my blue scoop neck top. “It kind of changes depending on what color I’m wearing.”
“I’ve got just the thing.” She handed me what looked like a two piece and pair of pasties. “The emerald green should be flattering in a ‘Luck O’ the Irish’ kinda way.”
“I’ll take all the luck I can get.” Separating the pieces, I was surprised at how much they’d cover. “I can wear pasties?”
“It’s dancer’s preference. Most girls choose to. What size shoe do you wear?”
“Eight and a half.”
Tossing shoes aside, she pulled out the tallest pair of heels I’d ever seen. “Here ya go.”
I didn’t think I could even stand in them, much less dance. If I didn’t break my neck, it’d be a flippin’ miracle.
“Uh, thanks.” I clutched the items tightly as my stomach started to churn.
Sasha smiled at me, patting my arm in a warm and surprisingly comforting way. “This part is easy. They basically just want to check out the goods. They’ll put on a beat and see how you move. Don’t go overboard, get close to them, or try the pole if you don’t have the upper body and core strength. A lot of women think they can hop right on, then they bust their asses. Other than that, like a bad fuck, just grin and remember it’ll be over in a minute.” She threw her head back and laughed as she walked with me from the room.
When I climbed on the stage, I shut off my thoughts, letting my mind go blank. I ignored the heat of the lights, my elevated position, and the feel of eyes on me. Instead, I focused on the beat of the music, swaying my body to the rhythm. In my mind, I was on a dance floor far away, just one in a crowd of many.
The whole thing passed in a blur, and after barely a minute, the music cut off.
Oh hell. They’re gonna tell me to haul my ghostly ass home.
“So, you want the job?” Lars asked. “I’ve got availability three nights a week, starting tomorrow.”
An unusual mix of dread and relief filled me. I decided to focus on the relieved part. “Yes, definitely. Thank you.”
When he leaned over, his shirt pulled around his muscular arms as he jotted something down on a business card. “Here’s the address of a shop in the city most of the girls get their outfits. See you tomorrow at eight.” He gave me a chin lift before heading down the hallway.
Just like that, I was a stripper.
I can do this.
Totally. Definitely.
Right?
*******
As it turned out, I could do it.
When I’d gone back to Wicked for my first shift, I’d been a bundle of nerves. I’d figured I’d either yack all over some dude’s lap or fall, busting my face.
Neither happened.
That wasn’t to say I was the most graceful seductress. I’d had to get creative with my moves when my heels slipped, and I was almost always out of rhythm. My sweaty palms basically guaranteed I never attempted any of the flirty touches the girls used to up their tips.
Still, I wasn’t expecting to actually kinda enjoy it.
There was no backstage drama or nasty customers. Best of all, I barely saw creepy Eddie.
I had two sets a night where I danced to a couple songs with other girls. If I worked hard, I could block out the audience and pretend I was just drunk dancing with my friends.
Surprisingly, the toughest part was working the room after. Talking was usually my strong suit.
But chatting with people that had just seen my tits?
Awkward.
I’d quickly gotten over my embarrassment when I saw how much money I was leaving with a night.
After two weeks at Wicked, I was feeling better about my decision.
And my savings account.
Heading in after my four days off, one of the bouncers was waiting for me by the back door.
He jerked his head toward the office. “Lars wants to see you.”
“Thanks,” I said, forcing a smile.
Don’t fire me. Don’t fire me. Don’t fire me.
Learning my lesson early, I knocked.
“Come in!” Lars called out.
Opening the door, I stepped inside. I didn’t bother taking my coat off, just in case. “Hi, you wanted to see me?”
He leaned back in his chair. “Hey. How’s it going, Harlow?”
“Good.”
Unless I’m fired, then not so good.
“You settling in okay?”
“Yeah, the girls have all been really nice.”
“Good. Good. Look,” he began, and my stomach dropped. “How’d you like to add a shift? I’m thinking you can start with
Friday, but I might bump you up to Saturday, too. Saturdays are steady busy, though Fridays can be crazy.”
My eyes went wide. “What?”
Maddison, one of the other dancers, had already told me how hard it was to get a Friday or Saturday shift.
“You’re a hit,” he said with a broad smile. He was insanely hot always, but when he smiled, it was difficult to focus. “People keep asking about the natural redhead with the long as fuck legs. We’ll add another set to your slower nights, maybe bump it down to only you and one other girl. Sound good?”
“Yeah, definitely. Thanks.” Before I said something stupid to ruin it, I left the room to go get changed.
It wasn’t my ideal job, but money talked and it was saying, ‘take your clothes off!’
*******
“This isn’t the coffee I wanted,” Deborah Swanson snapped as she pushed the coffee cup toward the edge of the desk in the studio.
I knew she’d move her folder the extra inch to knock it off.
We both knew I’d be the one cleaning it up.
“Soy latte, one pump vanilla, two pumps caramel, with frothed milk. Just like your text said.”
“I wanted one pump caramel, two pumps vanilla.” Her face screwed up tight as she glared at me so hard I assumed she was trying to force lasers out of her eyes.
After three weeks working at the club, my bank account had increased and my stress level decreased. I was sleeping five glorious hours a night, making me a much more tolerable person to be around.
Even still, I was having trouble finding the patience to deal with Deborah’s usual bullshit.
I inhaled deeply and tried to rein in my temper. “Okay, I can go—”
“Get it yourself, Deborah,” Gary, her co-anchor, interrupted. “She got you what you texted. You messed it up, you fix it. Harlow, can you grab me the file on the Sullivan Street fire from my office?”
“Of course,” I said, hustling from the room.
“Big surprise you’re sticking up for Fire Crotch. She suck your…” Her words faded as I entered the hallway.
