Brooke's face droops and she shakes her head, shoving back that long gorgeous fall of dark hair. The way she pushes and shoves it all the time, I get the feeling that she has no idea how pretty it really is, how curling up next to her and feeling the silken strands drape over my skin is like heaven.
“No. It's fine. It doesn't matter.” A pause. “Will you be able to get the kids from school or …”
“Yeah, of course,” I say as Brooke takes in a deep breath and glances over at the couch. I think we both remember all the things we did there last night. Despite logging all that naughty time, I'm still not feeling my usual deflated interest, my need to move on. There's nothing here but want and need in my chest, this super creepy man-hormone thing that makes me want to piss in a circle around Brooke.
Bet that would go over well, huh?
“I'll pick the kids up and bring Bella and Grace over here after. Then I'll have to book it to get to the airport on time to pick Rob and Mercedes up. Do you have someone to watch the girls that night?”
“Not really,” Brooke whispers, her voice harsh and low. She does a good job of trying to hide her emotions, but her eyes … that beautiful brown color is practically transparent. I can see right through her, straight down to her heart. I feel like it's beating for me, but then I wonder if that's just my crazy hormone shit turning fantasies for me.
Deep breath, Zay. Deep fucking breath.
“Well, you do now because I called your Aunt Monica up and got her to agree to watch the girls. I told her you had a waitressing job at the brewery. She didn't ask which one.”
Brooke nods and then starts toward the stairs.
I stop her with a hand on the wrist, freezing her in the exact spot that we fucked, her back against the wall, her lingerie covered in my cum.
Jesus.
She doesn't know the plan I've cooked up for tonight, but maybe that would wipe the frown from her face? I wrap my fingers tight around Brooke's wrist and smile at her.
“It's gonna be okay,” I tell her. “You'll get through this.”
“Um,” she starts, glancing down at my hand on her skin. When she looks back up at me, her face looks exactly like it did when we first met and she told me to get out and go home. “Can you let go of me now?”
I release her with a raised brow and watch as Brooke retreats up the stairs. She doesn't come out for some time, leaving me to bounce on the trampoline with the brats yet again. Doesn't even matter that it's raining. I can't seem to corral the little monsters.
When Brooke finally does make an appearance, the sky is dark and she's wearing her trench coat again.
“I'm off to work. I'll see you all in the morning,” she says, giving the kids—and me—a bright smile. I smile back at her and give a little wave, sneaking over to the curtains and peeking outside to watch her pull down the driveway and zoom off down the street.
Brooke's aunt should be here any minute and then I am outtie, off to the Top Hat Club for a little show. I hope Brooke doesn't find it creepy, but I just really want to see her dance. Hell, I just really want to see her. No sense spending our last night apart, right?
I get the brats hooked up on the YouTube app and then—then I turn my ass right back around and activate those parental controls because damn, what were they just watching? Was that … a porno?
“Those naked people were licking each other's privates,” Kinzie announces as I groan and find some kitten videos for them to watch.
“Be good,” I say as I bounce up the stairs and into Brooke's room to change. Can't go looking like a complete loser, right? Snot and blood all over my shirt is not exactly what I'd call sexy.
I put on black slacks and dark purple Docs, a white button-up, and a black suit jacket covered in pins. I brought it with me in case Rob wanted to go out to a family dinner or some shit. He likes to do that, have formal dinners out. Before he married Mercedes, he used to come down to Vegas and take me out. But I don't do suits, not like a normal person anyway.
I leave the top few buttons undone to show off my tattoos, and slick up the left side of my hair. The right gets a fresh shave and some spray on color to turn it purple. Yeah. It looks totally fucking sick.
I shove the arms of the suit jacket up and stack my arms with bracelets before heading down the stairs to find the children engrossed in a PewDiePie video. Gross.
The knock at the door doesn't even draw their attention—just a horde of barking chihuahuas and one ugly gray rat dog.
“You kids behave, okay?” I say as I open the door and use my boot to sweep miniature dogs aside. “Come on in.”
Monica squeezes past me, putting as much space between us as is humanly possible. Tonight she's wearing more reasonable looking clothes, like she learned her lesson last time. Jeans and a t-shirt will help with these kids a hell of a lot more than a designer dress or a pantsuit.
“Have no idea what time I'll be back,” I say before the woman gets out a single word. This Monica chick, I know her type. You start letting a person like this talk and they won't stop. Best to just smooth my agenda right on through without any commentary. “Make sure the little shits are in bed by nine.” I cup my hands around my mouth. “Love y'all! Later!”
I slip out the door and over to the minivan, climbing in and driving over to the nearest ATM to make a quick withdrawal before I head to the club.
When I get there, I park in front and head inside to a dimly lit interior with gold and green carpets and a faux wood paneled bar that's probably seen better days. It's not too seedy or gross, but I wouldn't exactly call it high -class either. In Las Vegas, a place like this would never make it. But up here, in the middle of the butt-fuck-nowhere-forest, this is the only strip club. I well remember my days of trying to sneak in here as a kid with a fake ID.
I make my way towards the stages, scanning them quickly for Brooke. Either I just missed her set, or she hasn't performed.
When I take a seat, a blond woman in nipple tassels and a short wisp of a skirt saunters over to me to take my order, letting me know about their dollar titties special. Huh. I look at her smiling at me, and I can't help but feel sick to my stomach.
I don't want my woman working here.
That that's the first thought that skitters through my brain in a sea of topless women grinding their G-strings against metal poles scares the fuck out of me.
My woman? How the hell is Brooke mine? First off, that's like so totally sexist. And anyway, I can't stay here. I hate Eureka. Hate it. And I know from experience how quickly relationships devolve. One minute, you think you can't live without a person and the next, you sort of wish they would just up and die.
Why can't I let this thing with Brooke just stay beautiful?
I sigh and rake my fingers through my hair.
“Can I just get a beer?” I ask and the woman nods, moving away towards the bar. And when I say towards, I mean she has to stop three times for dollar titties and shake her shit in front of a bunch of drunk horny losers.
Fuck.
I start biting my lip, tapping my fingers on the armrests of the chair I'm sitting in, when my eyes wander over to the booths in the corner, to the women in shiny silver and gold heels, G-strings just barely covering up their cunts. Lap dances are going full force back there, three different ones at the same time.
As I stare at these women grinding their bodies on the clothed laps of their customers, I feel sick. And like a complete piece of shit. It's not like I've never had a lap dance before. But when I look at it like this, from an outside perspective, and imagine Brooke in those girls' places, I want to put my fist through a wall.
Maybe coming here wasn't such a great idea?
I tap my boot on the floor and consider leaving before Brooke sees me, but then the song changes and the woman onstage in front of me disappears into the shadows. I settle back as the waitress drops my beer on the table next to me and leans down to take my money between her tits. I loosely stuff a ten in and withdraw my hand, watching the
darkness of the stage with a strange hopping sort of anticipation in my gut.
I'm starting to get the feeling that when I see Brooke onstage, I'm going to lose my shit.
The lights dim and then burst bright on Brooke's curvy form as she saunters down that stage like it's a catwalk in Paris, her heels tall and pink and the color of bubblegum. I want to fucking eat that shit all the way up.
I find myself leaning forward, my elbows on my knees as my cock solidifies into a substance that's a hundred times harder than diamond. Ouch, baby. Ouch.
Brooke's wearing this tiny lace nightie in pink, a pair of heart pasties visible on her nipples beneath the barely there fabric, a tiny thong the only piece standing between the crowd and the smooth, shaved expanse of her pussy.
I lick my lips and lean back, taking my beer in my hand so I have something other than my cock to grab onto. Two halves of me war: one part that wants to enjoy the show and the other part that wants to sweep her off that stage and out the door, promise her that she never has to work a night here again.
But, like, even if I wanted to, I don't have the money for that.
I suck back a huge gulp of beer and wrinkle my nose at the cheap bitter taste, setting it aside as Brooke approaches the pole, her gently tanned skin flashing with pink and silver glitter. It decorates her chest and belly and thighs, a nice compliment to the shimmery eyeshadow and lipstick she's wearing.
I feel my boot start to tap faster as her hands wrap around the pole and she swings in a half circle, that long hair of hers up in a tight ponytail, flicking across the stage like a banner. When she turns to look over her shoulder, her eyes gaze into the darkness with an expression halfway between resigned and angry. She hates it here. Fucking hates it. Jude once dated a chick who stripped, who liked to strip. She said it put her in control of her sexuality or whatever, and I believed her. I just don't think Brooke is that type of person; she really doesn't want to be here.
I lick my lips again and sit up straight, wondering if she can see me sitting out here, bathed in anonymous darkness as the men around me hoot and holler, tossing money onto the front of the stage. There's a curved portion that dips down in the front for them to toss bills, but the second any of the dudes gets within six feet of Brooke, the bouncers get antsy.
Me? I get fucking livid watching them stare at her like that. My testosterone is blown all the hell up, wild and crazy and completely out of control. My hands squeeze into involuntary fists as Brooke slides her back down the pole, the firm round curves of her ass peeking out from beneath the tiny slip of the nightgown.
When she stands back up, she wraps her arm around the pole and leans back, lifting a leg up in a feat that's like, seriously Olympic gymnast level or whatever. The long, lean curve of her calf and thigh presses against the metal as she tilts her head back and sweeps the floor with her long beautiful hair.
Before I even realize what I'm doing, I rise to my feet and notice that one of the bouncers is inching toward me. Don't blame him. Hell, I probably look like a crazy person. If I saw a dude looking at Brooke the way I'm looking at her, I'd kick his ass, too.
I tuck my hands back in my pocket as Brooke sashays to the front of the stage and slides her palms down the front of her taut belly, curling her fingers around the hem of the lace, swinging her hips in a tantalizing circle as she lifts it up and off, tossing it to the end of the stage and tossing her hair around.
She marches back to the pole as sweat starts to drip down the sides of my face, down my spine, beads on my upper lip.
“Holy shit,” I murmur under my breath, eyes glued to Brooke's form, to the sparkly pink hearts over her nipples, to the seductive way she moves her body to the music. My heart's fucking thundering at a million miles an hour, and it feels suddenly difficult to catch my breath. My ears start to ring as I take a small step forward and pause at the sound of the bouncer clearing his throat.
Well, fuck. Fuck him because that's not just some stripper up there; that's my girl.
I run both hands through my hair, over my shaved head, watching as Brooke does this crazy spin with her legs pointed out like a high heel wearing ballerina. She spins in a quick circle and ends up on the floor, doing this sexy crawl that has my balls tightening and my cock threatening to cream my pants.
Fantastic.
I suddenly need to talk to her so bad I can't breathe.
My arms fold across my chest like a defense mechanism, locking back the surge of jealousy and desperation that I'm feeling. Doesn't work, but at least it feels like I'm trying something here—something other than coming in my damn slacks.
Brooke slides her hands up the sides of her body and rubs them across her breasts, the very same breasts I had my mouth all over last night. When she reaches the pasties, she slides her nails under the top edge and peels them away with a single motion, letting the discarded hearts float to the floor as she goes for one round on the pole and money drifts across the stage along with laughter and cheering.
It's only after she comes around in the spin and does one last trace of the stage, stomping like a supermodel, that she pauses and nearly falls over, squinting into the darkness at … little old me.
Her face blanches and she slaps her arms over her breasts, effectively covering her nipples. As the song winds to a close, Brooke turns and flees the stage like a bat outta hell, men's laughter trailing behind her as her heels clack across the tiled floor and behind a curtain.
With a sigh, I grab my beer and pace in front of the chair until I notice people starting to look my way. I plop down to wait, my heart thumping and my dick throbbing and my brain all messed up and weird.
Tomorrow, I get to leave all of this behind, but I'm not quite sure how I feel about that.
“Zayden Roth.” A hiss comes from my right and I glance over quickly to find Brooke in a tight black midriff tee that says Top Hat across the front. Underneath it, she's got on a black mini and some leather boots. Without waiting for me to come to her, she storms across the carpet and snatches my arm, looking up at the bouncer and giving him a slight nod of her chin. “What the fuck are you doing here?” she growls as she drags me up and out of my chair, abandoning my beer as she tugs me towards a black curtain with a sign that says Executive Lounge.
Uh-oh.
We all know what happens back here.
“Who's watching the kids?” she asks when I find myself unable to answer. I can't talk right now, can't make any sounds move past my suddenly dry lips. Brooke's small hand on my arm is waking up all sorts of emotions that I wish I wasn't feeling.
Like love.
Like, I sort of feel like I'm in love with her.
Only I'm not though, right?
“Monica,” I choke out as she passes several doors covered in black tufted leather, pauses at the last one and uses a key that's on a green plastic cord around her wrist. She unlocks it and shoves me inside. “What are we doing in here?” I ask as I examine the leather couches, the mirrors, the pole in the center of the small room.
“You watched me. Without asking, you came and watched me.” Tears suddenly explode in her pale brown eyes and she dashes them away angrily as my jaw drops open and I feel a rush of crazy tenderness towards her. Damn it. My knight meter is pinging hardcore right now. “Why would you do that? Why would you come here?”
“You were fucking beautiful up there,” I say, but she's not having any of it, pulling away when I try to touch her and pacing to the opposite side of the room. I stand there for a minute and drop my hands to my sides as I try to breathe. Sweet baby Jesus, what have I gotten myself into here? This girl is young and damaged and shit, I can see that she's attached to me now. She's emotional and way too smart for her own good and she's got two inherited kids, but … damn it if I can't find fault with any of that. I like it all. All of it. Every single thing.
I lace my fingers together behind my neck.
“You were beautiful,” I repeat as she sits down hard on one of the sofas and looks up at me with
weepy eyes. Those get me every goddamn time, those weepy eyes. I will do anything for a set of wet peepers. “I wanted to see you dance.”
“This … this isn't me dancing,” she says as she gestures at herself, pink glitter flaking off onto the black fabric of the t-shirt. “This isn't me at all. I'm not this.”
“Of course not,” I start, but Brooke's already shaking her head at me.
“You shouldn't have come here. Seriously. You shouldn't have. And I don't want you here, okay?” Brooke rubs the heels of her hands against her eyes and smears all of that dark liner and pretty pink eyeshadow.
I move over next to her and kneel down, trying to take solace in the fact that this room smells like bleach. At least I know it's reasonably clean, right? I fold my arms across the bare tops of Brooke's thighs, resting my chin on my arms.
“I'm sorry,” I say and I mean it. I had no idea she'd react to seeing me like this. I feel like I've cheated her somehow, stolen something that wasn't mine to take. “Do you want me to leave?”
Brooke sniffles and lifts her chin up in that defiant way of hers that I like so much.
“Why? You're already here? Why don't you just pay me for a lap dance and we can be done with all of this?” Brooke gestures loosely in my direction. “I didn't want you to see me like this,” she adds in a whisper, before I can say anything else. “This isn't how I wanted you to think of me.”
“And how's that?” I ask, my chin still propped on my arm as I stare up at those weepy eyes and try not to get all weirdly protective and shit. After all, who would I be protecting her from? Myself? “Because all I see is a tough ass chick who's willing to do whatever it takes to survive.”
“You don't see a whore?” she asks, like she finds that hard to believe.
“You're not a whore,” I say, and the words come out angrier than I intended. Whoa there, Zay, gettin' all deep and shit all of a sudden. This isn't me. I like to keep things light and fluffy and easy. This is all so fucking heavy. I'm finding it hard to breathe right now. “I didn't see anything up on that stage that was less than worthy, Brooke.”
Bad Nanny (The Bad Nanny Trilogy #1) Page 28
