His eyes zeroed in on my chest. I arched my back to give him a better view. My mind flashed to him sucking on my nipples, cradling my small breasts. He’d always seemed so pleased with me, with my body—did he really want a girl with fake tits and silicone lips?
“I’ve been around the world twice, but never to Ukraine. Maybe you could show me around some time.” His words were slurred.
I’ve been around the world twice? Really—he was actually quoting the Navy SEAL “Ballad of the Frogman”? His bloodshot eyes told me he’d been wasted before he ever set foot in here.
I focused my energy on controlling my facial movements, ensuring that my eyes didn’t shift or my nose didn’t twitch as I spewed out my lines. “I’d love to show to you whatever it is you like to see, handsome.” Had he gone to strip clubs behind my back when we were together? My heart wrenched, thinking of those nights I’d spent practicing lines from a script for class in his apartment, waiting for him to come home from boys’ night, supposedly at bars and steakhouses. He’d always sworn to me he was the designated driver, that the older Team guys had forced him to join them, since he was merely a SEAL pup.
By now, every Team guy was talking to a girl. My gaze scanned to the other present members of Joaquín’s Team—Paul and Mitch. Had one of them murdered Tiffany and framed my brother?
I turned back to Grant. Rules for keeping a SEAL’s interest: #1 always make him the center of attention, #2 never let him see you checking out his Teammates, no matter how insanely gorgeous. “Can I dance for you?” Talking too long would arouse suspicion. He thought I was a stripper. I needed to earn my tips.
“Sure, sexy. Follow me.”
Follow me? Even now, even in here, he was taking charge. I usually led my customers—emasculated husbands, inebriated frat boys, insecure businessmen, even conceited rock stars—back to the VIP room. But no, Grant was in control. He was a regular. He knew the drill.
He grabbed my hand, and instead of recoiling at his touch and being disgusted about his ease in this place, I couldn’t fight my arousal toward him. What the hell was wrong with me for still wanting him? Especially in here, when I looked like a porn star. When would this pain end? The combination of disgust, sadness, and guilt crashed through my mind. Had my abandonment driven him to seek comfort with these women? Or had he been seeing them all along?
But I didn’t have a moment to reflect. I needed to give the performance of a lifetime.
***
I LED KSENYA—HOWEVER THE fuck you pronounced it—to the back room. After months on a mission, I couldn’t wait to see her peel off her clothes. Alone with me, without a group of guys also getting off on her.
She was so fucking hot. Physically, she was exactly my childhood fantasy pinup, as if she had been designed for me. Long, platinum-blond hair. Full, round breasts which busting out of her black negligée. Plump, pouty lips. Definitely not the girl-next-door type, like my ex Mia, the only woman I’d ever loved.
But I could tell something was off with this chick. I was a regular here, and she didn’t seem the type to take her clothes off for money. She was too stunning, almost too sexy. Why was she stripping?
Strippers were the best; I didn’t care what other anyone thought. They were fucking hot, listened to your problems, loved sex, didn’t nag you, didn’t expect anything in return. Sure, they danced practically naked for money, but men paid for women no matter how you looked at it. Whether it was nice dinners, designer clothes, expensive jewelry—nothing was for free. At least with strippers, you got what you paid for. I hadn’t been this callous, cynical man when dating Mia. It was what it was now.
Fuck it, I didn’t care. I wanted to see her naked. That was the problem with these titty bars—rules, cameras, bouncers.
I sat on the blue velvet sofa. “Dance for me, baby.”
Her mouth turned up into a smile, and her long hair brushed against my face. That sweet, citrusy scent of her skin—smelled like Mia, even though she had always masked it with coconut products. I pictured Mia naked, rubbing lotion all over her thighs, an image I could recall to my head anytime, anywhere, day or night—a useful skill when I was stuck in a dirt hole in Afghanistan. I wondered if Ksenya tasted like Mia, too?
Fuck. I couldn’t think of Mia now. I had a sexy woman in front of me and refused to think about my ex. All those nights when I was alone in the hospital, missing her, hoping she would come back to me. She had made it clear she didn’t want me. I had moved on.
A slow melodic beat started playing, not the upbeat dance crap the strippers usually chose. I recognized the song, a power ballad by a hair metal band. Interesting choice. Why had she picked that song? Doubtful she was even born when it came out. Whatever—Eastern European chicks were live wires.
I relaxed, took a swig of my beer. Ksenya’s chocolate-brown eyes locked onto mine. Though the color was different, something about the shape of her eyes reminded me of Mia. Dammit what was wrong with me?
Without prompting, Ksenya turned around, her fingernails, filed short and painted red, dug into my jeans, her tits rubbed my chest. A coy glance, a warm touch. She was totally into me. Not in the normal stripper bilking her client way, or off in her own mind dancing and thinking about her problems. This chick seemed one hundred percent present and focused on me. I loved it.
I needed to her to come home with me.
“Baby, how long’ve you worked here?” She turned away from me. My only way to connect with her was through my voice—I wasn’t allowed to touch her, which was so hard since her juicy ass was only inches from my tongue.
She shot me a glance over her shoulders. “Few months. It is job.”
Her broken English was charming. The only foreign girls I had met were overseas. Some of the Team guys liked going to brothels, but I refused to pay for sex, especially after what happened to my buddy Pat. He’d hired a hooker in an Aruban brothel, and she turned out to be a sex-trafficked American. I couldn’t help thinking that all those women overseas in those places were forced into the sex industry, victimized, abused. I refused to be a part of their nightmares.
Besides, I could get plenty of women right here. I was used to San Diego coeds, no challenge at all once they found out I was a SEAL. Ksenya hadn’t even asked me what I did for a living. “Yeah? You’re too gorgeous for this place. I’ve seen some other Eastern European women here, but most of them seemed harder. You seem fresh. What’s your deal?”
She bit her bottom lip; her eyes glanced down at her clear stripper heels. I paused for a second to catch my breath, Mia always used to bit her lip when she was nervous. “I have no story. I needed the money, and my English is not very good. I have no family. Dancing it is what I am good at.”
“Do you have many regular clients?” Strippers lied, would tell you whatever you wanted to hear. But I was pretty talented at detecting bullshit.
“Few. But I don’t do extras.” She squeezed my thighs. “Not even for you, handsome. I just dance.”
Fuck, I hadn’t gotten laid in months. I didn’t want to get blue balls or waste my time trying to meet a girl in a bar. I didn’t do the fuck-buddy thing either. Way too much drama, and if I was fucking a girl, she better not be foolish enough to cheat on me. At least Mia never screwed around with other men. And my dumb ass had been faithful to her too. “Hey, when’s your shift over? I’d like to see you out of here. I know this great little sushi place downtown.”
“I have plans tonight.” Her eyelashes lifted. “I’m not hooker. Only dancer.”
“Hookers hold no interest for me. All I want is to grab a bite to eat.” I wanted her to know I didn’t see her as just a stripper. She had an angelic face, and I needed to get to know her, carnally.
She nuzzled my neck, cupped my face in her hands. “Tomorrow? I get off at eight.”
“It’s a date.” I took out a hundred dollars and handed it to her. She started dancing again, but I stopped her. She could give me a private dance tomorrow night. And fuck if that couldn’t come a m
oment too soon.
***
SUSHI? DID GRANT SERIOUSLY ASK a stripper out to dinner? He couldn’t possibly know I’m Ksenya. Emma must’ve been right when she said he wooed the girls at Panthers, taking one out whenever he was in town. I knew he was single—no steady girlfriend since me—but when had this stripper fetish started? What if he’d cheated on me when we were together? Bile rose in my throat. Was I simply naïve expecting him to be faithful to me?
Dinner with Grant was not the plan. I wanted to observe him with the strippers. See who else talked to the guys, try to figure out who the girls were at Paul’s place the night of the murder.
But I couldn’t say no to Grant. I was in character. I was Ksenya, and she wanted someone to save her.
I seethed inwardly. I didn’t need a man to save me. The only good thing that had resulted out of this nightmare was that for the first time in my life I had proved that I could take care of myself. Without my parents, Joaquín, or Grant to pick me up when I fell. Yes, Joaquín had left me the money in the safe deposit box, but every red cent went toward this plan. Once my brother was free, I refused to ever rely on anyone but myself again.
What was I going to wear? I’d just finished my shift twenty minutes ago. I rummaged through my duffel bag in the dressing room—stripper costumes, Victoria’s Secret PINK sweats, and a skintight black dress I’d worn last week for VIP night. Mia would’ve worn sweats, but Ksenya would choose the dress. And heels, earrings, and makeup. Playing Ukrainian Barbie was hard. I just hoped she was hot enough to get her Ken doll to talk.
What I would give to go home to my room in El Cajon, shower, scrub off this makeup, crawl into my pajamas, and binge-watch Dancing under the Stars. The arches in my feet were cramped from those ridiculous stripper shoes, my empty stomach was craving a heaping plate of pesto pasta, not sushi, and my eyes were heavy from lack of sleep. Not to mention these humongous tits were killing my back. But I wasn’t going to blow my big chance.
I waited by the back entrance for Grant. My goal for the night was to get him to open up to me, even just a little. Then maybe he’d invite me to the next stripper party he and his buddies had. But I had no intention of sleeping with him—not now, not ever again. I was confident in my acting ability, but I couldn’t control the way my body would respond to his touch. If we made love, he would know I was Mia. I closed my eyes, imagined the warmth of his chest pressing on my skin, the stubble from his beard tickling the nape of my neck, the tender way he used to hold me.
I stared down Convoy Street, scanning for Grant’s truck. Our club was next to used car dealerships and Korean barbecues and the scent of burning animal flesh and kimchee was made my skin crawl. A few customers catcalled me, and I resisted the urge to flip them off.
The roar of a motorcycle shook the air. Grant had bought a bike? I was so pissed at him. He’d always wanted one when we were together, but I refused to let him get one. It was one thing for him to risk his life overseas defending our freedom; it was another to end up as roadkill for a drunk driver and die the way my parents had.
I wanted to go off on him, but I highly doubted Ksenya would nag him. I took a deep breath and centered myself, slipping back into Ksenya’s world.
His windblown hair framed his face. I loved his masculine jaw line, his beard, his intensity. The deep scar on his neck beckoned me to reach out and caress it. I had clearly underestimated the hold this man still had over me.
“Hey, gorgeous. Hop on.” He handed me a helmet.
“You drive motorcycle? Is dangerous, no?” Screw it, I figured Grant would like a little bit of sass from Ksenya.
“Nothing’s dangerous when you’re with me. Let’s go.”
Cocky son of a bitch. In the past six months, I’d never once considered how hard it would be to shut my mouth and not call Grant out on his bullshit. I pulled the tight helmet over my head, wrapped my arms around his waist, and held on.
The wind chilled my legs as we entered the freeway, my skintight dress riding up around my thighs. I’d never been on a motorcycle, fundamentally refused to ever ride one after my parents died. But gliding through traffic, I had to admit, for the first time since Joaquín had been arrested, my pulse steadied, my heartbeat calmed. For our brief ride, I vanquished memories of my parents, Joaquín’s troubles, my heartache—this overwhelming sense of urgency. I was truly enjoying living in the moment.
We pulled up to some hole-in-the-wall sushi joint. We weren’t in the ritzy part of downtown. No, we were on Broadway, a few blocks from the county jail where Joaquín was being housed.
I’m here, Joaquín. I haven’t abandoned you.
It was hard being so close to him and not being able to reach out to him, but I had faith I was on the right path.
I removed my helmet and crinkled my nose. The stench of urine and tar churned my stomach. Grant would never have taken me to a restaurant like this. This was a place where a guy took a girl to hide her, not to show her off. Was he shrouding me because I was a stripper? Or did he have a girlfriend somewhere who he was cheating on?
Last night, I almost felt guilty for dumping him back then and then using him now to find out the truth. But he chose to date a stripper, who on the surface was clearly not the type of woman to get serious with. So if he wanted a fling, at least he would be spending time with a woman who actually cared about him.
Grant studied my face. “This place is great, I promise. I know it doesn’t look like much, but the food is incredible.”
Great, he could still read me even as Ksenya. “I’m sure it is wonderful. I’m excited for good meal.”
His eyebrows lifted. “It’s refreshing to meet someone who looks beyond outside appearance.”
I bit my lip. “Compared to where it is I am from, this place is like palace.” Grant had a point. This could be the best sushi in the city, but I would’ve never agreed to go here when we were dating.
I’d never considered myself to be pretentious, but I’d admit I’d been a tad judgmental. I wondered if Grant had held himself back with me, afraid to push me to try new experiences. Why hadn’t I just been more open when I was with him?
The waitress sat us at a cramped table, stuck between the sushi bar and the restroom. Grant ordered a bunch of rolls, Asahi beer for himself, and saké for me.
He held my hand across the table. “So, how long have you been in San Diego?”
“Few months. I lived together in San Francisco with my baba. She died, and it was too much money for me there to live. I have friend here who was dancer and made good money, so I come down. The clubs in San Francisco are good, but houses are not so cheap.” My story was solid—I’d gone over it a thousand times—but gazing across at a man who regularly interrogated terrorists caused my palms to sweat.
The waitress brought us the first batch of rolls. Grant swirled a neon green mound of wasabi in the soy sauce with such concentration I shuddered from his intensity. “So you live with your friend?” he asked.
“No. She got boyfriend and quit the club. I live with older woman. She gives to me room in home, and I help with cleaning and cooking.” I tasted a piece of sushi—the Motion in the Ocean roll. The spicy jalapeño sauce lit my lips on fire while the sweet citrus put out the flame. I swallowed the tuna, the slithery fish sliding down my throat. Dear God, please don’t let me gag. I had been a vegan for years. But I knew that there was no chance that I could remain one in front of Grant.
“You could clean and cook for me.”
“Very funny.”
He popped a crunchy soft-shell crab roll into his mouth. “I’m serious, I travel all the time for my job. I could use some help.”
Was he kidding me? He had to be joking—he did not invite a stripper he had just met to move in with him. I dated this jackass for two years and we hadn’t even lived together.
“No, thank you. I do not know you.”
His eyebrow lifted, and his mouth widened into a sly smile. “Well, get to know me.”
My head
pounded and it wasn’t from the cheap saké. Who was this man who sat across from me? Was it possible to change that much or did every man reinvent himself when dating someone new? I fought the desire to kick Grant in the balls, hightail it out of there, and get back to my life.
“What is it you do for living?”
“I sell pharmaceuticals.” His nose didn’t even twitch; he’d become an expert at hiding his lies. Though this fib didn’t bother me. SEALs never told civilians what they did for a living. Joaquín told everyone he met that he drove an ice cream truck. That guy you met boasting about being a SEAL in the bar? He was a liar.
“Let’s get out of here. I want to take you somewhere.” He signaled to the waitress and paid the bill in cash.
We slid onto the back of his bike, and I placed my arms around him. I wanted to vanish into this moment, go back to the way we were when we had first fallen in love. Before he deployed that first time. Before I’d done something stupid. Before I didn’t have the guts to confide in him.
Grant headed down to the pier, in front of the USS Midway, a retired Naval carrier turned maritime museum. The millions of lights from the ship illuminated the ocean, as the view of Coronado’s Hotel Del beckoned in the distance. Grant might be lying to his date about his job, but he was also sharing his love of the Navy. Maybe he didn’t see Ksenya as just a conquest.
We stood under the world-famous “Unconditional Surrender” statue, which portrayed a sailor kissing a nurse at the end of World War II.
Grant took me into his arms, and I was sure he was going to kiss me under the moonlight. “You’re so incredibly hot. Let’s go to a hotel.”
“Nyet.”
“Come on, babe. We’ll have a great time. If you feel uncomfortable, I’ll take you home. I just want to spend some time with you.”
My first instinct was to slap him. But my panties became damp as I imagined what this new Grant would do to me. Which way should I go—sweet, shy, good girl forced into stripping? Or nasty, freaky, bad girl who owned her sexuality?
Conceit (Se7en Deadly SEALs Book 1) Page 5
