The dark-haired man takes a moment to contemplate. I swear it is the longest thirty seconds of my life.
For the second time in my life, it also ends nothing like I am anticipating.
“I’m sorry. The men who visit my club want naked breasts. They want ass shaking. They want. . .” He scans his practically isolated club before finishing his sentence. “Anythingyou are willing to give them. Are you willing to do that? Give themanythingthey want?”
“Anything?” I double-check, certain the circumstances of my day have me mistaking the dip in his tone.
“Anything,”he clarifies.
Disappointment forms in his eyes when I shake my head. I may be desperate, but I’d rather live in a shelter than do. . .thatfor money.
“Then, I’m sorry, sweetheart, you’re not what I’m looking for.”
I beg for the tears pricking my eyes not to fall. I will not cry like a defenseless, idiotic woman who needs a man to rush in and save her. I will dust off the shit and move on to the next stage of my life. I. Will. Not. Cry.
I'm crying. Not enough for anyone around me to notice, but enough to dent my ego even more. I need this job. With my last two years of university spent as my dad's in-house caregiver, I have no education to fall back on. Then a few years after my father's death, Tobias passed away, leaving the operation he had personally handled the past six years in limbo. No one knew of my existence, not even the local US Marshalls. I was merely referred to as Witness #11734.
I thought once Col Petretti’s case had been brought before the courts, I’d be free from witness protection. I was wrong—veryverywrong. Tobias’s efforts to keep me safe tripled when Col walked away from court without a conviction. He knew someone had tattled, and he was doing everything in his power to discover who it was. In the year prior to Tobias's death, I moved more times than I did the five years earlier. We were forever on the move, ensuring not a breadcrumb was left behind.
The only reason I am free now is because Col was killed in a joint police/FBI sting over a year ago. Although that stage of my life is now over, I’ll never live without fear of repercussion. I’ll always be looking over my shoulder, waiting for my past to catch up with me.
After brushing away a tear that settled in the groove of my cheek, I gather my iPod from the floor and shove it into my tattered gym bag. The lady with the gold tassels on her nipples is strutting across the stage. Her dance routine is as hideous as her fake boobs that are on display for the world to see.
The club owner’s approving nod of her provocative grind on the stripper pole reveals what I’ve always known: men are idiots. I could add a few more words, but that one is the most appropriate, so I’ll stick with it.
“Perfect. Beautiful. Wonderful. You’re hired.”
I gag more at his last praise than his first three. Nothing about her routine was entrancing. It was hideous. If I had a way of getting down my satin ribbons bolted to the ceiling without the help of the club’s maintenance man, I’d be long gone from this strip club on the outskirts of town. But since I haven’t grown a millimeter since the day I turned fifteen, I keep my feet planted on the ground—barely!
Another four girls perform before the lackey is given the green light to assist me. Every girl was hired—even the one who had underarm hair longer than the hair on her head.
“Didn’t give you the time of day?” The young man I’d guess to be mid to late twenties asks, peering at me through lowered lashes.
I shake my head. “No. I wanted to keep my shirt.”
He huffs. “Pity. We could sure use some lookers like you in this place. When you’ve seen one set of silicone tits, you’ve seen them all.” The playful gag at the end of his sentence makes me laugh.
“How can you be so sure my boobs aren’t silicone? You’ve only seen them through a baggy tee.”
His Adam’s apple bobs up and down. “I was out back when you whipped off your shirt.” The guilt in his eyes triples when he discloses, “They have cameras of the main stage area in the dressing room.”
“Oh.”
I want to say more, but I can’t form a reply. Removing my shirt in front of one man was hard enough. I wouldn’t have done it if I knew I had an audience.
“The image was grainy, but I’m fairly certain your tits aren’t from Silicon Valley,” the dirty blond with a devasting grin mutters.
I ludicrously smile. Don’t ask me why. I’m as stunned by my body’s reaction as you are.
Bobbing down to gather my ribbon strands in his hands, he asks, “Are they?”
I glower at him.He doesn’t really want me to answer him, does he?
“No. They’re all mine,” I mumble a short time later when he arches his brow, waiting for a reply.
His grin enlarges. “I knew it.”
He jerks his chin to the satin ribbons bolted to the ceiling. "So what's the deal? Do you use these in your routine?"
