My eyes dart to Ryan when he says, “Good. I wouldn’t have any place to put crumpled-up bills, anyway.” He keeps his eyes facing the road, acting like he didn't say what he just did. It is a pity the tick in his jaw undoes his Oscar-worthy performance.
“I’m not a . . .I don’t remove my clothes,” I mumble, incapable of saying the word “stripper.”
Ryan’s teeth graze his bottom lip before he swings his eyes to me. “I know.”
His blasé response knocks the wind from my lungs. He isn’t confirming my admission because he believes me. He’s stating a fact.He’s seen me perform?
“How many times?” I blurt out before I can stop myself.
When his eyes return to the road, I twist my torso to face him head-on. “How many times, Ryan?” Before he can answer me, the truth smacks into me. “You’re the man in the suit the girls have been raving about all week.”
I don’t know why I sound peeved. Ryan isn’t mine, so my colleagues have every right to get giddy in his presence. I just preferred not knowing who they were gushing over. It didn’t sting as much when I assumed it was a stranger.
Feigning disinterest, I stammer, “You’re a fool for knocking back Melena’s offer. Her lap dances start at two hundred dollars. I heard she offered you thefullpackage for free.”
When Ryan smirks, my back molars smack together. I return my slit eyes to the scenery whizzing by my window. I couldn't sound more jealous if I tried. Although shocked by the excited rumblings through the dressing stations the past week, I didn't give two hoots who the gentleman in the suit was. Vipers attracts a range of men, so I just brushed it off as one of the many new clients amassed the past two months. I had no clue it was the man who hasn’t left my thoughts for a second the past decade.
While peering at Ryan’s reflection in the window, another truth smacks into me. “Oh my god! That was you!” I rummage through the stash of notes in my purse like a madwoman, seeking the rare hundred dollar bills I’ve gained five times this week already.
“I knew Jet was full of shit. My tips didn’t drastically increase because of my new routine. You sweetened the pot.”
Ryan doesn’t deny my claims. He doesn’t do anything. That fuels my agitation even more.
I was blown away Monday night when my tips jumped from the low two hundreds to mid three hundreds. I had been mixing up my routine to keep things fresh for the regulars, but I was still anticipating a dip in tips, not an increase. Now it makes sense.
“I’m glad you enjoyed my performance, but I am not a charity case,” I snarl, throwing three one hundred bills to Ryan’s side of the cab.
I’m reasonably sure I owe him another two hundred dollars but considering my comment about not being able to pay him for the ride wasn't a lie, the remaining bills must wait until a later date.
The money I was once ecstatic to earn floats through the air like feathers on a warm summer night. When they come to rest on Ryan's splayed thighs, he doesn't gather them in his hands or acknowledge their presence. That pisses me off more than anything.
“You have nothing to say?Nothingat all?”
He scrubs his hand over the stubble on his chin, praying it will hide its manic tick.
It doesn’t.
“Say what you want, Ryan. I’m a big girl. I can take it.”
I clench my stomach, expecting his words to hit me square in the guts. I should have prepared an organ a few inches higher, as my heart is the only one sustaining a brutal blow when Ryan snarls, “What would your dad say, Savannah? You work at a. . .Club. You’re a. . .” He is as incapable of saying “stripper” as I am.
His words slice through me like a knife, but they don’t stop my retaliation. “He’d be proud I’m putting one foot in front of the other. Doing anything I can to keep my head floating above the water—”
“By working at a strip club?!” Ryan interrupts, shouting.
“Yes! If that is what it takes, that is what it takes!” I reply, my vocal cords hindered by tears begging to be released.
My body jerks to the side when Ryan abruptly yanks on the steering wheel, bringing his patrol car to a stop just before the "Welcome to Ravenshoe" sign.
“Then take my money, Savannah. Use it for whatever the fuck you seem to think is more important than living with morals.” He tosses the three hundred dollar bills at my chest.
I gather them in my hands, scrunch them up, then toss them back at him as if they are trash. “Unlikesomepeople, I do have morals.” The way I sneer “some” leaves no doubt to whom I am referring: him. “I don’t lie, steal, orcheat.I’m earning a living. Anhonestliving.”
The fury blackening my veins doubles when my yank on the door handle fails to open it. I scan along the doorframe, seeking the lock. There isn’t one. Knowing self-locking doors are usually only installed in the back seat of patrol cars, I lean across Ryan’s torso—ignoring his scrumptiously inviting scent—press the lock button, then throw open my door.
My ass hangs midair when a grumbled, “I didn’t cheat on you,” booms through my ears.
Believing the anger enveloping every inch of me is the cause of my poor hearing, I continue scrambling out of his car. My steps crunch on the asphalt, grinding the heels of my stilettos as severely as my teeth are gnawing together.
