I halfheartedly nod. “Yeah, sorry. Got a little carried away by my thoughts.”
His deep murmur rumbles through my chest. He knows what I’m thinking without a word seeping from my lips. This is a prime example of why I’ll never jump aboard the Dwainsnap them while they’re sleepingTrain. He knows me too well.
Nobody knows me. The cabaret dancer who shakes her ass in a seedy club is a myth, a metaphor, a girl you’d never take home to visit your parents. She isn’t the real me. She is the shield I use to keep myself safe—to keep myself sane.If I don’t occupy my thoughts, my mind wanders. A nomadic mind never ends well.
I’ve changed a lot the past three years. At times, I barely recognize myself. But Dwain sees past my glittery chest, big eyes that promise trouble, and mega-watt smile. He has a gift for reading people for who they are—not how they present themselves. He reminds me a lot of my daddy, just in a younger, more ravishing, darker-skin version.
My theory is proven dead accurate when Dwain mutters, "You can talk to them, you know? No matter how bad things are, you’ll always be their little Rae of sunshine. It's a parents’ job to view their children through rose-colored glasses."
I roll my eyes before pushing off my feet. “Not happening, Dwain. As far as my parents are concerned, I’m on the final stretch of a paid scholarship, and you’re the dorky hall monitor who saves my virtue every weekend by forcing me to study instead of attending frat parties.”They also believe Luca died an honorable man, and I intend for it to stay that way.
Dwain's hefty chuckle is barely heard over the jazz blaring from the speakers above our heads as he follows me through the underbelly of Substanz. This humble abode was once my place of solace. It was the place I used to escape my worries in a positive, somewhat glamorous way.
Now, it feels sleazy and grimy.
Its revamped aura is accredited to the new owner who flew in on his broomstick with a vision of greatness. Unfortunately, a majority of his ideas depended on the dancers taking off their clothes.
Cabaret performances ooze sex appeal, but Jayce doesn't want glitzy routines that dazzle the mind and spirit. He wants skin, boobs, and bump and grinds that stimulate the areas between a man’s legs instead of the ones between his ears.
Within six months of Jayce taking over the helm, Substanz went from a family-friendly environment to the dancers being shunned on the street by disgruntled single women who cite our "unachievable standards" as the reason they can't get a date. Their legs haven't seen a razor since the nineties, but Jayce's unbendable rules of the dancers not gaining more than four pounds after being hired are to blame for everything.
With a grumble about ill-informed people, I dash for the curtains separating backstage from the dressing rooms. Halfway through, the quickest flash of a smirk stops both my heart and my feet. A handsome man with wisps of blond hair sticking out of a low-hanging cap stands at the end of the corridor. He is in a restricted area—an area reserved for the staff of Substanz.
I lift my eyes to Dwain, who has also spotted the stranger. Unlike me, he isn’t taking in the man’s cut jawline, tempting body, and sultry smirk with agitated excitement. He looks concerned. I’d even go as far as saying frazzled.
The unease pumping out of him sends my pulse racing. “What is he doing back here?”
I'm not worried about my safety. Dwain could snap Hercules in half without breaking a sweat. I'm concerned about what the stranger's sneaky glances are doing to my insides. My stomach is flipping more now than it did during my gymnastic routines in high school. I haven't felt like this in years. . . not since I was introduced to a thirteen-year-old Luca.
"I don't know." Dwain's deep timbre relays his eagerness to find out. "Jayce mentioned something about foreign investors earlier this week. What do you think? Investing his inheritance in a seedy club to combat his mommy issues? Or are his preppy boy features hiding a tiny wiener?"
Dwain’s snappy comment strips the worry from my gut, allowing the butterflies inside to take flight without hindrance. I should have realized he isn't scared. Nothing scares Dwain—not even the furious stink eye of my little sister, Raquel.
My eyes shift from Dwain to the mysterious stranger when the heat of his gaze captures my attention. With his head slanted to the side, the man peers at me from beneath the brim of his cap in the same manner he did earlier tonight. He isn’t the least bit deterred by Dwain’s rapidly forming anger.
He should be—very much so. I blame him for nearly stumbling three times on stage tonight. Although I couldn’t see his eyes, his all-encompassing glare worked my inside muscles as effectively as my outside ones when I strutted across the stage. Half of his god-crafted features were hidden from my view, but that didn’t leash my curiosity in the slightest.
His mysteriousness adds to his appeal, giving him ayou may never get out of this alivevibe. It was so invigorating, I performed my routine on half of the stage: his half. That's why I darted off as I did. My lungs were demanding oxygen, but not all their deprivation was from my air-pinching corset. Most of it rested on the unnamed gentleman.
If only I could see his eyes, then I'd know which team he belongs to. A person's eyes are the gateway to their soul. They reveal a person’s heart, spirit, and the reason they seek solace in sordid locations. Not all clients at Substanz come to get their rocks off. Some are just lonely. That is how I stumbled upon my line of work almost three years ago.
“Hmm.” Dwain’s rumble—as deep as Earl Brown’s murmuring and as scrumptious as Garth Brook singing a love song—returns my focus to him. “Remember Celeste’s side business?”
“No way. . . Do you think?” My voice is higher than my brows.
For almost two months, Celeste offered additional "services" for clients at Substanz. When Jayce caught wind of her illegal operation, he didn't fire her as expected; he wanted in on her scheme. The boutique massage parlor a few miles from Substanz has expanded to a six-figure entity the past three months. They don't relieve any of their clients' strains. . . unless they're sexual kinks.
“I think your radar is a little askew tonight, Dwain. He doesn’t needhelpto relieve tension. Why shell out funds for something he can get for free?”
Dwain’s eyes drop to mine. “So if he asked you on a date right now, you’d accept?”
“I didn’t say that—”
"Uh-huh. My point exactly," Dwain interrupts. "I saw him gawking at you all night like you were the only girl on stage. There were over thirty dancers vying for his attention. His eyes never left you. He wants it." He rubs his hands together like a rhubarb pie is sitting in front of him. "He wants itsoooobad, he’s willing to pay for the privilege.”
The instant I spot his furling lips, I recognize his game plan. "This isn't a good idea. He won't take kindly to being swindled." The worry in my voice reflects the country twang I've struggled to conceal the past three years.
“He can’t be swindled if he has no intention of cracking open his wallet. If he has merely mistaken backstage as an exit, he’ll go on his merry way when I point him in the right direction. But if he thinks Substanz is an escort service, he’ll pay for his stupidity before I toss his ass to the curb.”
