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For one, Myles looks so angry. Every time I glance over at him, his grip on the steering wheel is so tight, his knuckles are white, and his jaw is so tense, I can see a vein bulge out.
Two, he’s not the kind of man who is satisfied with being soft and gentle. Myles is a rough man all around, and I doubt he will care that I’m a virgin. He’ll hurt me, and then he’ll take until nothing is left of me.
Tears prick at my eyes, but I force them down. My throat is clogged with emotion, but I swallow that down too. I can’t let him see how scared I am.
He parks in front of his house, and we both exit the car. He walks ahead of me, unlocking the front door. As soon as it’s open, I squeeze by him and run up the stairs while calling over my shoulder, “Gonna take a shower.”
I’m glad when he doesn’t follow me and even more glad when I’m locked in the bathroom and strip out of these clothes. The smell of smoke clings on them, and if it was up to me, I would burn the scraps of fabric. When I’m completely naked, I turn on the shower and step under the spray before it gets a chance to turn hot. The ice-cold water washed over my skin, making me shiver. I welcome it.
The water turns warm, then hot, and I go from freezing to burning up. I welcome that too. I concentrate on that feeling instead of the one inside my chest.
Even after a long time in the shower, I still feel dirty. I still see the men gawking at me like I’m nothing more than a piece of meat. I can smell the alcohol on the man’s breath, feel his fingers around my wrist as he tries to pull me closer. Myles stopped him, and I’m not sure why or if that’s why he is angry with me. Did he do it because I didn’t act right, or could it be possible that Myles actually cared? I shake my head at the thought. He doesn’t care about me. He cares about money and his business. I have to get it out of my head that there is anything more between us.
Getting out of the shower, I dry off and get dressed in a pair of leggings and a sweatshirt. My stomach is in knots, but I know I have to go down there and talk to him, no matter how daunting the thought of that is. I stand in front of the door for a good twenty minutes before I can finally muster up the courage to go.
Twisting the knob, I pull the door open and step into the hallway, half expecting him to be there waiting for me. Instead, I find it empty and quiet. A bit too quiet. Did he leave?
Uncertainty worms its way through my brain, but I keep moving down the stairs. When I get into the living room, I find him sitting on the couch, staring at his phone like it holds all the secrets of the world.
“Hi,” I say quietly, making his head snap up. He gets up and slides the phone into his pocket. In one large stride he closes the distant between us until he stands only inches away from me. I have to tilt my head, looking up as he towers over me. My knees go weak, but I keep my head held high and square my shoulders. “I’m sorry I’m not a good dancer… but…” I clear my throat, my mouth suddenly so dry my tongue feels swollen and heavy. “Is there anything else I can do?”
“You will not work in my club as a stripper ever again.” His words feel like a slap in the face, and it takes a lot for me not to spin around and run back to my room, falling on my bed to cry my eyes out in shame.
“Do you want me to leave? Or—”
“No,” he cuts me off. “I don’t need a waitress either, but I could use a new girl at the front. You’re gonna work as my new hostess and take cover charges, starting tomorrow. You can still stay here.”
“Wait, what?” I deadpan. “You’re letting me stay?”
He nods his head, and even though his lips are still set in a frown, his eyes soften, and I feel like a ten-ton boulder is lifted off my chest.
Before I can think about what I’m doing, my body acts on its own, and I throw myself at him. I wrap my arms around his torso and pull him into a tight hug. Burying my face into his chest, I suck in a deep breath, inhaling his clean and fresh smell. I could get drunk on his scent.
