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One month ago—Girls, Girls, Girls strip club, Nashville
All my best and worst memories involve him.
To say I came off my brother’s tour with all my ducks in a row would be a lie. If I was lucky, I got a couple hours of sleep traveling from one venue to the other, doing interviews and late-night shows in between. I’ve spent more time on a plane or tour bus than I ever want to for the rest of my life.
The first months I spent living with the guys, I only slept and ate. I had always been on the lean side, but pizza and cookies left me out of shape. A couple days later I found a note hanging on the wall in one of my favorite coffee places for pole dancing classes, and I signed up.
At first, I sucked ass. I had trouble holding onto the pole or swinging my legs around it. But I became instant friends with Nina, who was teaching the class, and I started to improve.
After having danced with her for a couple months, Nina asked if I wanted to help her out with a charity fundraiser thing she had organized at Girls. At first, I said no. I was afraid to get up there onstage. When she told me the charity event was for her half-sister, Dallas, I caved. So here I am standing backstage in my tiny black bikini, counting down the seconds till showtime.
Nina and Dallas have become the girlfriends I need in my life. I have always been a bit of a tomboy but they helped me get my inner babe out. Dallas’s words, not mine. I love the feeling dancing at Nina’s studio gives me. And my ass has never looked better.
Nina has packed Girls for the evening. I’m scared shitless. I’ve only ever danced in the studio, not in front of strangers, seventy-five percent being men.
I’m dancing to Warrant’s “Cherry Pie” when Gerry, one of the regular old-timers Nina has told me about, starts whistling and tries to tuck twenty bucks between the strap of my garter. I smile, helping Gerry by crouching in front of him, my eyes wander around the room and I notice a couple of faces I recognize staring back at me. And one I haven’t talked to in years.
Gunner pinches his eyes shut for a moment, and his mouth opens like a gold fish, I’ve never seen my brother this lost for words in my whole life.
Beside him, the man of my dreams and nightmares gapes at me and slams his drink on the bar, the liquid splashing over the rim. Scratching his dark stubble, he narrows his eyes, his whole body tenses, and a little muscle in his jaw ticks.
Fuck, I know that look. Even the way he runs his thumb over his bottom lip has me frozen in place.
Navarone is seconds away from trashing the place. Jumping on stage he grabs me around my waist without saying a word. He pulls me from the podium and through the back door. Stopping in the alleyway behind the strip club, he plops me down against the wall. He takes off his leather jacket and drapes it around my shoulders, like I’m the Jenny to his Forrest Gump. He’s still as intimidating as he was when I was sixteen. My heart rate picks up when I disappear into his dark-eyed stare, and I’m right back to being the lovestruck girl I was when I fell for the son of a bitch ten years ago.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I yell.
He grabs the jacket, trying to close it. Navarone towers over me with his six-foot-four stature.
“You’re embarrassing yourself,” he roars back, trying to catch his breath.
I stand on my tiptoes to get in his face, and I nearly reach his chin with these damn heels on. He has a hard time keeping his eyes glued to mine and not on my chest and the tiny bikini I’m wearing. It’s like he can’t believe I’m not that shy inexperienced sixteen-year-old with no cleavage anymore.
“You don’t need the fucking money—why the hell are you dancing here?” he bellows.
“Are you crazy? I’m dancing for charity. Didn’t you see the big-ass banner outside?”
He rolls his eyes, scratching his stubble, clearly not believing a single word I’m saying.
“And I like dancing. It’s a hobby. This was the first time in public,” I growl. “Why am I explaining this to you? I sure as fuck don’t owe you anything.”
His smile is feral. The look in his eyes dries my mouth. He leans his hands next to my face. In response, I press my spine against the cold brick wall.
Then his scent reaches me from the jacket I’m wearing: leather mixed with all him. I close my eyes, feeling the way he used to hold me, kiss me, love me. And I remember the moment I told him I was leaving.
“You like dancing? And those guys drooling all over you before they go jerk off in the bathroom is for charity?” he asks, raising his voice.
His hair falls in front of his eyes, he zeroes in on my mouth, and licks his lips. “And don’t say fuck. It doesn’t fucking suit you.” He looks deep into my eyes, holding me captive with his intense stare.
“Fuck you. You can’t come back into my life and act like the last years didn’t happen.”
He shakes his head, running both his hands through his long hair he flashes me a dark look.
We lock eyes, both standing our ground.
“I need to get back inside,” I state.
“No, I’m taking you back to the Union Station.” His eyes dart down, and he licks his lips before adjusting the front of his jeans. Like I don’t know he is sporting a massive hard-on. I’ve lived with the guy on the road. I know every little tell he tries to hide. He brushes his hand over the red scar next to his left eye, as he draws closer.
