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The streetlights above light up the sky the moment I step outside. It casts a glow over the rows of parked cars, highlighting that none are of any use without a set of keys. The limo driver, charged with whisking the new Dr. and Mrs. Gavin Laughton to the reception, is waiting at the entrance of the church. Quickly, I realize I’ve skipped from one problem to the next. I need to find my way out of here.
“This is why robbers don’t wait until the last minute to figure out their getaway plan, Paisley!” I chastise myself aloud.
I lift my gown off the blacktop, ball it in my fists, and start running. My high heels pinch my toes when my feet land on the pavement, making my lips twist.Shoot!I was sorely mistaken thinking the blisters I’d have by the end of tonight would be from dancing the night away.
I stop, hop up and down, remove my shoes, and let them clop to the ground. A twinge of guilt hits me. They were such nice shoes. It’s followed by a second pang of regret. How can I be sad about ditching Jimmy Choos when I just left the man I was supposed to marry in the most compromising position anyone could find themselves in?
Well, maybe it’s notthemost. But getting ditched ranks up there for embarrassment. Poor Gavin. And my poor mother…Eeeh. My mother. I’ll find a way to live this fiasco down, but can they?
“Paisley? Where are you?”
“Oh shit, he’s still after me!” I squeak.
Skittering onto the cold and damp sidewalk, I pick up the pace. Within the next few blocks, I’m going to go from Historic Brighton to Downtown Brighton to the back alleyways that investment firms thought twice about revitalizing.
Beyond a chain link fence, flashing pink letters on a neon sign catch my attention. Almost out of breath from the heavy layers I’m carrying, I have two choices. I can keep running and risk the possibility of getting hepatitis when I step on a needle. Or I can duck inside and pray that Sweet Caroline’s is the last place on earth anyone—especially a well-respected heart surgeon—will come looking for me.
There’s a single car in the lot, so I take my chances that the customers won’t think I’m part of the stage show. I scoot under an awning, ignoring the marquee advertising the scantily clad headline acts, and pull on a door handle.
“No, no. Don’t be locked. Don’t be locked!” I dare to glance over my shoulder, reaching for the other door.
Not as heavy as I expect, it swings open, nearly toppling me over. I step into the dark strip club, pulling my dress inside before I can’t see anything anymore, and risk it catching between the doors. My practically bare feet can feel the holes in my stockings and the short pile of the rug.
“We’re closed,” booms a voice from down a dark hall.
“I need to use the phone. Make a call.” I arch my spine six ways from Sunday, trying to see in the shadows.
I’m also wondering who exactly am I calling? And how am I paying for the lift because my purse, with my phone and my credit cards, are in the church’s undercroft.
Thank fuck I own a boutique because not making off with the money would make bank robbery an exceptionally poor career choice.
A tall silhouette emerges, back lit by the hallway. He uses the top of a liquor bottle to flip a switch, washing the entire theater in harsh light. I cover my eyes for them to adjust.
“Don’t you have a cell?” The man demands, accusing me of being an idiot.
A whole congregation agrees you’re not far off, dude.
“I lost it.” Along with my sanity.
I blink, and the man across the room is staring at me in shock.
Can’t say I blame him. I’m sort of shocked about how my night is going, too. Although, I’m the slightest bit more prepared for this encounter than Sweet Caroline’s proprietor is.
From the looks of the desolate parking lot, I thought there would be a bartender in here. A bouncer. A regular watching a dancer spin around a pole, too enamored by the woman taking her clothes off on stage to become involved in my little circus act. After humiliating myself in front of two hundred people who I know, what difference would half a dozen who I don’t make?
However, I hadn’t factored Jake Ballentine into the mix.
No downtown business owner has to have met him to know him. Jake is a man whose reputation precedes him. His omnipotent presence in this small town is as much an institution as the gentleman’s club he owns.
More than Jake’s questionable dealings tower above. From across the room, he looms gigantic. Long and lean, Jake is dressed in crisp black trousers. His unbuckled belt jangles at his hips. Several buttons on his shirt are undone at the collar. The power in his neck and broad shoulders is similar to a competitive swimmer. His tie hangs loose. His blond hair is disheveled like he’s gripped it at the root, but it appears he’s also tried to mat it down and back into place.
I’m uncertain if the attempt to make himself look presentable is for my benefit. I would have buckled the belt first, but that’s just me, and I’m a girl.
Jake strides over the carpeting with the bottle of amber liquid in his grip. He sets it on a small round table as he passes.
“I thought the princess lost a shoe leaving the ball?”
I crane my neck to reply. “Oh, I did that bitch one better.” I lift the tattered hem of my soiled gown and wiggle my toes.
