AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Of course, I didn’t want to go full-on slut tonight, so I’ve foregone the thigh high PVC boots in favor of everlasting sun kissed legs and sky high fuck me peep-toe heels, revealing the kind of toes that men-turned-teenage-boys fall to their knees to suck.
When I come to a stop, I purr the phrase made famous by Wonderbra. “Hello, boys!”
All but three of them trip over their own tongues to say hello.
“So, you’ve eventually joined us.”
The grumpy voice belongs to Dan. One of the three guys who don’t drool over me. Tristan’s groomsman was even less friendly when we met three years ago, put out by the fact my gay best friend asked a woman to be his Best Man and that woman was me.
“If you’re an honorary guy tonight, Ashleigh, then you’ve got some catching up to do.”
He steps away from the bar and reveals a collection of shots lined up, that’s when he scrutinizes my attire and snorts, “Bit early for a stripper gram, don't you think?”
He'll never let it go. He’ll never forget I dressed up as an escort and showed the boys a good time on the Las Vegas strip, or that it had been so successful; a boys night in Las Vegas was now an annual event, and my services as an escort are always required.
“Hey, killjoy.” Another of the groomsmen jabs Dan in the ribs and pushes him out of the way. This is the playboy man-child who's been dubbed unlucky Lee ever since he’d failed to get the escort, a.k.a me, into his bed that weekend. “What's your name miss?”
“Lucky by name.” I wink at him. Our greeting’s become a ritual. “Lucky by nature.”
“And I think we are lucky to have her wonder into our midst.” He winks back as he drapes an arm over Dan’s shoulder “And if she wants to show us a lucky streak then who are we to stop her?”
A laugh burst out from my lips. That’s a new line! “Maybe later.” My gaze meets his. “And if you're all good little boys I might dance for you, too.”
My spin around the pole in a strip club was almost as infamous as the bachelor party. I’d learned how to pole dance for a racy role in the adaptation of an erotic novel a few months before, and the manager of the club had challenged me. He said I didn’t have it in me anymore. I rarely back down from a challenge.
I slowly turn around in the group now gathering around me like hungry wolves. I should be intimidated, but I’d known most of them since I was a teen and they’re harmless. Besides, as long as I keep the provocative smile on my face, flutter my eyelashes, and blow kisses, they’re putty in my hands.
Krystal Valentina, my public persona, is fun, sexy, and up for anything. Well, I’m prepared to wear a bikini and stand neck deep in strawberry Jell-O in the name of charity, become a stripper, and jump off mountains without a parachute, so anything is possible. Although, that last one wasn’t technically a jump, it was a fall, and it almost killed me. So there are some limitations on anything.
And yes, I’d created this loud, overbearing, control freak. I’ve treated my irises like a fashion accessory, and I’ve gone to boys’ night disguised as an escort, so I’m considered a little outrageous. I’m also bad tempered. But I’ve always thought those who'd labeled Krystal a diva extremely offensive.
However, after storming out of an interview with Jackson Mathews, hijacking a motorcycle, kidnapping a celebrity hairstylist—insisting he make me unrecognizable—and demanding the first available flight from LAX, I’ve discovered no one says no to me.
In the last twenty-four hours I’ve switched off my cell phone and switched on my hidden prima donna.
My first real diva moment. A moment of pyrotechnical splendor. One true moment of hell hath no fury and my whole life exploded before a live studio audience.
Then, it wasn't about being a diva at all. It was about survival. It was about staying one step ahead of the paparazzi and getting as far away from California as fast as possible, knowing I could only go as far as Las Vegas because I have a wedding to attend. I would have to be dead to miss Julia and Darryl’s wedding.
“Like hell you're pole dancing in front of me!” The crowd parts on the grumpy bark.
My brother lifts his drink, drains the amber liquid and slams the glass on the bar. A jingle of ice rattles the glass in the silence his words left hanging in the air. He stands and towers a full four inches over my five-feet-eleven inches in heels. He towers over a lot of the men, and he’s a kickboxer—and built like one. Big brother in protection mode? Not conducive to having fun.
“Go put some fucking clothes on,” he growls out. “And if you boys want to see my little sister dance in her underwear you can watch All Night Long.”
Technically, Ryder Matthews is my stepbrother, and as much as he has nothing to do with my twin sister or my mom, he's been my rock for the past twelve months.
“I don't need a live performance,” he grumbles.
“I second that!” Tristan Michaels also slams his drink on the bar and stands beside Ryder. He’s the same height as me in heels, but I still feel like the mastermind behind the brawn in a gangster movie. “I still have nightmares.”
“That's a horrible thing to say!” I jab my elbow into the fleshiest part of Tristan’s stomach. Not that there is much flesh. He’s very well maintained. He also has a cutie pie look, the short cropped sandy blond hair that appeals to all women from eight to eighty, and the right mixture of humility, camaraderie, and strength in his personality to appeal to the wider audiences at home.
We’re kindred spirits of sorts. He hated acting as much as I did when we were kids and he’d been forced into it by pushy parents, too.
“Just because you lost your acting ability as an adult and had to turn to presenting to make a living…”
I issue the burn, but he just burns me right back. “Yeah, but at least I didn’t turn to porn.”
