A Little Too Hot

Chapter Three

WHAT THE HELL is he doing here?

I squint through the glare of the lights. He’s cut his hair shorter, and he’s in a button-down as opposed to his typical T-shirt, but it’s got to be him. The strong lines of his face, the way he crosses his sculpted arms on the table, leaning onto his elbows and accentuating his muscled chest, the angle he holds his head . . . it’s all so Trent.

I realize I’m not moving when someone yells from the front of my stage something about shaking it, and I start dancing again, but I suddenly feel totally disconnected from my body. I yank my eyes away from Trent and focus on the guys around my stage, more of whom are now waving money.

How did he know I was dancing here? I didn’t even know I was dancing here until an hour ago.

My heart pounds in my throat and I ache inside as if it’s happening all over again. I’d loved him forever, and in a heartbeat it was over.

And now he has the balls to show up here and rub it in my face.

I feel all that anger I felt the night he broke up with me swell inside and take control. He wants a show? I’ll give him a goddamn show. I’ll show him just what he threw away.

I let the slow rhythm of the music seep into my bones as I stalk toward him. A few feet from the edge of the stage, I plant my feet wide and drop down, then roll up slowly, snaking my hands over my calves, my inner thighs, my bare stomach, my breasts, then overhead, where I twist them into my red mane, knocking my hat off. And all the time, my hips work the pulsing rhythm. I stomp to the beat for maximum jiggle as I make my way back to the pole and lean my back against it. I work one hand down my curves, slipping over my satin shorts to my inner thigh. I grind my pelvis in a circle, letting my fingers settle over the V at the top of my legs for a beat, then glide my hand back up to my breast, then to my hair, where I twist my fingers into my waves.

And then I have sex with Trent right here on the stage.

I roll my hips to the rhythm of music that’s now a part of me, and imagine myself straddling him in his seat. It’s only when one song segues into the next that I realize I’m totally on the brink of getting myself off right here on the stage, in front of all these people. I open my eyes and find a pile of money along the edge of my stage.

I drop to my knees and catch my hat in my teeth, then crawl toward the edge and sweep the money up, tucking it into my hat. I slap it back on my head and undulate my way back to my feet. Marcus moves closer when one of the drooling guys at the edge makes a grab for me. Over his head, I catch Trent pushing out of his seat.

My racing heart beats faster as he stalks through the crush of bodies, like a prowling animal, and comes out on my left, away from most of the crowd. His mouth curves into a cocky smile as he holds a bill between his index and middle fingers.

I sashay over, and it’s only as I waggle down to his level, where I intend to spit in his face, that I catch all the details I couldn’t see from a distance through the glaring stage lights.

It’s not Trent.

This guy is slightly older, maybe mid-twenties, and built, but not quite so muscle-bound. And where Trent’s hair is the color of milk chocolate, with eyes to match, this guy’s hair is more sandy brown, and his eyes are pale blue.

He reaches up to slip the hundred into my top and his gaze liquefies my insides and turns my legs to jelly. He arches an eyebrow at me in a question. I lean in, wanting with every fiber of my being to know what he’s asking. He gives me the hint of a smile, and, as his fingertips brush the bare skin of my breast, my blood boils.

Damn, he’s hot.

His pale pink button-down is open at the collar, the sleeves rolled up to just below his elbows, and I can’t help noticing those strong hands. The image of them on my body forms unbidden in my mind, sending a shudder rippling up my spine. His face is striking, with strong cheekbones and a square jaw, and there’s blondish stubble on his chin and cheeks that I’m dying to touch. I bet it’s soft.

He gives me a wink and turns for his table, confidence wafting off him like cologne. I close my eyes and tip my head back, intoxicated by the whole encounter.

And that’s when I remember what Nora said. Don’t linger too long.

Whoops.

I’M COUNTING OUT my tips in the dressing room when Nora comes in. “Nice show, girlie. Never seen a rookie work it quite like that.”

I shrug. “I was inspired.”

“Well, I hope you’re still inspired, because you’re not done yet.”

“I’m going back out?” A little thrill skitters my skin into goose bumps, despite the heat. Between the money and the rush of being on stage, I think I’ve found the job I was truly meant for. I come totally alive on that stage. And even after my sixty percent to Ben, I’m taking home almost four hundred dollars in tips tonight.

Plus, if he’s still out there . . . All the muscles in my groin contract at the thought.

“No, you’re not going back out,” Nora says, and disappointment sinks in my gut like a stone. “But you have a private.”

“What’s a private?”

“A private dance. Ben has a VIP room for more discerning individuals who prefer the discretion of a private show. You’ve been hired.”

I feel suddenly dizzy as the blood runs out of my head. “What do I have to do?”

She cracks up—a smoker’s cackle, all rough and throaty. “No, girlie, it’s not what you’re thinking. It’s the same rules as out there,” she says with a flick of her wrist at the door. “They pay two hundred for a half an hour. You get a hundred, Ben takes the rest. No touching, keep your clothes on at all times, and never get closer than three feet. The cops are always snooping around, looking for a reason to shut Ben down. Break the rules, you’re gone. It’s that simple.”

I look at my huge mound of tip money and decide I’m not going to break the rules. Ever.

She holds out her hand for my stash. “Ben will hold that for you till you’re ready for it. You don’t want to leave it sitting around in here. We’re family, but a stack of cash is just too tempting.”

I hand it to her and follow her up the hall to Ben’s office. He glances up when we walk it. “That was some show,” he says to me with an appreciative nod toward the window.

“You saw?” I say, feeling my cheeks warm.

He gives me a cool look I’m not quite sure how to read. “I see everything.”

Nora hands him my money. “She’s got a private.”

For the first time, the corner of his mouth lifts into a half smile. “Can’t say I’m surprised.”

Nora turns and I follow her back past the dressing room to a door across the hall near the end. “Remember, same rules,” she says, her hand on the knob. “If he wants to tip you, it’s all yours, but he can leave it on the table. Never closer than three feet. There’s no bouncer in there, so it’s for your protection. And when I say no touching, I mean no touching. Sometimes they want to jack off, but that’s another hard and fast rule. If they want to touch themselves, they have to wait until they’re off the premises. There’s a panic button on the back wall near the stereo, which will get Marcus there in a heartbeat. And the door doesn’t lock, so you can always just walk out if there’s any inappropriate behavior.” She looks at me. “You ready?’

“So, all I have to do is dance.”

“Absolutely,” she says with a sharp nod.

I breathe deep. “Yeah. Ready.”

She pushes the door open and I walk in. The room is dimly lit by a single torch lamp with a red shade in the corner. A fan whirring on the ceiling dries the sheen of sweat on my skin, sending goose bumps skittering over my exposed flesh. There’s music playing in the background, a slow Bruno Mars song, and along the back wall is a red velvet sofa.

There’s a guy on the sofa, and when I see who it is, my hammering heart stalls.