“You finally give in and say yes?”
“Of course not.”
Savannah laughs and shakes her head. “That’s my girl. Don’t ever give in, or else you’ll end up like that.” She nods toward the stage, and we both watch the woman writhing on the floor in nothing but a see-through white G-string.
Candy Raine is one of the older strippers at City Lights, and one of the least popular because she’s so old. And when I say old, she’s barely thirty-five. That’s not ancient, not by a long shot, but in the stripper world it is. Candy can’t seem to do anything else. She has no other job, no other skills, and no ambition to get out of here either. Savannah always uses Candy as the prime example of what not to turn into.
“Seven more months,” Savannah says as Chuck loads up her tray full of drinks. “Seven more months and then I can leave this hellhole once and for all and be done with this place. I cannot wait.”
“I’m jealous,” I say wistfully, though deep down I’m not. I won’t be here as long as Savannah. I have a plan, one that’s way better than working at a strip club for the next four years of my life.
“Just don’t get dazzled by the big tips and you’ll be fine. Keep your head on straight and eyes fixed on the end game. If you do that, lap dances and blowjobs in the back room won’t be your fate.” Savannah’s evil laugh rings as she grabs her tray and balances it over her head with one hand. “See ya.” She winks at me and then she’s gone, off making her way toward her various tables.
“Better get o
n it,” Chuck urges, his gruff voice making me turn to look at him. He’s a good guy, not very affectionate, but you can tell he cares about us. He never gives me the creeps either, which makes me trust him more than any other guy that works at this club. “It’s extra busy tonight.”
For the tiniest moment, I’m tempted to turn around and run out. Just keep running and never look back. If I could, I’d head all the way back home.
I can’t go back there, though. My home is gone. Dad is gone. This is my reality now. Going to school and stalking some guy I’m supposed to pretend to like. Working at a strip club where I serve leering perverts their drinks while I walk around topless. This is my world.
And I fucking hate it.
“You showed up,” Rhett says when he catches sight of me slowly approaching the restaurant. He rises from the bench he was sitting on, his eyes lighting up when they land on me and I can’t help but feel like there’s a spotlight following me as I walk toward him. Like we’re on a stage, putting on some sort of show for our invisible yet enthralled viewers, ready and eager to be tantalized by our burdening supposed-romance.
“I said I would,” I reply, stopping just in front of him. He’s dressed up in pressed khakis and a light blue button-down shirt, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows giving him a more casual air. Though I can tell by the way his clothes look that they’re designer, more expensive than anything I own.
Me? I tried to dress up in my best jeans, a plain white T-shirt and a cute burgundy cardigan I got on sale. I’m not even close to designer. I can’t afford anything expensive, unless it’s some collab with a designer at Target. That’s about as high end as I get.
“I’m glad you kept your word.” His voice is a low murmur, heavy on the flirtation, and I remind myself that I can pretend to think he’s hot, but deep down I have to remember that I’m using him. I’m not attracted to him, I’m merely acting like I’m attracted to him.
So I ignore the sizzle of awareness that zips through me at the sound of his sexy voice. Or the gentlemanly way he opens the door for me. And I definitely ignore the tingles that wash over my skin when he rests his hand on my lower back, guiding me into the restaurant. The very cute girl standing behind the hostess desk stands at attention when she catches sight of Rhett. She practically gobbles him up with her gaze as she checks him out, and I’m tempted to bare my territorial fangs and tell this bitch to back off, he’s mine.
Yeah. That wouldn’t go over so well.
Instead I smile politely at her as Rhett asks for a table for two. The hostess sends me a withering look as she grabs the tall, heavy-looking menus, and seems to put an extra swish in her step as she asks us to follow her.
Rhett doesn’t even pay attention to her. His hand is still at my lower back, his fingers barely touching me, yet his body is so close to mine I can feel the heat radiating from him, smell his delicious, spicy-clean man scent. I’m not usually into this sort of thing, falling for a guy because of his scent or the way he touches me. I don’t fall for anyone period, friends or family and definitely not men who claim they’re interested in me. No one ever sticks around, you know? And the ones who do stick, usually need lots of help, like my dad.
Once we’re seated and the hostess has left us alone, Rhett sets his menu on the table and studies me. “I really thought you weren’t going to show up for our date,” he confesses.
I almost didn’t, not that I’d ever admit that to him. I’m surprised he’d tell me that. “I would never do that, though I’m sorry I was running a little late.”
“You should’ve texted and let me know what’s going on.” He sounds like an overly concerned boyfriend. I don’t know if I like that. His behavior should give me more reason to dislike him so I can cling to it. “I was kind of worried.”
“I’m sorry.” I don’t sound sorry, though, and I think he knows it, so I try to soften my snide words with an apologetic smile. He smiles in return, his gaze sticking to mine for a moment too long before I finally tear mine away and start checking out the menu.
Dread fills me as I keep reading. The prices are outrageous and I try to find the cheapest option, though I’m starving. Like my stomach is growling loudly and I’m afraid he might hear it starving. And everything sounds so good, like dreamily, melt-in-my-mouth good. There’s a buffet too; that includes unlimited mimosas. The alcohol sounds like a smart choice. Something to numb me, loosen me up—but not too loose—and make it easier for me to fake this so-called date.
“I think I’m doing the buffet.” Rhett shuts his menu and I do the same, mimicking his movements. I read somewhere once, maybe in Cosmo, that you should use the same body language as your date, because that tells him you’re interested. “How about you?”
“I think I want the same.” Please God, let him pay for my meal.
“It was the unlimited mimosas that got you, right?” The lopsided smile Rhett flashes me makes me smile in return, all while I try my best to battle the heat that washes over me. He’s too quick with his smiles, with his seeming approval of everything I do. Makes me not trust him even more. “They’re my mom’s—well, my stepmom’s—favorite part of the brunch menu here. She loves this place.”
The heat is gone, replaced by icy cold tendrils of fury. My entire body seems to sag under the weight of his words, the implication, the oh-so-casual way he talks about my mother.
Not his.