But this part blew.
Carlos insisted that, after our performances, we ‘mingle’ with the customers. We weren’t at some fucking corporate mixer. There was no need to mingle. Unless, of course, you were soliciting; then the mingling was necessary. I would rather chew off my own arm than do that, as Carlos well knew. It didn’t stop him from aggressively insisting I ‘get to know’ my customers, as if communing with the dregs of society, AKA patrons of a strip club, would convince me to let them pay to fuck me.
I had one small shred of self-respect, of dignity, left. I clutched it in a death grip and I wasn’t ready to let it go, even though I’d let poison into my veins. A girl’s got to have her hard limits.
Prostitution was a hard limit. Pretty much my only one.
“I can die happy, then, knowing that I’ve pleased you,” I retorted sarcastically.
I may have to mingle, but I didn’t have to be polite. I was also cranky because my palms itched and a cloud descended over my mind as I came down. I needed another fix.
“I’ll have to return the favor, firefly,” the voice said, a hint of promise tingling his playful tone.
I finally jerked my head from the perusal of my glass to face what was a no doubt middle-aged man with a beer gut and receding hairline. His voice may have been manly, but I knew I wouldn’t be so lucky to meet the man I’d imagine having such a deep rumbling voice. Such men didn’t frequent establishments like this.
“What? You gonna get up on stage and provide me with a strip show?” I asked seriously as I turned.
When my eyes drank in the owner of that voice, I found my sarcastic question being rendered to a hopeful plead. The man in front of me was most definitely not middle-aged, and from what I could see from the tight black tee clinging to his flat stomach, there was no beer gut in sight. I’d wager a six-pack lay under there. Ditto with the hair prediction, though he didn’t have any hair at all; his head was shaved to the scalp, and man, did he work the ever-loving shit out of a bald head.
There was another bulky guy standing next to him, but my eyes were like steel drawn to a magnet.
I moved my gaze down to his muscled arms, which were covered in ink, impossible to decipher in the dingy light. His leather vest had my slow mind realizing he most likely belonged to the biker gang Lily seemed to be tangled up in. I’d seen him earlier, with Lily and the man who’d dragged her out of here. Asher, the man who’d taken her virginity three years ago, who she’d pushed away when she found out her mom was dying of cancer. Selfless as always, she sacrificed her happiness and one seriously hot biker for her mom. The thought punctured through my weary mind.
I was happy that it seemed he’d come back to give her the happiness she deserved. I wasn’t the best person to yank her out of this pit of grief we were both treading water in. Fuck, I was yanking her further down. It made me sick, that thought, but I didn’t know how else to help. I didn’t know how to bring the light back in because my life had been devoid of light the day I was born.
I shook away the self-deprecating thoughts to focus on the hot guy in front of me. Well, two. The other big one with ribbons of scars on his arms was nothing to sneeze at either. But it was the bald one who captured my attention, which was a feat in itself as my mind was becoming jerky and unhinged as it sobered.
“You ask me nice, I’ll don a feather boa and do my best,” he deadpanned. “Though, I don’t think I’ll be getting the same reaction as the little firefly here,” he teased lightly.
I met his eyes and, even through my residual haze of blurriness, arousal settled in my stomach. Yeah, this guy was hot. His features were sharp and pronounced, masculine. He was Hispanic, I guessed, from his latte-colored skin. His hazel eyes were soft around the edges and focused on me. They were also familiar.
“I know you,” I said, searching the recesses of my mind.
He put his hand on his impressive chest. “Well, consider me touched. The little firefly remembers our brief but passion-filled meeting three years ago.” Again his tone was teasing, but something lay underneath it. A heat. An intensity. Or maybe that was just me. It was easy to imagine things when I was coming down. Hard to pick apart what was real and what my high mind had plucked from unreality.