Much better than the rat-infested shithole I worked at where we got paid shitty, treated even shittier, and the clientele looked like they had girls tied up in their basements.
Which was why it baffled me that Lucky was even there. It pissed me off too.
Lucky grinned at me. “I only exchange bodily fluids with people I’ve taken to dinner first.”
Somehow, he made that line actually send tingles down my already-sensitive skin.
“Why are you here?” I snapped, my withdrawals making me twitchy, cranky. Okay, cranky was an understatement. I felt like I wanted to murder this attractive idiot with a rusty fork. Or kiss him. I wasn’t sure which.
He quirked his brow. “I really like the chicken wings.”
Despite the snake in my belly and the ants on my skin, I smiled, slightly. “You enjoy salmonella, then,” I retorted.
He stepped forward, not close enough to touch me but close enough that I could see his face illuminated in the dingy light. “I enjoy the company and the conversation. Salmonella helps me keep my delightful figure.” He rubbed his flat belly over the top of his tee. I followed its journey and could actually see the outline of his six-pack.
I swallowed the cocktail of emotions that came with his proximity, chasing away the worst of the itch. It wasn’t gone, not completely—it never would be—but his tobacco scent was like a salve. “You come to a strip club for conversation?” I repeated, finding sarcasm as a shield to stop my voice from shaking. “That’s like going to a hooker for a hug.”
“Well, I do need a hug,” he teased.
My skin went cold. “I’m not a hooker. Even if I was, you couldn’t afford me. Or be able to handle me,” I purred, my voice velvet and steel at the same time.
His eyes flared with intensity. “Oh baby, I could handle you,” he rasped.
I swallowed, the pure sex in his tone like a physical caress. “No, buddy, you can’t. Your muscles aren’t big enough to contain me,” I croaked finally.
Something moved behind his eyes, like he was seeing something I didn’t even realize I’d exposed. Then they flickered back to the teasing glint. “Well, that’s just mean. I work very hard on these.” He stroked his arm. “You know, that’s going to do shocking things to my self-esteem.”
I let out an unladylike snort. “Yeah, I’m sure it’s in the gutter. You’ll survive. How about you go and engage in some riveting conversation with Nat.” I nodded to my friend and coworker who had professed her utter jealousy that I had my very own ‘pet biker.’ She could have him. He was more trouble than I needed and I was more than he could handle. I cloaked my face before regarding him again. “I’ve got to get to work.”
Before I could turn away from him and the complicated emotions he seemed to arouse in me, he stepped even closer, so his body brushed mine. All humor flickered out of his face. It was unnerving, the quick transition, and also hot as fuck.
“I want to see you,” he half growled.
I swallowed. “You will.” I nodded to the stage. “You and everyone else.”
I tried to turn again and that time he snatched my hand in his, maneuvering it so the meatheads at the corner of the room couldn’t see the gesture, his muscly body working like a shield.
“I don’t want to see what everyone else sees,” he murmured, his voice rough. “I want you to give me something. Give me you.”
I was paralyzed, only for a split second but long enough for his words to filter through the utter fucking chaos of my mind and settle somewhere. I ripped my hand out of his grasp.
My eyes met his. “There’s nothing to give,” I whispered, and before I could inspect the way his face changed at my words, I turned on my heel and walked away. As soon as I left his presence the itch came back, more ferocious than ever, more intense and unbearable than before.
Chapter Two
“Numbing the pain for a while will only make it worse when you finally feel it.”
-Albus Dumbledore
I had to get myself sorted. In the far reaches of my mind that weren’t captured by the villain in the syringe, I knew it was getting bad. The need, the thirst, the necessity of that rush. Of what I felt when I got it. What I didn’t feel.
I was a slave to it.
But I wasn’t dirty when I was high. I wasn’t filled with sorrow. I wasn’t broken.
I was nothing.
Nothing was hard to give up. Even when I was starting to realize I was becoming a slave to it.
I couldn’t become a slave to it. Not when the horrors of my childhood already had me in chains.
So I sat on the sofa, rocking slightly, trying to figure a way out. To find out how to free myself.