A dark romance about the lies that lead us down…
I’ll do anything to get safe, even if that means working at the scariest club in town.
I’ll do anything to stay hidden, even if it means taking off my clothes for strangers.
I’ll do anything to be free. Except give him up. When he looks at me, I forget why I can’t have him. He’s beautiful and scarred. His body fits mine, filling the places where I’m hollow, rough where I am soft.
He’s the one man who wants to help me, but he has his own agenda. He has questions I can’t answer.
What are you afraid of?
The Grand used to be
a theater, back when the city did more tourist trade than drug
trafficking. Back when you could walk down this street without
getting mugged. They held ballets and operas and one infamous magic
show where a man was killed by a faulty fake gun. Over the years the
shows visited less and less. This whole part of the city became
gutted, empty. Attempts to revitalize the theater failed because the
good, rich folk who had money to spend on theater tickets didn’t
want to come to these streets.
Now the building is
just a husk of its former glory—faded metallic wallpaper and ornate
molding with the gold paint scraping off. Tables and chairs fill the
smoky, dark floor. There is a balcony in the back, but it isn’t
open to the public.
The rooms for
private dances used to be ticket stalls in what would have been the
lobby.
They don’t have
doors. They barely even have walls. The front window partitions have
been ripped away, with only brass rods and velvet curtains to cover
them.
The first is
occupied by Lola. A flash of red fabric and a long mane of hair
between the curtain tells me that much. And I know from her position
on the floor and the soft groans that he’s paid for more than a
dance.
The second room is
empty.
The third room is
the farthest from the main floor. The darkest. I can only make out a
shadow seated in the chair. All I want is to get the hell out of
here, but Blue is standing behind me, crowding me, and the only way
to get space, the only place to go is inside.
I slip past the
heavy velvet curtain and wait for my eyes to adjust. Even before they
do, I know it will be him. Not safe, rule-following Charlie. It’s
the other man. The new one. The one with the strange intensity in his
stare.
I see the outline of
his jacket first. And his boots, forming that same configuration—one
leg shoved out, one under the chair. That’s the way he sits, almost
sprawled on the uncomfortable wooden chair. He’s watching me. Of
course he’s watching me. That’s what he paid to do.
“What’ll it be?”
I ask.
“What’s on the
menu?” he counters, and I know what he means. He means extra
services. The same thing that Lola is doing now. More than just a
dance. He looks out from the shadows like the Cheshire cat, all eyes
and teeth and challenge. All he’s missing are purple stripes
filling in.
And if he’s a cop,
he can bust me just for offering it. Cops should have better things
to do with their time. But I already know cops don’t do what they
should. I know that too well.
I’m running from
one.
“A dance, of
course.” I run through the prices for fifteen minutes, thirty
minutes. No one needs longer than that. They either go to the
bathroom to jerk off or come in their pants.
“And if I want
more than that?”
Now that my eyes
have adjusted, now that I’m up close, I can see the tats at the
base of his neck and on his wrists. They are probably along his arms
and maybe his chest. There’s ink on his hands too, though I can’t
make out what it says.
His black shirt is
tight enough to show me his shape, the broad chest and flat abs.
Underneath the shirt is a chain or necklace. I can only see the
imprint, but it makes me want to pull up the fabric and find out what
it is.
He wears his
leathers like a second skin, like they’re armor and he’s a
fighter. I can’t really imagine him walking through a precinct in a
blue shirt. He’s not a cop. But there was that feeling, when I was
onstage. I felt his interest, more than sexual. I felt his
suspicion. I felt every instinct telling me he is there for more than
a dance. I can’t afford not to listen.
“There’s no more
than that,” I answer flatly.
He grunts, clearly
displeased. But it doesn’t sound like he’s going to force the
issue—or complain to Blue. “Then dance.”
Right. That’s why
I’m here. That’s not disappointment, heavy in my gut. I don’t
expect anything from men except to get paid. So I dance, starting
slow, moving my hips, my arms, touching my breasts. I’m a million
miles away like this. I’m lying on my back, feeling crisp grass
underneath my legs, looking up at the night sky.
It almost works,
except that I need to get close to him. I need to climb onto him,
straddling his legs with mine, reaching for the back of the chair to
shake my tits in his face. And when I do, I smell him. He smells…not
like smoke. Not like sweat.
He smells like my
daydream, like grass and earth and clean air.
I freeze above him,
body crouched, my breasts still shivering with leftover momentum.
“Something wrong?”
he asks.
And his voice. God,
his voice. It’s gone rough and low, all the way to the ground. It
slides along the creaky wood of the chair and the concrete floor and
vibrates up my legs. It shimmers through the air and brushes over my
skin, that voice. We’re not touching in any place, but I can feel
him just the same.
I swallow hard.
“Nothing’s wrong, sugar.”
“Then sit down.”
He means on his lap.
Touching. It’s against the rules, officially.
Unofficially it’s
one of the tamer things that happen in this room. “What if I don’t
want to?”
One large shoulder
lifts, making the leather sigh. “I won’t make you.”
I hear the unspoken
word yet ring in the air.
I should probably
refuse him. Whether he’s a cop or not, he’s throwing me off.
That’s dangerous. And if there’s some other cop in the building?
That’s even more dangerous.
But for some reason,
I lower myself until I’m resting on his jeans, my posture awkward
and off balance—until he shifts, and suddenly I’m sliding toward
him, flush against him while I straddle his legs. Then his arms
circle my body, trapping me. Any second now he’s going to grope me.
Maybe take his dick out and fuck me like this. It wouldn’t be the
first time.
But he just stays
like that, arms firm but gentle. A hug. This is a hug.
Jesus. How
long has it been since a man hugged me? Just that, without touching
anywhere else, without his dick inside me? A long time.
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