Page 2 of Straightened Out

Her eyebrows pinch together.

“Mitch is pretty busy,” she replies.

I don’t know how much this broad thinks she knows about me but clearly, she doesn’t know enough. Leaning forward, my eyes narrow into tiny slits.

“I don’t give a fuck,” I sneer.

Not a single fuck.

“Right,” she mutters, standing a little straighter. “I’ll relay the message.”

With that she disappears. I lift my glass and suck the ice cubes into my mouth as I divert my attention to the stage. Sultry music blares from the speakers and the smoke from the fog machine starts to clear as the next stripper steps out, wearing a fitted blazer that barely touches the tops of her thighs. I’m not sure if it’s the six-inch heels or if her legs are really that long but I imagine them wrapped around me. I lift my chin to see if her face matches the rest of the stellar package, but between the blonde waves framing her face and the rim of the fedora that shields her eyes, it’s impossible.

I inch forward, completely enthralled, and watch as she wraps one hand around the silver pole. With her free hand she unbuttons the blazer, revealing the swell of her breasts and a toned stomach.

She hooks one leg around the pole and arches her back as her body swings around it gracefully. The hat falls from her head and those blonde waves cascade down her back. Once she’s done making that pole the envy of every man in the place, she stands with her back facing the audience. Completely fascinated, I lean my elbows on my knees and anxiously await her next move. Her body is in sync with the beat of the music as she sways her hips and slides the blazer down one shoulder. Then it slips from the other shoulder. The blazer finds its way to the stage and I take in the package. The beautifully toned back, the narrow waist and the flare to her hips. As she bends forward, my eyes fall to her ass. Unlike every other broad in this dive, there is nothing fake about this girl and I decide I wouldn’t mind wrapping all that long blonde hair around my fist as I fill her from behind.

It would be the highlight of my fucking week.

My cock twitches at the sight and I press the heel of my hand to my zipper as the barmaid places my second drink in front of me. Without tearing my eyes away from the stripper on the stage, I bring the glass to my lips and down the vodka in one gulp. My molars grind the ice cubes as the dancer takes another spin around the pole. She’s nothing like the women who took the stage before her, she makes an art of dancing around a pole. Every part of her body moves fluidly with the music, like the song was created specifically for her body. It’s fucking captivating and I want more.

More of her body.

More dancing.

More everything.

She twirls around, facing the audience and my eyes slowly travel up her body. As I reach her face, she lifts her head and a familiar pair of blue eyes lock with mine.

The sexy smile vanishes from her lips and all the blood drains from her face. Sure, my eyes are playing tricks on me, I blink. The beautiful dancer is no stranger at all and yet as her mouth hangs open in shock, I feel like I’m seeing her for the first time.

Gone are the wholesome good looks of a young girl who spent the better part of her childhood following me and her brother around the streets of Brooklyn. In place stands a grown woman who is the epitome of seduction and sin. A woman with a body that make men want to drop to their knees and worship. And in an instant, I wish I can unsee her.

That I can bleach my best friend and right hand’s sister’s body from my mind.

However, before I can do anything, she plucks the jacket from the floor and runs off the stage, enticing an uproar amongst the men who are likely having the same illicit thoughts running their minds as I am.

In a flash I’m on my feet, throwing the table that separates me from the stage out of my way. The barmaid calls my name, but I ignore her as I stalk after the blonde bombshell also known as, Violet Cabrera.

Navigating the hallway, I open door after door until I find her in one of the dressing rooms with her back to me, struggling to push her arms through the sleeves of her blazer.

“Violet,” I call, my voice unrecognizable even to my own ears. I clench my fists and close my eyes, fighting for some sense of self-control.

For answers to the questions running through my fucking head.

She doesn’t respond, but I hear her sniffle and my eyes spring open. Violet doesn’t fucking cry. At least she hasn’t in all the years I’ve known her. Hell, the girl got her fingers caught in a car door once and instead of crying, she sucked them into her mouth and ordered me and her brother to get her a bag of frozen peas. Her fingers were mangled, and her nails turned black almost immediately, but she didn’t shed a fucking tear.

Keeping my eyes pinned to the back of her head, I close the distance between us and gently lay a hand on her shoulder.

“Bug, look at me.”

“I can’t,” she cries.

My patience snaps like a rubber band and I spin her around to face me.

So much for being gentle.

I stare at her mascara streaked face for a moment, familiarizing myself with her stunning features, knowing beneath all that make-up and the false eyelashes is the girl I once caught stuffing her training bra.

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