Page 8 of Hitch
Todd laughs. “I know that look.”
I roll my eyes. He must think I’m drooling over Duane, but I’m not. He’s a creep, and if he’s showing up here, it’s bad luck.
If he knows where I work now, then I’ve got to be smart about what I do next. My life may depend on it.
“It’s not what you think,” I mutter.
“Then what is it?” Todd asks, eyeing my open clutch. I put a hand over the broken zipper. “Is he the one who gave you that Franklin?” He nods toward the door. “He must like you. Go dance for him.”
I huff through my nostrils. Usually, when a customer tips like that on a stage show, youknowhe’s worth a lot more than that. But I can’t trust Duane. He threatened to kill me.
I eye the door again, imagining Duane on the other side, listening to our dressing room gossip. My stomach cramps with anticipation. I shake my head, disgusted with myself.
“He’s too creepy,” I say.
“I thought you’d be all over him.”
I raise my brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“All you girls. He’s a hot one. Why not make your shift fun?”
It helps when a customer is good looking, but when a man comes in, bathed in red flags, I have to keep my distance, even if there’s a seed inside of me that knows he can give me the ache I’m searching for.
Todd reclines against the wall, his black dress shoes dipping into a puddle of spray tan.
“You’ll be watching the surveillance footage?” I ask.
“Have I ever let you down before?”
I lift my shoulders, eyeing him cautiously. I don’t trust anyone, but Todd hasn’t given me any reason to think he’s untrustworthy…yet.
“Five hundred,” I say.
Todd snorts. “For a half hour?”
“No. Two songs.”
Todd’s laughter echoes through the room.
“The hell is your problem?” I ask.
“Don’t get me wrong. You’re worth every penny, Secret,” he says, using my stage name. “But you gotta take him in the easy way. Let him think it’shisidea to give you two-hundred and fifty per song.”
In the closest vanity mirror, I adjust my breasts so that a hint of my nipple peeks over the edge of the bra. We’re supposed to keep our nipples completely covered unless we’re dancing on stage, but I like having that tease. It works in my favor, and Todd never says anything about it.
“He gave me a hundred for dancing on a stage. He can afford two-fifty per song,” I say dismissively. “Trust me.”
I walk through the door and resolve to act like Duane—the monster—doesn’t exist. Because for the last few months, he hasn’t. I haven’t spoken a word about that night, even if I think about it all the time. When I’m alone. When I’m in the middle of a private dance. When I let a customer touch me how I like it. When my mind slips away to dreams of Duane forcing his dick between my legs.
A flush builds in my cheeks as I head to the bar. I dismiss those daydreams. A hand smacks my ass and I whip around to scowl at the perpetrator, but my eyes laser over to the assailant.
Brittle fingertips. A dashingly crooked nose. A charming smile. Another hot one. The Mortician, one of my best paying regular customers.
Excitement spreads across my face.
“Two days in a row?” I shout. “You’re spoiling me!”
“Let’s grab a drink and head back,” he says. “You know how it’s been lately. Gotta get my mind off of things a lot these days.”
