Page 117 of The Night Before (Savannah 1)

The music faded and she blew a kiss, aimed directly at him, though every man in the place thought she had the hots for each of them. God, if they only knew how she despised them all. They disgusted her. Nothing would ever change that. Provocatively, she danced her way off the stage and through the curtain where she slipped into a robe and dabbed at her face with a cotton ball.

He didn’t come here often. And never on the weekend when the crowd was heavier and there was more of a chance that he would be recognized. But the few times he had appeared had become a signal. She knew that within minutes he’d be behind the stage door, a bribe to the bouncer allowing him into the shoddy area loosely known as the dressing room and there, while another girl was on stage thrilling the crowd, he would corner Sugar against the makeup counter, slip his cock out of his trousers and spin her around so that she was forced to look into the mirror as he mounted her from behind.

Without any pretext, he would shove inside of her. He would be hard, excited from the teasing dance. The act would be quick. Without a hint of romance attached to it. She would see his face, red and grunting, and she would pretend to get off on the same sense of excitement about being caught that he did.

But she didn’t. How could she? With the makeup trays and the edge of the vanity pressed against her abdomen and the few remaining lit bulbs surrounding the mirror hot and showing off her degrading position, she would feel cheap. Dirty. Used. If anyone lifted the stage curtain, they would be caught; if a dancer waiting for her set came in early, they would be seen; or if the owner of the establishment wandered through, her lover would have to pay big-time hush money, and Sugar herself would become fair game to the owner, a lowlife named Buddy Hughs. In order to keep his mouth shut, Buddy would expect the same treatment she willingly gave her married lover.

And that thought stuck in her craw.

Sugar prided herself on being one of the few of “Buddy’s girls” who hadn’t done him. She’d like to keep it that way until she got her hands on some of Grandpa Benedict’s money and could tell Buddy and any other lowlife who came on to her to piss off.

Over the pulsing throb of music, she heard the back door open and then her lover’s quick tread. His hat brim was pulled low over his eyes as he saw her.

“I caught your little dance,” he said and reached inside her robe to tweak her breast. A sharp little pain shot through her, and her nipple was instantly hard. He was rough, but not too rough.

“Did you?”

“It was just for me.”

“Was it? How do you know?” she teased, looking up at him.

“You can be such a tease.”

“Mmmm.”

“And a bitch.” Again a tweak.

“And I can handle you,” she sassed, seeing the flame leap in his eyes. He was a tall man and athletic, strong enough that he could spin her around, lift her over his shoulder or up onto his thick cock, all honed muscle and keen mind.

“Let’s see,” he said and pulled her robe to the floor, leaving her in the thong and pasties. Spinning her around, he pushed her into the makeup table, bending her over, already unzipping and unbuckling, insistently sliding his moist dick around her thong and grunting as he pushed into her.

She bucked and he grabbed her tits, tearing at the tassels with his big, meaty hands, rutting hard, as if he’d held it in too long.

A little shock of pain sizzled through her, but she didn’t dislike it. Not from him. Not even when he slapped her buttocks with his bare hands. “That’s it, baby,” he said, pressing her down hard and grunting in pleasure. She arched up, knowing he loved it when she threw her rump against him.

“Like that, do you?” With a growl, he leaned forward and placed his teeth over the back of her neck, not enough to pierce the skin, just enough to remind her who was boss. Moaning on cue, she felt his tempo increase, heard the pounding of the mu

sic on the other side of the thin partition, heard him roar loudly above the hoots and hollers of the crowd as he came, gasping, grunting, falling against her. She saw his red, sweat-slickened face in the mirror and felt a moment’s revulsion.

She was beneath him, holding on to the edges of the table for support, her hair mussed, her face flushed, her eyes hollow. A whore, just as Dickie Ray had always insinuated. Not for the regular crowd, not for her boss, not for anyone except this one man who would never love her. Not because he didn’t like her, but because she wasn’t of his class. She was meant to screw. Not to show off. Never to marry. She was less than a dalliance or a fling, she was someone with whom he could explore his naughty side, someone he could spank or pour champagne on and lick it off. She’d do anything for him and he knew it. It made him feel powerful and that, above the sex, was what he craved. She knew it, but she doubted that he did.

As he zipped up his pants and straightened his shirt, she felt shame that showed itself in the wash of heat that climbed up the back of her neck, the neck he’d so recently sunk his teeth into.

She found her robe. Threw it over her shoulders. Didn’t ask the demeaning question, “When will I see you again?”

“That was nice,” he said with a little smile as he adjusted himself and buckled his belt. “Real nice.”

“Yeah.”

He placed a small box on the vanity, a tiny gift that she wouldn’t open until he slipped through the back door and into the night. It wasn’t money, never money, but some little feminine bauble, nothing expensive. Never anything lasting, but it was something. He patted her on her buttocks and left.

Only later, as she stared down at the silver navel ring, did she realize that he hadn’t kissed her. Not once during their brief interlude. There had been no tenderness. No love. Just pure, raw sex, and while she’d been turned on at first by the knowledge that she was fucking one of the most powerful men in the city, she was now disgusted or at least disillusioned. He could easily have a dozen girlfriends, women who danced for him at the Silk Tassel or The OddS-C, or any of the places his work took him, places away from the prying eyes of his wife. She had no idea what he did with his time when he wasn’t working. All she was really sure about was that he was always rock-hard and cheated on his wife without conscience.

What a legacy.

She needed to go home, pour herself some cold vodka and take a long shower. To wash away the sweat. To rinse off the dirt. To wipe away the feeling that she was wasting her life. To find Cricket.

Sugar was worrying more and more about her wayward sibling. It had been more than two days now since Cricket was last home, and Sugar hadn’t heard word one from her sister. None. Cricket’s disappearance, in and of itself, wasn’t unusual, but coupled with the strange phone calls where no one responded when she answered, Sugar had gotten nervous. What if something had happened?

---