Page 8 of Pretty Dark Vows

There’s no real reason for me to be in this kind of mood. I’ve just been…restlesslately.

Maybe I’m just waiting for the other shoe to drop with our dad, because there’s no way in hell I expect him to actually respect the fuck-off I gave him on the phone Friday night.

Or maybe it’s just that I’m ready for something to fuckinghappen. Something to break the boredom of the kind of Tuesday night that I can already tell isn’t going to net me enough to make it worth it.

The music rolls into a remix of some old rap song that Beer Gut Guy was probably jerking off to a decade before I was born, and I go through a few moves on autopilot while I scan the half-empty club.

What I should be doing is trying to catch the eye of anyone who looks like they’ll wave more than a one dollar bill at me, but honestly, I’m just looking around because I’m fucking bored and tired of making eye contact with Beer Gut.

It’s slow as shit, though. Sugar is on her hands and knees on the smaller stage, dry humping the stage floor for a couple of boys who look too young to know what to do with their dicks, the bartender is busy trying to talk one of the girls into sucking his cock for free drinks on her break, and at the two-top over by the staff door in the corner, a couple of men knock back shots and ignore all the dancers, which means they’re doing business.

My gaze starts to skim past them, but it lingers for a moment on the bigger of the two—the one with dark, tousled hair and ink winding over his arms in intricate patterns.

Damn. He’s hot as hell.

Two bearded Daddies in motorcycle leathers saunter up to my stage and block my view of the tattooed man, and I earn a few more bucks gyrating my pussy in their faces for the next few songs.

When they finally head over to the bar, my eyes drift back to the two-top.

The men are still there. The smaller one is hunched over the table, his fingers drumming on it nervously as his mouth moves a mile a minute, but the hot one looks so chill it’s almost like he’s not paying attention to whatever the other guy is getting so intense about. He’s tipped back in his chair with one arm draped over an empty seat next to him, sprawled out as if he owns that corner of the club now, and as his hooded gaze moves lazily around the room, the sexy-as-fuck little smile hovering over his lips makes me want to lick them.

His eyes meet mine, and something electric shoots through me, making the hip roll I’m in the middle of turn into something fucking filthy, just for him.

His gaze locks on to me instead of moving on, and I stare right back at him as I run my hands up my body to cup my breasts like an offering.

The corner he’s sitting in is shadowy, but even so, I catch the glint of approval in his eyes as he watches me, momentarily distracted from whatever discussion he’s been having with his table partner.

I swing around the pole without looking away from his heated gaze, then drop down and roll my body back up the hard steel, showing him what he’s been missing way over there in the corner.

His lips tip up a little more, and he raises the shot glass he’s been toying with. He still hasn’t taken his eyes off me, and for a second, I think he’s going to toast me with it.

Instead, he brings it to his lips and tips his head back, downing it in one go. Then he shakes his head like he’s trying to clear it before turning his attention back to the smaller man, who’s still talking.

“Squeeze your tits!”

Beer Gut Guy calls out to me, leaning closer to the stage as his tongue hangs out of his mouth, and I jerk slightly, my own attention wrenched back to what I’m doing.

Shit. What am I doing?

I follow his drunken directive, doing a half-assed job of fondling my breasts in a suggestive way as I try to get my heart rate back to normal and talk some fucking sense into myself.

It doesn’t matter how restless I’ve been feeling lately. There’s no way I’m hooking up with anybody I meet at Club M again—not after the shitshow dating Rob turned out to be. It’s not worth breaking my rules. Not even for someone as gorgeous as the man in the corner, covered in sexy ink that I’m dying to see under better light.

But that doesn’t mean I can’t give us both a little treat by dancing for him. Hell, I don’t think I canhelpdancing for him, not with the way my body is suddenly buzzing with awareness.

I may have heard this outdated playlist a million times, but even though I don’t look over at the two-top again for the rest of my set, I work my pole to it like I’m trying to earn Chloe’s college tuition all in one night.

It pays off.

Half the patrons who were lingering deeper in the club end up crowding my stage, panting over the way I’m bumping and grinding for them. They stuff my g-string, leather garters, and boots so full of cash that I’m pretty sure I’ll walk out of here with the kind of money I’m usually lucky to make on the weekends.

And the whole time, even though I don’t let myself look again, I swear I can feel the man at the two-top watching me.

Or maybe I’m just imagining it, indulging in a fantasy as I replay the moment when our gazes met, his gaze hooded and a cocky half-smile tilting his lips.

By the time my set ends, I’m no longer just restless. I’ve worked myself up so much that I’m feeling full-onreckless… so I finally look back over at the two-top in the corner.

He’s gone. They both are.

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