Page 3 of That Girl is Trouble

Learn to live in the silence.

I didn’t think that possible. I still don’t really. Because, god, I hate the quiet. But when I get up here to chase that little thrill, when the excitement kicks in and the thrum in my chest ratchets up, I put my hands on the pole and, like Jade promised, it all drains away. My mind clears, and while it’s never silent, it fills up with the beat of the song, and the rest of the world shuts off.

Twisting my legs near the top, I let my head hang as I slip off my tied blouse to expose my lacy black bra. The song blasts louder, and as the tempo drops, I unclip my bra and toss it to the floor. A whistle or two hits my ears the second I let my breasts free. But I don’t see the crowd. All I see are faceless men and lights and the green sign flickering behind me as I mold myself to the pole.

I move slowly, grasping the top once again before rotating down to the bottom and dropping to my knees.

I roll my hips as I arch my back.

I trace my hands across my body and over my breasts.

I rake my fingers through my hair.

And they watch. All eyes on me. Hungry-looking men in the front row drinking in my performance.

Another few twirls. More of those acrobatics Jade taught me where I spread my legs and flip upside down and move in ways that make men consider how I might perform in bed. I make them wonder what I feel like up close, what could happen if they were to get me alone in one of the private rooms the more regular clients have dubbed Heaven, where they get to see me stripped down, and I get a peek of how much money they have in their wallets.

The song ends, and more cheers and whistles echo across the club.

I smile at a few of the men, shyly waving, because that’s my whole thing. I’m a good girl. Innocent. Sweet. Timid and quiet until I’m not. Until they pay me to be something else.

Head down, I gather up my discarded bra and top, then hustle down the stairs, only to slam hard into the chest of a very tall man.

Ready to make a quick getaway before the guy tries to cop a feel, I tip my chin up. But my stomach twists when I get a good look at the face scowling back at me.

I’ve never seen Axel Donovan looking so angry.

Shit.

2

Two Years Ago

October

A loud thump knocks me awake.

God fucking dammit.

That’s the problem with living in this place. The Sinner clubhouse is never quiet.

I should be used to it by now. Been living here since I got out of lockup two years ago, and so the constant rumble of music playing from the bar below my small apartment should give me solace. I’m here. Behind a door locked from the inside. Not caged up like an animal, staring day in and day out at the same four fucking concrete walls.

This brand of noise should be comforting, and it used to be. When I was locked up, sometimes I’d close my eyes and pretend it was the bass of the music thrumming below me that was keeping me up, rather than the echo of the prison or the asshole snoring in the bed at the other side of my cell.

But tonight, I could use a little quiet.

Thump.

It’s coming from the floor above me, where there’s a half dozen rooms lining a long hallway. Beds to fuck in, mostly, meaning that, normally, the noises are kind of like the ones plaguing my sleep tonight. Thumps. Bangs. The sound of a headboard hitting a wall. The odd whimper from a woman.

It’s the downside of having my apartment on the second floor. These animals are up all hours of the night, stomping around above me and below me. It’s fucking irritating.

Sighing, I twist in my sheets and roll onto my side, pressing my pillow to my head. But it doesn’t keep the sound of another crash from hitting my eardrums.

Un-fucking-believable.

I kick out of bed and stumble to the bathroom to take a leak. I’m halfway there when a scream slices through my apartment.

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