Conceit (Se7en Deadly SEALs Book 1) (8 page)

His eyes zeroed in on my chest. I arched my back to give him a better view. My mind flashed to him sucking on my nipples, cradling my small breasts. He’d always seemed so pleased with me, with my body—did he really want a girl with fake tits and silicone lips?

“I’ve been around the world twice, but never to Ukraine. Maybe you could show me around some time.” His words were slurred.

I’ve been around the world twice?
Really—he was actually quoting the Navy SEAL “Ballad of the Frogman”? His bloodshot eyes told me he’d been wasted before he ever set foot in here.

I focused my energy on controlling my facial movements, ensuring that my eyes didn’t shift or my nose didn’t twitch as I spewed out my lines. “I’d love to show to you whatever it is you like to see, handsome.” Had he gone to strip clubs behind my back when we were together? My heart wrenched, thinking of those nights I’d spent practicing lines from a script for class in his apartment, waiting for him to come home from boys’ night, supposedly at bars and steakhouses. He’d always sworn to me he was the designated driver, that the older Team guys had forced him to join them, since he was merely a SEAL pup.

By now, every Team guy was talking to a girl. My gaze scanned to the other present members of Joaquín’s Team—Paul and Mitch. Had one of them murdered Tiffany and framed my brother?

I turned back to Grant. Rules for keeping a SEAL’s interest: #1 always make him the center of attention, #2 never let him see you checking out his Teammates, no matter how insanely gorgeous. “Can I dance for you?” Talking too long would arouse suspicion. He thought I was a stripper. I needed to earn my tips.

“Sure, sexy. Follow me.”

Follow me?
Even now, even in here, he was taking charge. I usually led my customers—emasculated husbands, inebriated frat boys, insecure businessmen, even conceited rock stars—back to the VIP room. But no, Grant was in control. He was a regular. He knew the drill.

He grabbed my hand, and instead of recoiling at his touch and being disgusted about his ease in this place, I couldn’t fight my arousal toward him. What the hell was wrong with me for still wanting him? Especially in here, when I looked like a porn star. When would this pain end? The combination of disgust, sadness, and guilt crashed through my mind. Had my abandonment driven him to seek comfort with these women? Or had he been seeing them all along?

But I didn’t have a moment to reflect. I needed to give the performance of a lifetime.

***

I LED KSENYA—HOWEVER THE fuck you pronounced it—to the back room. After months on a mission, I couldn’t wait to see her peel off her clothes. Alone with me, without a group of guys also getting off on her.

She was so fucking hot. Physically, she was exactly my childhood fantasy pinup, as if she had been designed for me. Long, platinum-blond hair. Full, round breasts which busting out of her black negligée. Plump, pouty lips. Definitely not the girl-next-door type, like my ex Mia, the only woman I’d ever loved.

But I could tell something was off with this chick. I was a regular here, and she didn’t seem the type to take her clothes off for money. She was too stunning, almost too sexy. Why was she stripping?

Strippers were the best; I didn’t care what other anyone thought. They were fucking hot, listened to your problems, loved sex, didn’t nag you, didn’t expect anything in return. Sure, they danced practically naked for money, but men paid for women no matter how you looked at it. Whether it was nice dinners, designer clothes, expensive jewelry—nothing was for free. At least with strippers, you got what you paid for. I hadn’t been this callous, cynical man when dating Mia. It was what it was now.

Fuck it, I didn’t care. I wanted to see her naked. That was the problem with these titty bars—rules, cameras, bouncers.

I sat on the blue velvet sofa. “Dance for me, baby.”

Her mouth turned up into a smile, and her long hair brushed against my face. That sweet, citrusy scent of her skin—smelled like Mia, even though she had always masked it with coconut products. I pictured Mia naked, rubbing lotion all over her thighs, an image I could recall to my head anytime, anywhere, day or night—a useful skill when I was stuck in a dirt hole in Afghanistan. I wondered if Ksenya tasted like Mia, too?

Fuck. I couldn’t think of Mia now. I had a sexy woman in front of me and refused to think about my ex. All those nights when I was alone in the hospital, missing her, hoping she would come back to me. She had made it clear she didn’t want me. I had moved on.

A slow melodic beat started playing, not the upbeat dance crap the strippers usually chose. I recognized the song, a power ballad by a hair metal band. Interesting choice. Why had she picked that song? Doubtful she was even born when it came out. Whatever—Eastern European chicks were live wires.

I relaxed, took a swig of my beer. Ksenya’s chocolate-brown eyes locked onto mine. Though the color was different, something about the shape of her eyes reminded me of Mia. Dammit what was wrong with me?

Without prompting, Ksenya turned around, her fingernails, filed short and painted red, dug into my jeans, her tits rubbed my chest. A coy glance, a warm touch. She was totally into me. Not in the normal stripper bilking her client way, or off in her own mind dancing and thinking about her problems. This chick seemed one hundred percent present and focused on me. I loved it.

I needed to her to come home with me.

“Baby, how long’ve you worked here?” She turned away from me. My only way to connect with her was through my voice—I wasn’t allowed to touch her, which was so hard since her juicy ass was only inches from my tongue.

She shot me a glance over her shoulders. “Few months. It is job.”

Her broken English was charming. The only foreign girls I had met were overseas. Some of the Team guys liked going to brothels, but I refused to pay for sex, especially after what happened to my buddy Pat. He’d hired a hooker in an Aruban brothel, and she turned out to be a sex-trafficked American. I couldn’t help thinking that all those women overseas in those places were forced into the sex industry, victimized, abused. I refused to be a part of their nightmares.

Besides, I could get plenty of women right here. I was used to San Diego coeds, no challenge at all once they found out I was a SEAL. Ksenya hadn’t even asked me what I did for a living. “Yeah? You’re too gorgeous for this place. I’ve seen some other Eastern European women here, but most of them seemed harder. You seem fresh. What’s your deal?”

She bit her bottom lip; her eyes glanced down at her clear stripper heels. I paused for a second to catch my breath, Mia always used to bit her lip when she was nervous. “I have no story. I needed the money, and my English is not very good. I have no family. Dancing it is what I am good at.”

“Do you have many regular clients?” Strippers lied, would tell you whatever you wanted to hear. But I was pretty talented at detecting bullshit.

“Few. But I don’t do extras.” She squeezed my thighs. “Not even for you, handsome. I just dance.”

Fuck, I hadn’t gotten laid in months. I didn’t want to get blue balls or waste my time trying to meet a girl in a bar. I didn’t do the fuck-buddy thing either. Way too much drama, and if I was fucking a girl, she better not be foolish enough to cheat on me. At least Mia never screwed around with other men. And my dumb ass had been faithful to her too. “Hey, when’s your shift over? I’d like to see you out of here. I know this great little sushi place downtown.”

“I have plans tonight.” Her eyelashes lifted. “I’m not hooker. Only dancer.”

“Hookers hold no interest for me. All I want is to grab a bite to eat.” I wanted her to know I didn’t see her as just a stripper. She had an angelic face, and I needed to get to know her, carnally.

She nuzzled my neck, cupped my face in her hands. “Tomorrow? I get off at eight.”

“It’s a date.” I took out a hundred dollars and handed it to her. She started dancing again, but I stopped her. She could give me a private dance tomorrow night. And fuck if that couldn’t come a moment too soon.

***

SUSHI? DID GRANT SERIOUSLY ASK a stripper out to dinner? He couldn’t possibly know I’m Ksenya. Emma must’ve been right when she said he wooed the girls at Panthers, taking one out whenever he was in town. I knew he was single—no steady girlfriend since me—but when had this stripper fetish started? What if he’d cheated on me when we were together? Bile rose in my throat. Was I simply naïve expecting him to be faithful to me?

Dinner with Grant was not the plan. I wanted to observe him with the strippers. See who else talked to the guys, try to figure out who the girls were at Paul’s place the night of the murder.

But I couldn’t say no to Grant. I was in character. I was Ksenya, and she wanted someone to save her.

I seethed inwardly. I didn’t need a man to save me. The only good thing that had resulted out of this nightmare was that for the first time in my life I had proved that I could take care of myself. Without my parents, Joaquín, or Grant to pick me up when I fell. Yes, Joaquín had left me the money in the safe deposit box, but every red cent went toward this plan. Once my brother was free, I refused to ever rely on anyone but myself again.

What was I going to wear? I’d just finished my shift twenty minutes ago. I rummaged through my duffel bag in the dressing room—stripper costumes, Victoria’s Secret PINK sweats, and a skintight black dress I’d worn last week for VIP night. Mia would’ve worn sweats, but Ksenya would choose the dress. And heels, earrings, and makeup. Playing Ukrainian Barbie was hard. I just hoped she was hot enough to get her Ken doll to talk.