Four Seconds to Lose (11 page)

It only takes another second for those department store khakis to slide down to his knees. His black boxers follow next with the help of his hands, and my wide eyes automatically drop to see the veiny repulsion sticking out. Now I do wince. I can’t help it. Letting himself fall back into the couch with a smile of anticipation, he says, “Come show me how much you want a job at Sin City . . . and lose the panties.”

It’s still dark when I bolt upright in bed, drenched in sweat, struggling for air, shaking with disgust. That’s the second time I’ve had that nightmare.

No, not nightmare.
Memory
. Because it happened.

Exactly. Like. That.

Thank God it had ended with me throwing on my dress—skipping the bra—and running out the door. But, if Cain doesn’t hire me for this job, the nightmare may very well have a new ending soon. I
need this
job. It
has
to be Penny’s.

■ ■ ■

“You’re a skeevy bastard!”

At least I have some entertainment from my neighbors.

If I can piece together the last five days at this place, it sounds like the guy has issues keeping his pants on with any and all willing females and the couple is trying to work their marital problems out with verbal abuse and flying objects. They usually make up by noon. Then I get to listen to them have wild monkey makeup sex. Today sounds more hostile, though, so I think she caught him in another compromising position last night.

I moved to this small studio apartment two weeks ago. With its sunny-colored stucco walls and red tile roof, the building looked approachable. Cozy, even. It was the low rent that won me over, though. The extended-stay hotel was costing thousands per month and, though Sam ensured I had more than enough to cover it, I decided that the whole I-need-enough-money-to-disappear-off-the-face-of-the-earth plan required extreme changes to my lifestyle. So, I quietly moved here. As far as Sam knows, I’m still at the extended stay.

Right now, I really wish I were.

Maybe I went a little
too
extreme.

Something loud hits the wall next to my bed. I’m picturing a skillet. I’m hoping it’s not a head. I’d call the cops and report it, but I don’t need them on my doorstep asking me any questions or taking my name. So I wait, crossing my fingers that someone else makes the call.

As I do, I check for any responses to my many chat-room inquiries. I know that I need a new identity. I just don’t know the first thing about getting one. The internet seems like the best place to start my research. Unfortunately, I’ve gotten absolutely nowhere. Not even a little nudge in the right direction. Aside from one guy telling me that my problems can’t be that bad and another one offering to send me pictures of his penis, I’ve had no response.

And today . . . nothing.

But I have time to figure things out, I tell myself. It’s not as if I have the money right now, anyway.

Dragging myself out of bed to the tune of “you and your filthy dick can go straight to hell!” I stagger to the fridge to pour myself a glass of orange juice, keeping an eye on the liquid as it pours. I learned the hard way that roaches are common in low-rental apartment buildings, that they
can
get into a poorly maintained fridge, and that you should stick to screw-top jugs versus cartons or you may find brown corpses floating inside.

The day I learned that hard lesson, I also had a mini-meltdown before coming to terms with my situation. I’d rather deal with roaches here than roaches in a federal penitentiary for the next twenty-five to life.

This is a means to an end.

I’m savoring the cold liquid, rejoicing in the small miracle that I feel less vile about last night after some sleep, when a sudden hard rapping sounds against my door. It startles me and I freeze, my mouth full of juice.

No one visits me. No one knows where I live. This must be a mistake.

But what if it isn’t? What if Sam found out that I moved? I don’t think he’ll be happy. He’s always saying how important it is for us to tell each other the truth. Ironic, given that we speak in code and never truly admit to anything. What will Sam do when he finds out? The prospect makes my heart begin racing. On tiptoes, I scurry to the door and peer through the tiny peephole to find a dark-haired man with sunglasses on.

Holy shit.

It’s Cain.

What is he doing here?
Crap . . . my application. I gave him this address. I didn’t think he’d use it.

I jump back as his fist rattles the door with another knock, followed quickly by, “Hi, Charlie.” There’s no inflection at the end, so he knows I’m standing on the other side of the door. He must have seen me move past the peephole.

“Uh . . . just a minute!” I call out, my eyes frantically scouring the apartment, my heart—already racing—ready to explode. I catch my reflection in the closet-door mirror.

“Shit!”

I don’t have a stitch of makeup on and my hair is a straight, matted mess after my shower last night. He’ll see exactly what I look like, with the added bonus of dark circles under my eyes. I don’t want him to see the real me. He needs to see Charlie. Confident, well-put-together twenty-two-year-old pole-dancing diva Charlie Rourke from Indianapolis. But I also can’t leave him standing out there for half an hour while I hide myself behind a mask of smooth curls and heavy kohl liner.

I can at least get dressed, I note, taking in my thong and tiny white tank top.
Not that he hasn’t seen me in less.
Throwing on a pair of gym shorts and a more presentable tank top, I take a second to hide the assortment of wigs I use for drops under my sheets. With one last cringe at the state of my apartment, I finally open the door.

Damn
. Cain looks different. Not that he didn’t look good before, but he looks younger today—more relaxed—dressed in dark blue tailored jeans and a white golf shirt, untucked, made of that thin material that hangs so nicely off curves and muscles. And Cain has
a lot
of nice curves and muscles. His hair is combed back but a little messier, with wispy ends circling out around his neck.

I can’t peg his age. He’s one of those guys who could be twenty-five . . . or thirty-five. There’s a hardness in his jaw and sharpness in his gaze that you don’t get with youth. Plus, he’s a successful businessman who runs a popular strip club. He has to be in his mid-thirties.

Whatever age he is, Cain is hot.

Sam was twenty-five years older than my mom when she married him. He didn’t look anything like Cain does, but she certainly found something extremely appealing in him. Hopefully something aside from his money. I have only faint memories of my mother, but I do remember her smiling a lot after Sam came into our lives. I wonder if she’d still be smiling. I wonder if I’d even be in this situation, had she not died.

I’ve never been attracted to an older man before, but I think Cain is the kind of “older guy” I could be with. Dating Cain is not on the table, though. Right now, I don’t know if having Cain as my boss is even on the table.

I
am certainly not on the table, given my need to stay under the radar until I can vanish in a few months.

I need to stop thinking about Cain and tables.

I can feel his stare at me from behind those sunglasses. I can only imagine what he’s thinking right now. I know I look
completely
different. Younger. I hope he doesn’t start questioning my identity . . .

Shit!

My eyes. I forgot to put in my contacts.

I exhale ever so slowly. It’s too late to do anything about it now. Maybe he won’t notice. He is a guy, after all.

Cain slides his sunglasses off and settles those coffee-colored eyes on me, offering a warm smile. The first one I’ve seen from him. “I hope you don’t mind me swinging by.” Lifting the Starbucks tray he’s carrying, he adds, “Cold and hot options. Ginger said you were a caffeine junkie?”

He’s certainly much less intense than he was the first night I met him. His voice is softer, too. And it’s sweet of him to ask Ginger about my preferences. I can’t help but be suspicious that this coffee buffet is his way of lessening the blow that I suck as a stripper and don’t have a job. That I’ll be heading back to Sin City or some other seedy club to perform lewd acts for management. Ginger confirmed that Rick’s not the exception in the sex trade industry. Maybe Cain would still let me bartend, at the least.

Regardless, I can’t keep him standing here while I play mute. My tongue—temporarily frozen—starts working again. “Yes. I am. Please,” I clear my throat and step back. “Come in.”

He edges past me through the door and I catch that fresh woodsy scent that I first inhaled in his office. It’s pleasant. More pleasant than mine, probably, given that I just spent the night in bed, perspiring. “I’m sorry. The air-conditioning unit broke down and the landlord hasn’t fixed it yet. It’s kind of hot in here.” “Kind of hot” isn’t the right description. It’s stifling.

Cain’s eyes roam over my space as if taking inventory. There’s not much to catalogue. I rented it furnished, which entails a simple two-person folding table, a puke-orange love seat made of a weird vinyl-like material, and a bed that’s called a double but is more like a twin. I’m not the neatest person in the world but, aside from a few shirts strewn over a chair and a hamper of washed but unfolded laundry, everything’s put away. My kitchen is spotless. Not a crumb. That’s more a necessity of survival than tidy habits. It’s me against the roaches, and one open bag of bread will secure their victory. I’ve even strategically placed a can of Raid on my counter as a warning to them.

It’s not really working.

Cain’s focus settles on my hastily made bed for a moment and a thought hits me. Is this where he gives me the “if you want the job . . .” ultimatum that the dirtbag from Sin City did? Maybe that’s his M.O.—in the privacy of my own apartment instead of his place of business? Maybe he lives by that “don’t shit where you eat” philosophy.

Could I do it?

Unable to help myself, my eyes roll over the defined ridges of Cain’s back, visible through the clingy shirt. I don’t think it’s simply his physical appearance that catches women’s attention. The way his body moves radiates a strength and control that many women would find sexy. I imagine he’s quite demanding, maybe a touch aggressive. The type to take a woman up against the wall because that’s what
he
felt like. I doubt much emotion ever plays into Cain’s motives.

Still . . . I have to admit, sleeping with Cain for this job wouldn’t exactly be comparable to, say, a public flaying. It would be sordid and completely physical, but just thinking about this man on top of me on my bed right now stirs a need in my belly, one I haven’t felt for months.

But . . .
no!

What the hell am I going to say if that’s what he intends? Fresh beads of sweat are rolling down my back. And my superior improv skills? It’s as if they never existed. Confident, witty Charlie Rourke has left the roach-infested building, leaving a wooden pawn in her place. I need to pull myself together. If I can do it for drug dealers, then I can certainly do it for a strip club owner.

Cain turns to regard me again and I fight the urge to fidget. His mouth opens and closes a few times before he says, “A girl like you shouldn’t be living in this area.”

By his authoritative tone, I can’t help but feel like Cain is scolding me, and my cheeks heat slightly with embarrassment. I give a one-sided shrug. “It’s not so bad.”

That might have been convincing if not for the sudden screams of “skank bitch!” and “festering dick!” through the wall.

Silence hangs in the air as Cain regards me with an even stare, likely waiting for my response to that. There isn’t much that I can say, short of trying to make light of it. I give him a sheepish grin. “Ike and Tina are getting awfully creative with their pet names.”

He doesn’t return the smile. Clearly, he didn’t find that funny. I wonder if he finds much funny. I can only imagine the kind of place Cain lives. He’s so well put together, from his wavy dark hair down to his stylish but masculine shoes. If he only saw the kind of house I grew up in, maybe he wouldn’t be looking at me with such pity now. Or maybe it would be ten times worse, because he’d be wondering how I fell so far from my privileged life.

“Here.” He holds the tray of drinks toward me, his eyes locked on my face. “There’s an iced latte, a Frappuccino, and a regular coffee—cream and sugar on the side.”

“A caffeine overdose. Exactly what I need right now,” I muse, tucking my hair back behind my ear.

Finally, that one earns an amused upper lip curl. “I’m sorry I left before you finished last night. I had to . . . ,” he sighs, his eyes hooded for just a flash before returning to normal, “. . . to go.”

Busying myself with the lid of the iced latte, I wordlessly await the ruling. Will it be pole-dancing topless and bartending at the best strip club in town or . . . worse? Much, much worse.

His low voice breaks the silence. “So, how many nights could you work?”

I stop fumbling with my cup and look up to find that unnerving gaze still on me, “Do you mean . . . do I have a job?”

Cain’s head bows once, as if in assent. I catch a hint of something like conflict flash through his eyes, but when he’s facing me dead-on again, the look is gone, replaced with a completely unreadable expression. “You can dance on the stage and bartend with Ginger. Working the floor will have to wait.”

A burst of relief floods my chest as my escape moves one step toward reality. Shocking myself with a rare, uncontrolled reaction, I leap forward and throw my arms around him. “Thank you, so much! I mean, I didn’t think you would hire me! I thought I wasn’t good enough. I . . .” The overwhelming relief has taken over all instincts and suddenly I’m babbling like an idiot, all the while my arms are wrapped around my new boss’s neck and his body has gone rigid under my touch.

Oh God
. Did I just break the record for quickest firing after hiring?