Shakin' It For Daddy (The Panty Droppers)

Back Cover

Interracial Erotica Romance Novella by Tigra-Luna LeMar

Mika Jamison
’
s dream of becoming a Showgirl of Simora is over. Not only that, she lives in a crummy apartment, works a crappy job as a waitress in a small town where everyone hates her. How can life possibly get any worse?

Add Degan Moira to the mix and you get more than trouble.

Degan Moira is a man on a mission
—
find the only woman he
’
s ever remotely felt human around, make her see that he
’
s the only man that can love her the way she deserves to be loved and live happily ever after.

But will he still love Mika when he sees that she
’
s grown into a bitter, angry woman with nothing to her name?

Shakin’ It For Daddy

Book Two in

The Panty Droppers Series

Tigra-Luna LeMar

MuseitHOT, division of MuseItUp Publishing

www.museituppublishing.com

ADULT CONTENT: Contains graphic sexual content.

Dedication

To TH—love you
muchly

Chapter One

Mika Jamison stood at the edge of the stage and took a deep breath. She thought for sure she was used to the stress that came with waiting. This was the moment she had been waiting for ever since she’d seen the first Vegas showgirls on television when she was six years old. She remembered how remarkably beautiful they were, smiling with their long legs kicking out in front of them in a wonderful line. She also remembered she hadn’t seen any of them look like her—dark skin, brown eyes with larger breasts and well-rounded hips.

She auditioned for a lost cause because year after year she was passed up for a part in the
Showgirls of Simora
. Her heart broke and she would go back to her crappy job as the local waitress. Every year she would be rejected and she took a deep breath, and returned to her job serving ungrateful bastards their coffee and enough fried goods to cause a small village to have a heart-attack. She lived through the name calling in the small town, people slashing her tires, and writing
slut
in giant letters on the back of her car. For about a week, she drove around with the red letters, tagged to the back window of her car because she couldn’t afford to take it to the mechanic and have him remove them. The spiteful asses had used some kind of paint she couldn’t wash off.

She’d stopped complaining to the sheriff, about a year before, went home and sowed a red A to the front of all her outfits. Then, each morning, she would wake up, talk herself into facing them again and go to work.

“Mika Jamison?” The woman in the overly expensive business suit called.

Mika took a deep breath and moved even closer to the edge of the stage to the microphone. She clutched her fingers together wondering why the woman’s pony tail was so tight. Her heart hammered inside her chest as beads of sweat from the nerves and the stage lights trailed over her skin. Blinking, she took a breath and waited.

“While we adore your audition…” The woman with the stick up her ass began the same old tirade they used each time they rejected her.

Mika shook her head. “You know what?” she said into the microphone. All heads in the room turned to face her. “You can save the, ‘you’re not what we’re looking for’, or ‘you didn’t make the cut’, or ‘you need to lose ten pounds’ speech. I’m tired of hearing them. Quite frankly, you can take them and shove ‘em up your asses. My god! What is wrong with you people? I’m black! I get it! You don’t have to use it against me every chance you get!”

“Miss Jamison! Control yourself!” The woman gasped.

“Control myself?” Mika cocked a well-rounded hip, rested a hand on it and peered at the woman. “Control myself? Have you looked at the Showgirls line in the past twenty years? How many of them have been a visible minority?”

Silence danced through the room except the periodical squeaking of the microphone.

“I thought so. I don’t want to be a part of this charade and I don’t want to be your token minority! God…to think how many years of my life I’ve wasted on you people.”

Stepping back, she picked up her small, tattered gym bag from where it had fallen, flipped her braids over one shoulder, and she walked, swinging her ass like no-body’s business, off the stage. She shoved roughly through the other girls, waiting to hear their fates, silently pitying them. Exiting into the sunlight of another sickening Simora day, she climbed into her second hand car, tossed her bag to the back seat and reached forward for the knob of the stereo. Janet Jackson’s
Make Me
wafted from the speakers and she cranked it until the old car began shaking with the force of the base.

The next morning, tired and still highly agitated from the day before, Mika opened her eyes and stared at the wall before her. She could hear her neighbors yelling at each other again and it was beginning to wear thin. Shoving her feet from the bed she pushed the window open it and hung half her body out.

“You annoying little asses!” she shouted. “How long are you going to keep bitching about the same god-damn thing? Astrid, move the fucking rose bush so we can all get some sleep on our days off and Becca, keep your dog on a fucking leash! If I step in his shit one more time you and I are going to roll! Problems solved, right?”

She slammed the window shut and yanked the curtains in place. It was her first day off in months and she had no idea what she was going to do with it. The thought of going to the gym ran through her mind, but she descended the couple of steps from her bedroom wondering what’s the point? In the kitchen instead of making her regular healthy breakfast, she settled for a jar of Pralines and Cream ice-cream and a spoon. The first bit of cold comfort slid down her throat and she moaned. But that didn’t last long, because soon, her mind began playing the same old tricks it had been playing since her last boyfriend dumped her for not giving him some booty.

What am I doing with my life? Why am I still alone at thirty chasing some little pipe dream of being a showgirl?

I am too old for this shit.

Stabbing the spoon into the ice-cream, she sighed at the thought. Her mother had been right. There’s no way she could make it in Simora. She’d been trying ever since she turned twenty six to get into the Showgirls of Simora and just like that, her dream was dead. Thirty-years-old with nothing else to her name but a car that’s constantly breaking down, an apartment in a building not even a roach should live in, and a crummy job in a town where everyone hated her.

La-dee-fucking-da!

Still she could hear the muffled sounds of her neighbors going at it. A slight throbbing in her temple started to get worse and she re-covered the ice-cream and shoved it back into the freezer. She dropped the spoon into the sink and returned to her bedroom before taking a quick shower, and then hauling on a tight pair of jeans. Mika slipped into a blue tank top and tied her braids back. Sticking in a pair of silver earrings she’d picked up at local garage sale, she squirted perfume on her neck and grabbed her purse and keys.

Mika had no idea where to go, but anywhere beats sitting at home, listening to Astrid and Becca bitch at each other from across the fence.

Chapter Two

The sun was high in the New York sky by the time Degan Moira came up for air from his day filled with meetings. Glancing at his calendar he frowned. There were still two meetings glaring him in the face. He stared at the buildings across from his, and then stood to look down at the streets below him. People moved along like tiny rodents, heedless to his pain and discomfort. A passing wonder of how many of them would give a damn what he was feeling charged through his mind and he furiously fought to push it away. He knew the answer—none of them. They were all like the rest of the human race who were only in it for themselves. He wished Preston was around, but he was off somewhere jumping off or out of something with a piece of cloth strapped to his back to break his fall.

Ah, the beauty of human stupidity.

With a moan, Degan took a steadying breath and fell into his chair once more. He reached forward and hit the red button on his phone.

“Yes, Mister Moira?” his personal assistant called.

“Could I see you in my office please?” he asked.

“Right away, sir.”

Degan frowned. He constantly told her not to call him that. Sir was something they would called his father. Shrugging it off, he grabbed a bottle of water from the cooler before falling like a brick into his overstuffed chair again. By then, Arlene was walking through the door dressed in her usual type of business suit. She closed the door behind her and sat down, crossing her legs waiting for him.

“Cancel my last two meetings,” he said outright. “I don’t want to do anymore today.”

She glanced at the Blackberry in her hands and arched a brow. “But you’ve been trying to get in with the guys in Japan for months!”

Degan frowned again. “Alright, cancel Higgins and leave Matsumodo.”

She nodded and began tapping furiously at the Blackberry. “Also,” she said without looking up. “I spent the last week looking for that woman you wanted—Mika Jamison. It wasn’t easy, but I think I’ve found her.”

That news perked Degan up in a way he never thought it would. “Where?”

“A place called Simora? I found her through an application form she completed online for a show called Showgirls of Simora.”

Degan arched a brow.

Mika? A Showgirl? Huh?

“That’s…different,” he managed.

“Yeah…anyway she lives in the small town and I’m sending her address to you…now.”

His Blackberry chimed and he nodded. “Thanks. Listen, I want you to clear my schedule for the next week. I’ll be going out of town.”

“Want me to prep the jet?”

“No, I’ll handle all that,” he replied. “Thanks. That will be all.”

She nodded and Degan turned from her to face the window. The door clicked silently and he knew Arlene was gone. His mind shifted back to Mika and the first day he’d seen her.

“Damn it, Preston!” Degan shouted, as the football sailed by his head and slammed into the locker. “You wanna give a heads up the next time you feel the overwhelming urge to whip that thing at me?”

“There’s a sexual innuendo there someplace.” Preston grinned. “But I’m not gonna touch that one.”

Preston picked up the football and twirled it around on his fingertips before leaning against the locker. Degan, however, had his head buried in the locker, furiously digging for his Biology text book. He couldn’t believe he’d left it at home again. “Mr. Drakes is going to kill me!”

“You left your biology textbook at home again? Way to go!”

“Hey…ass-tard…you’re not helping.”

“Yo, D, check it out!” Preston exclaimed in a hoarse whisper tapping Degan roughly against the side.