The Art of Sin (7 page)

     “Young for me,” he interjected.

     “I was going to say simple. Not that she wasn’t a nice girl—

I’m sure she was—but you can do better.”

     Grady was intrigued by her comment. “Better?”

     She took another long piece of white tape from the spool and cut it with the scissors. “Does she know what you do, or did that even come up in the conversation? Or did you even have any conversation?”

     Grady chuckled at her smattering of sarcasm. “No, it didn’t come up.”

     Al studied his blue eyes for a moment. “Why are you so ashamed of telling people what you do?”

     “I’m not ashamed. It’s just that when you start seeing a woman regularly, the questions begin popping up about the women in the audience, and why I have to kiss them, or rub against them. Girlfriends don’t handle that you are a male stripper very well. Eventually, you’re asked to make a choice between dancing and dating.”

     Al looped the last bit of tape around his fingers. “How many times have you been asked to make that choice?”

     “Emma asked me. I gave it up for her—for all the good that did me.” He sighed, letting his body relax against the sofa. “The reason why I don’t tell women the truth about me is because … I really haven’t met anyone I trust enough to share all those dirty little details with.”

     “You trust me. Why else would you tell me the truth?”

     He angled closer to her. Her pink lips were so temptingly close. “You have my broken finger in your lap. I have no choice but to trust you.”

     For a split second, he could see the indecision in her eyes. Perhaps he should lean in a little closer and ….

     Arching away, she removed his hand from her lap. “I hope you learn to trust people, sooner rather than later, Grady. You’re a good man who deserves to be happy.”

     “What about you?” Grady inquired as she gathered up the materials in her lap. “Doug told me you were seeing some guy. Are you happy with him?”

     She abruptly stood from the sofa. “I don’t think that is any of your concern.”

     Grady sat back on the sofa, noting her rigid posture and downturned lips. “What happened to sharing all of our dirty little secrets? Come on, tell me something about the man in your life.”

     Al went to the armoire and returned the supplies to a shelf. “All right. His name is Geoff, and we’ve been seeing each other for several years.”

     “Does he want to marry you?”

     She smacked the armoire doors closed. “No.”

     Grady stood from the sofa, grinning at her outburst. “Then he’s no good for you.”

     She faced him, her mouth gaping with astonishment. “Isn’t that a little old-fashioned?”

     “I don’t think so. Honore de Balzac said, ‘One should believe in marriage as in the immortality of the soul.’”

     “Maybe I don’t believe in the immortality of the soul … or marriage.”

     He moved to her side, towering over her tiny figure. “Yes, you do.”

     Her gray eyes flared. “Don’t think that a few short conversations gives you any insight into my wants or desires, Grady. You don’t know anything about me.”

     He rested his good hand against the armoire behind her, boxing her in. “Why not let me get to know you? I can cook dinner for you, and we can talk about all of those wants and desires.”

     “No!” She shoved his arm away.

     “Why not?”

     She bolted from the armoire, putting some space between them. “One, I’m too old for you.”

    Grady laughed with astonishment. “Too old? What are you, three, maybe five years older than me?”

     “What are you, thirty, thirty-one?” she demanded.

     “I’m thirty-two, and old enough to—”

     “I’m forty-two, Grady. Too old for you, and too old to give you what you want.”        

     He was taken aback. At most, he had suspected five years difference between them. “You’re not too old for me, Allison.”

     “Stop calling me that!”

     “Mark Twain said, ‘Age is an issue of mind over matter: if you don’t mind, it doesn’t matter.’”

     She dashed toward the door. “Would you stop quoting all of these dead people to me? I’m too old for you, and I don’t date tenants.”

     “I’ll move out,” he countered, rushing behind her.

     She opened her front door. “No, Grady. In four months, you’ll be on the road again, and I’ll be sitting here wondering why I let you talk me into dating in the first place. I’ve been disappointed enough by men. I don’t need to add your name to that pile.”

     “I’ll be different,” he vowed, standing by the open door.

     “You’ll be the same.” She waved to the hall outside.

     “I won’t give up.”

     “I won’t give in,” she countered.

     Grady inched closer and whispered, “I like difficult women.”

     “Good-bye, Grady.”

     He held up his bandaged finger. “What if I need more nursing care?”

     She sagged against the door. “Grady, please. I’m flattered that you would want to be with me, but you and I both know that, in the end, I would be just like that girl you left with last night. Another nameless face you had a couple of quick rolls in the sack with and had forgotten about by the time you pulled into the next city.”

     “You don’t know that,” he argued.

     “Yes, I do.”

     He decided that he had pushed her far enough. Shaking his head, he turned for the open door. “Thanks for the bandage.”

     “You need to keep those two fingers taped together for about four weeks. By then, it should be fine.”

     He walked through the entrance. “Thank you, Allison.”

     “It’s Al, Grady. It’s always been Al.” She banged the door closed behind him.

     Grady flinched when the thud of her front door echoed about the third floor landing. Making his way to the stairs, he thought of other ways of getting through to Al. He recalled how gentle she had been when wrapping his broken finger, the scent of lavender in her hair, the swell of her breasts, and the temptation of her lips.

    
Obviously, this is going to take a bit more effort than I had initially planned.

     Trotting down the stairs, Grady realized there was another problem eating at him. He had opened up to Al about his past; something he had never done with a woman since hitting the road. The more time he spent with her, the more she was beginning to turn into something other than just a passing challenge; she was becoming a possibility. A possibility that Grady feared he may never be able to leave when the time came to pack up his car and move on.  

Chapter 5

     When Grady reached the second-floor landing, he heard the grand front doors smacking closed. Peeking down the stairs, he saw Doug in the foyer, still dressed in the same white long-sleeved shirt from the night before, with his red bow tie tucked into his front chest pocket.

     “Are you just getting in?” Grady called, hurrying down the steps.

     Doug glanced up from the envelopes of mail left on the table by the doors. “Yeah, long night.”

     Grady bounded down the last two steps. “What’s her name?”

     Doug tossed an envelope in his hand to the table. “Beverly.”

     “Is she the steady girl Cathy mentioned?”

     “It’s more like on again, off again with me and Bev.” His dark eyes glimmered with a mischievous glint. “Cathy and you have fun?”

     Grady leaned against the bannister. “Where did you find that one?”

     “She hangs out in the main bar a lot, hoping to pick up the bartenders.” He rolled his round, dark eyes. “Cathy’s got a thing for bartenders.”

     “Well, she damn near killed me last night. A little warning might have been in order.”

     “I heard from one of the other guys at the bar that she likes it rough.” He pointed to Grady’s taped fingers. “She do that?”

     Grady held up his right hand. “No, I got it caught in a door.”

     “You should let Little Al take a look at it.” 

     “Already did.” Grady nodded to his hand. “She’s the one who taped it up.”     

     Doug raised his eyebrows, appearing impressed. “Make any headway?”

     “No,” Grady grudgingly confided. “I’m still working on her.”

     “You do realize that she’s heard it a hundred times before from every buff and tan guy that has walked through those doors.” He thumbed the front doors behind him. “Myself included,” he added with a wink.

     “Yeah, but you struck out.”      

     “I did not strike out,” Doug sourly refuted. “I found someone else.”

     “If you had another chance, would you?”

     Doug shook his head. “She’s not my type; too smart. I like a woman who makes things simple.”

     “Does Beverly make things simple for you?”

     Doug sighed and shook his head. “Anything but. It’s been going on with Bev and me for close to two years now, and I’m still trying to figure it out.”      

     “I don’t think we’re ever supposed to figure it out with women. When I was married, I did everything I could to make my wife happy, only to discover I had failed miserably. Ever since then, I’ve stopped trying to figure out where I stand with a woman.”

     Doug playfully slapped Grady’s shoulder. “Yeah, but you sure knew where you stood with Cathy last night.”         

     “I think the whole building heard where I stood with her,” Grady griped.

     “I was told she’s kind of loud in bed. Hey, you get all kinds in this city. It ain’t the Midwest.” He made a move toward his apartment door. “When are you going to see her again?”

     “Cathy? Never.”

     “No, when are you going to see Al again?”

     Grady thoughtfully pressed his lips together. “I’m not sure about that.”

     Doug nodded to his injured hand. “You can’t dance with your fingers taped up like that. You’ll have to get it re-taped after every show.” He grinned. “Seems to me like you’ll have plenty of excuses to see her again and again.”

     “You could be right about that,” Grady concurred, smiling.

     “Man, you’ve got it bad.” Doug headed to his apartment door. “Let me know what happens,” he called out over his shoulder. “I always love a good melodrama.”

*     *     *

     That night at The Flesh Factory, Grady was waiting to go on stage. Decked out in his flashy silver outfit, he inspected the Velcro seams on his pants once more … nothing like a costume coming apart before the break away. Then he gingerly touched his swollen pinkie. Having removed the tape, it appeared badly bruised and worse than it had earlier in the day. The dull throb he had experienced with it taped was now turning into a continuous sharp explosion of electric jolts. 

     “Nervous?”

      Grady turned to see Matt Harrison standing next to him. “Always at a first show in a new place.”

     “They’re just the same hungry women you see in every strip joint, Grady. Shake your ass, flash your abs, and you’ll knock ‘em dead.”

     Grady didn’t bother to enlighten the man to the fact that there was a hell of a lot more to his dances than that. Hours of choreography and practice went into each one of his routines. Luckily, his music roared to life from the speakers over the stage, saving him from any further conversation.

     “Go get ‘em,” Matt encouraged with a slap on his back.

     Ignoring the club owner, Grady shoved aside the red velvet curtains that led to the stage and strutted into the bright lights.

     The screaming hit him first. Like the backwash from a jet engine, the screams vibrated against his body. The women were packed against the edge of the stage, and as he moved out from beneath the white lights, he got a better look at the pit.  

     Matt had been right. The faces, the screams, the whistles, all looked and sounded the same as every other town he had been in. He had hoped this time it would be different. Why had he expected more?

     Beginning his routine, he rolled his hips and occasionally made eye contact with a few of the women, searching for his orgasm girl. A small blonde, not far from the stage, caught his eye. She instantly reminded him of Al. She had the same petite figure and pink lips, but her eyes were not as sarcastic. Making a few spins, he checked out the other women, but kept coming back to the blonde. 

     When he pulled his silver-sequined shirt open, the motion made the pain from his broken pinkie shoot up his arm. He kept his stage smile plastered on his face, but he could feel the sweat gathering on his upper lip. To stop thinking about the pain, he focused his attention on the small blonde. He pictured her being Al, watching him up on stage. Grady could almost see Al smirking at him. This was good. It was helping him get through his routine. He focused on the blonde, all the while thinking of Al, and soon he forgot about his discomfort.

     Grady began to feel he was dancing only for the petite woman. He could hear the other women in the crowd shouting for him to “take it all off,” but he ignored them. He struggled getting his shirt off, and he saw the lithe blonde smile when she feasted her big eyes on his chest.

    
Yeah, she’s my girl.

     Grabbing at his clothing and doing a few of the acrobatic moves he had in his dance routine almost made him see stars as the tormenting pain returned. With only his pants to go, he went to the edge of the stage, ready to bring up the blonde. When he pointed to her, the blush on her cheeks almost made him laugh out loud. Al would never have blushed like that. No, Al would have scowled at him.

     It took two of her friends to coax her to the stage, but when the little blonde climbed the side steps, Grady was disappointed. Up close, she was nothing like Al. Her features were plain: her mouth was bigger, her lips thicker, and her eyes were brown, not like Al’s angry gray orbs. Giving her some encouragement to have fun with him, he lifted her hands to his chest and rubbed his hips against her.

     The blonde squealed, covered her face, and did all the predictable things he expected of his orgasm girl. After he had danced around her a few times, he ripped off his pants—damn near cursing as the pain tore through his hand—then he gave her a kiss on the cheek and showed her off the stage.

     A few last struts, flashing his silver-sequined G-string, and he was done. Snapping up his clothes from the floor with his left hand, he could feel the sweat pouring off him. He quickly jogged off the stage and back behind the curtains.

     Out of the view of the audience, he bent over and very gently held his sore pinkie.

     “Son of a bitch,” he sighed. How was he going to survive a second show?

     Hurrying to his dressing room, he grabbed for his towel and left his clothes in a heap on a chair by the door. As he stared at his trembling right hand, he yearned for a stiff shot of tequila. Instead, he reached for the bottle of Tylenol he had purchased from the nearby convenience store on his way into the club. He struggled to open the bottle with his left hand, and then tossed back four pills with a gulp from his bottle of water.

     “You’re not popping pills, are you?” a slender, but well-proportioned, brown-eyed man asked from the doorway to his dressing room.

     Wearing only his white satin G-string with white boots, and white angel wings secured to his back with a harness, the intruder was carrying a white robe and white pants in his arms. His brown, curly hair was still glistening from the silver glitter spray Grady had watched him apply before going on stage.  

     “Matt will shit if he finds you’re doing drugs,” the young man warned, coming up to Grady.

     Grady held up the Tylenol bottle to him. “It’s Tylenol, Lewis,” he explained to the dancer that shared his dressing room. “I broke my finger this morning and had to take off the tape to dance.” Grady held up his swollen pinkie.

     Lewis’s puppy-dog brown eyes examined his finger. “Yikes, that looks bad.”

     “That’s why I need the Tylenol. Pulling off the breakaway clothes on stage damn near killed me.”

     “You need ice. I’ll get you some from the bar.” Lewis momentarily deliberated on Grady’s flushed face. “I’ll get you a shot of something to go with the Tylenol,” he finally added.

     “Tequila would be great,” Grady hinted.

     Lewis quickly proceeded toward the dressing room door, still wearing his wings. “Tequila it is,” he loudly proclaimed.                             

     Grady pictured the young man going to the bar and asking for ice and tequila in his G-string and angel wings. He’d be lucky if he came back unmolested.

     Carefully wrapping his towel around his hips, Grady sat down in the rickety wooden chair next to his dressing table. He hunched over and held his injured hand. Closing his eyes against the throbbing, he tried to distract himself by thinking of something pleasurable. An image of the sunlight on Al’s blonde hair came to mind. He thought about the softness of her skin, how inviting her pink lips appeared, and how much he ached to hold her firm, little body next to his.

     “You look a thousand miles away,” a throaty, feminine voice called from the doorway.

     Standing before him, Grady discovered a statuesque woman with slender hips, and long supple legs jutting out from a thigh-high slit in her fancy red silk dress. Her shoulder length brown hair was teased about her head, making her blue eyes stand out and accentuating the roundness of her creamy face. Her features were not as alluring to Grady as the rest of her. If anything, her nose was a little big for her face, her lips appeared artificially enlarged, and her prominent jaw overshadowed her sunken cheekbones.

     “Grady, right?” She sashayed into the room with an exaggerated sway to her hips.

     He sat back in his chair and let his eyes wander over her figure once more, debating how she could have gotten access to the dressing rooms. “My boss doesn’t like women backstage.”

     “Your boss already knows I’m here.” She came up to him. “I’m Mrs. Matt Harrison.”

    
Oh shit!
Grady quickly stood from his chair.  

     “Mrs. Harrison,” Grady said, politely dipping his head. “I didn’t realize you came to the club.”

     “My husband always likes my opinion on the new dancers.” She gave him a fleeting capped-tooth smile. “I used to be in the business myself, so I’ve got a good eye for talent.” She paused and her eyes hungrily devoured Grady’s carved chest. “You’re good. You’ve got good moves. You’re handsome enough to make the ladies interested, but not too good-looking to turn them off. That intriguing blend of wholesome, all-American looks, with a touch of bad boy angst, works for you on the stage.”

     Not wanting to pick apart her critique, especially since she was the club owner’s wife, Grady just smiled and bit his tongue.

     “All the women in the club tonight were absolutely drooling over you.” She leered at his ripped abdominal muscles. “How do you stay in such good shape?”

     “Weights, running, and of course, dancing under the hot lights tends to keep you trim … but I’m sure you already knew that.”

     She flourished a diamond-clad hand in the air. “It’s very different in the women’s game. Our dancing is not quite as strenuous, and meant to entice more than to show off our muscles.”

     Grady started to feel uncomfortable under the weight of her lustful eyes. “It’s a tougher business for the women dancers.”

     She took in the sparse dressing room. “I don’t know how you guys put up with such drab rooms. You could use a little color in here, along with some more furniture.”

     “Well, we guys don’t really care about color, only functionality.”   

     She eased her way closer to him. “You know, I have a lot of influence over my husband. If you wanted to stay here, maybe even become a headliner, I could make that possible.”