Trusting You (25 page)

About the Author

L.P. Dover lives in the beautiful state of North Carolina with her husband and two wonderful daughters. 
She’s an avid reader that loves her collection of books. Writing has always been her passion and she’s delighted to share it with the world.  L.P. Dover spent several years in college starting out with a major in Psychology and then switching to dental.  She worked in the dental field for eight years and then decided to stay home with her two beautiful girls.

Her works consist of the Forever Fae series, and the Second Chances series. She’s really excited to be able to experience writing in the different genres.  Her reading used to consist of nothing but
suspense thrillers, but now she can't get away from the paranormal/fantasy books.  Now that she has started on her passion and began writing, you will not see her go anywhere without a notebook, pen, and her secret energy builder … chocolate.

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EXTRAORDINARY AUTHORS & BOOKS:

Alivia Anders ~ Illumine

Cambria Hebert ~ Recalled

Angela Orlowski Peart ~ Forged by Greed

Julia Crane ~ Freak of Nature

J.A. Huss ~ Tragic

Cameo Renae ~ Hidden Wings

A.J. Bennett ~ Now or Never

T.G. Ayer ~ Skin Deep

Tabatha Vargo ~ Playing Patience

Beth Balmanno ~ Set in Stone

Lizzy Ford ~ Zoey Rogue

Ella James ~ Selling Scarlett

Tara West ~ Say When

Heidi McLaughlin ~ Forever Your Girl

Melissa Andrea ~ The Edge of Darkness

Kelly Walker ~ No One’s Angel

Komal Kant ~ Falling for Hadie

Melissa Pearl ~ Golden Blood

Alexia Purdy ~ Ever Shade (A Dark Faerie Tale #1)

Sarah M. Ross ~ Inhale, Exhale

Brina Courtney ~ Reveal

Amber Garza ~ Falling to Pieces

Anna Cruise ~ Maverick

Rebecca Ethington ~ Kiss of Fire

Sneak Peak of the bestselling new adult romance,
TEASE
, from author Cambria Hebert

1

I cheated on my boyfriend. Before you go thinking what a dirty ho I am, let me just tell you, he deserved it.

I mean, I dated a guy for four years, throughout my entire high school career, and I thought I knew him. But then I started to notice the looks in the halls, the smirks from the girls who were supposed to be my friends. And the other guys? They started murmuring the word
ice
whenever I walked by.

Turns out my boyfriend of the year was really the moron of the century.

The whispers in the hall, the rumors floating around? He started it all. He’s the one who told everyone that I wouldn’t put out, that I was nothing but a tease. He tried to make a mockery out of me.

That’s right. I said he
tried
.

A person can only make a mockery out of someone if they allow it.

I wasn’t about to allow it.

So I cheated on him.

Shot his “she’s a tease” rumor all to hell. That’s the thing about a rumor… it can turn on you in three seconds flat. And so he became the guy who didn’t know how to satisfy a woman; he became the one who didn’t know how to close the deal.

Was it true?

Nope.

I didn’t actually have sex with the other guy. I haven’t actually had sex with anyone. But a hundred bucks and a six-pack of beer is all it took for the football team captain to say he slept with me.

He got to be the guy who closed the deal, and I got to graduate without the label of being a tease.

So it was pretty ironic that three years later I was pretty much labeling myself with the exact name I tried to get away from.

Except this time I was going to get paid.

I never really thought I would be the kind of girl who would do something just for money. But then I started thinking about that, about what kind of girl would do things for money. You know the conclusion I came to? A girl who liked to eat. A girl who liked to make rent on her apartment. A girl who would never admit, not in a million years, that her mother was right.

I repeated those things over and over in my head as I climbed out of my used Toyota Corolla and stood staring at the entrance to the place I was supposed to be interviewing for a job.

I never thought life would bring me here. I never thought I would’ve picked up the phone and called this place to see if there were openings. When the person on the other end of the line told me that yes, there were openings and asked me to come in for an interview, I was shocked when I heard myself agree.

But like I said, I liked to eat.

“Just go in. Check it out. If it turns out to be really awful, you can leave,” I muttered to myself as I headed through the parking lot, which was surprisingly well lit. The outside wasn’t as seedy as I thought it was going to be either. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad after all. Of course, that thought wasn’t exactly comforting. Part of me hoped the place was skeevy. Part of me thought that the minute I stepped out of my car, I would be so offended with what I saw that I would drive away toward a safer… more clothing required kind of future.

But I wasn’t offended.

And it appeared I was going to go inside.

Before reaching for the door, I stopped and looked up at the giant sign standing tall in the parking lot. It sported a large top hat with a pink bowtie around its center. The hat was tipped on its side and a pair of very long, shapely legs were coming out of the bottom.

The Mad Hatter was a “gentleman’s club.”

AKA: a strip joint.

And I was here to interview to be their newest stripper.

Desperate times called for desperate measures. I tore my gaze away from the sign and put my hand on the door. As I did, it swung open and a huge wall of a man stepped outside. He had skin the color of midnight, with arms the size of my thighs. His head was completely bald and he wore a black T-shirt that looked like it was going to burst at the seams because it was stretched so thinly across his massive chest.

Automatically I took a step back.

He smiled and it almost ruined the intimidating effect he had over me. Almost.

“Sugar, I think you’re in the wrong place,” he drawled, a thick southern accent lacing his tone.

Did he just call me sugar?

“I’m here for an interview,” I said, lifting my chin.

He grinned, flashing very white teeth. “Well, you definitely have a look that will drive ‘em crazy.”

I looked down at my cotton floral sundress with little cap sleeves. Was he being a smartass? I hadn’t exactly known what to wear to a job interview where the job required getting naked.

“You gonna let me in or what?” I said, crossing my arms over my chest and glaring at him.

He threw back his head and laughed. Then he stuck out his humungous hand. “My name’s Tyrese. You can call me Ty. I’m the bouncer here at the club.”

I slid my hand into his. “Harlow.”

“Miss Harlow,” he drawled, pulling the door open wide, motioning for me to enter. “Welcome to the Mad Hatter.”

*    *    *

The place was actually pretty nice. For a strip club. Excuse me, for a
Gentleman’s Club
,
as was so proudly displayed on a sign beside the bar. The bar ran along the entire back of the establishment, with large mirrors against the wall where the alcohol sat on glass shelves and bartenders worked behind a chest-high wooden bar with many armless black leather stools slid up to it for seating. Every seat at the bar was taken except for the very last two on the end.

I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do. I was a little out of my element.

Okay,
a lot
out of my element.

Of course the first rule when trying to blend in is not to stick out. So I spun away from the bar, catching a quick glimpse of myself in the mirrors behind the bar as I turned, and suppressed the urge to shudder. Or laugh.

Ty was right. I did look lost.

The first thing I did was stop staring at myself in the mirror and turn, facing outward into the club. My eyes narrowed a bit, hoping to erase that doe-eyed innocent look and replace it with a more flinty, edgy expression.

I had no idea what flinty meant. But it sounded like I should look that way.

However, when my brain actually processed what I was facing—what I was seeing—and I forgot to be flinty.

The club was the shape of a giant square, with the bar making up one of the sides. In front of the bar, the floor was filled with round tables of various sizes. Some fit two people, some five. All of them had long pastel-pink table cloths that draped to the floor. Around the bottom of each tablecloth was a black ribbon with a giant black bow.

The chairs were all black leather and in the center of each table was a black top hat with what looked like beverage menus sticking out of the top.

The floors were all hardwood. Since it was fairly dark in here I couldn’t be sure, but if I had to guess, I would say the floors had seen better days but still had a high gloss so I figured it was being waxed or cleaned.

The walls were all black but were lit up with bright-pink neon signs in the shape of curvy women, top hats, and martini glasses. From the ceiling, lights hung that looked like giant orbs of low light, kind of like there were a million moons shining in the sky.

But the lights, the tables, and the neon signs weren’t what the people in here came for.

No.

They were here for what was on stage.

The stage sat directly across from the bar and ran the entire length of the building. It was currently dark and empty, with wide black curtains hanging on each side. A part of the stage jutted out between the tables like a runway, and I could see the rope lights lining the edges, but they were dark as well.

A waitress walked by and my mouth about fell open. She wore black shorts that were smaller than most of my underwear, black fishnet stockings, black stiletto heels, and no shirt.

Okay, she was wearing a shirt. But, really, I don’t know why she bothered. It covered nothing.

It was basically a pastel-pink string bikini top—no, scratch that—it was a pair of nipple pasties on strings.

She had really long, straight bleach-blond hair pulled up in a super-high ponytail and a black bowtie around her neck. As she moved, the light reflected off the shimmering body powder she had applied liberally to all her exposed upper body.

She moved through the crowd with a tray, handing out drinks, smiling, flirting, and leaning down over men suggestively.

Were they going to want me to do that?

No, Harlow. They’re going to ask you to wear less.

If that thought wasn’t enough to scare the flowers off my sundress, the music playing over the sound system cut off and people began to cat call and cheer. Then a new song began to play. One that didn’t have words. It was one of those sexy songs that accompanied people jumping out of cakes on TV shows.

There was some movement on the darkened stage, and I watched, wondering what was going to happen next. As the music played, a blue-ish toned spotlight came on over the center of the stage.

The crowd fell silent for one long moment.

She was standing in the center of the light, framed in electric blue. Her back was turned, one of her legs was up on a chair, and a hand was on her hip. She wore what looked like a strapless one-piece bathing suit in black. Long hair was wound up and secured in a clip at the top of her head.

The music grew louder and she began to move. First reaching up with slow, deliberate movements and pulling the clip out of her hair. Blond curls cascaded down her back, concealing some of her body.

The men all cheered.

Then she tilted her head back, looking up toward the ceiling, and ran her hands roughly through the long strands. With a jerk of her hips, she turned to the side, placing both hands on her foot propped up on the chair, and she caressed her leg all the way up to the juncture of her thighs. Her very ample chest heaved with her deep breaths, straining against the outfit that contained them.

The beat to the music deepened and she shoved the chair away with her foot, sending it flying over into the darkened space, and she turned to finally face the crowd.

Placing both her hands over her breasts, she squeezed them, then ran her fingers down the curves of her body. She started moving then, squatting, rolling her hips forward and back, bending over to touch her toes while pointing her ass to the eager and drooling men. She worked the stage like she owned it. Like she was the last woman on the planet and she had enough goods to go around for every man that came a calling.

And then she reached for the zipper on her top.

She slid it down, revealing a little more skin with every little tug. She pretended like she would pull it open and then she would drop her hands, which created quite the frenzy near the stage.

I watched as she lowered it, lower, lower, lower, until the garment slid off her arms completely and she was totally exposed. Now she was just down to her undies and high heels.

Then she started touching herself.

They want me to do that?

There was no way in hell.

I spun around, ready to race out of there like a bat out of hell, but someone was blocking my path.

“Are you Harlow McAlister?”

It was a man in a business suit with a handful of papers. He had very short dark hair, a shaven jaw, and a tan.

“Yes.”

“I’m Adam Greene. We spoke earlier on the phone.”

“Yes, of course. You’re the owner of this place.”

“And you’re here for the job interview.” As he spoke, he looked me over, starting at my toes, sweeping up my legs, my chest, and settling on the top of my head.

“I think I made a mistake,” I said quickly. “I’m sorry to have wasted your time.”

I started to run. Literally run away from the topless girls and drunk men.