Wrong then Right (A Love Happens Novel Book 2) (22 page)

Beck stood in the same spot, casually drinking clear icy liquid from a tall glass as if only marginally impressed by the show, so when it came time to pop her top, Hope did so with a wide smile and as much gusto as her bouncing C cups could give her. A baritone roar echoed through the club, rebounding off the fabric paneled walls, and she chose to believe some of that adoration was directed at her, even though it was likely all for the two, stacked centerfold’s bobbing around beside her. Eyes still connected with Beck’s, she watched as he blinked once, owlishly, then cracked a slight smile. Probably shocked as shit that she’d actually done it.

When the curtain closed on his fiery gaze, Hope covered her bare boobs with her hands, wishing she was in better cardiovascular condition. That was their fastest song and she needed longer than a thirty second break to catch her breath.

“Do you think Bubba will fire me if I drop my panties for the last song?” Kiki asked, fluffing her hair.

Stunned by the question, panic zinged through Hope at the mere suggestion, recalling the burly man’s rule on baring your pussy. It was a big no-no.

“Are you smoking crack, Kiki?” Bridget hissed, her breathing barely labored. “Of course, he’ll fire you. And you’ll start a drunken riot.”

“Fine,” she reluctantly agreed, pouting as she stretched her arms high above her head.

Hope mimicked the position and whispered, “I’m probably gonna pull a hamstring on this song, so if you hear a thud and me yelling ‘man down’, kick me to the side and act normal.”

Their finale, set to the highly sexual,
Nasty Naughty Boy
, was a mix of slow, sultry jazz and breathy, explicit lyrics. There were no chairs or poles, or stripper props of any kind. Just their bodies, the beat of the music, and the power of suggestion.

When it came to the generalities of sex, men were fairly predictable creatures. And no matter what their level of sexual experience, most girls knew what most guys liked, thanks to Cosmopolitan Magazine and their daddy’s poorly hidden stash of vintage eighties porn—the box not so cleverly marked
old baseball cards.
More blowjobs, they always said, to which the entire female population collectively responded with a tepid, “Yeah, yeah, yeah—we get it, already.”

And Christ on a cracker, Hope was dying for her opportunity to shine on that front. But the other educational takeaway was, if a man couldn’t touch you himself, then the next best thing was for you to touch yourself, instead. And let him watch.

So, when the curtain slid open for the last time, the three topless women did just that.

With their backs to the crowd, the slow, pulsing beat of a single snare drum began, followed by the soulful notes of a brass band. Her hips bumped from side to side in an exaggerated rhythm, the trio of scantily clad women in perfect sync with the music and each other. Sexual innuendo filled the club, her heart keeping time with the beat, and they turned toward a mesmerized audience with a flourish. The calorie burning performance was an artistic mix of rubs and tugs, squats and splits, and muscle pulling toe touches. Slightly raunchy, definitely naughty, and guaranteed to send the audience home with a purpose.

Hope watched Beck the entire time. He watched the crowd, watching her.

And before she knew it, the set was over, her lungs burning but her hamstrings still intact. Paper bills flew through the air to land at their feet, proving valid a common strip club stereotype. It really could rain money. A muscled bouncer hopped on stage carrying a silver champagne bucket, collecting their bounty before the next girl was up, and Hope hobbled to the dressing room on screaming feet. She’d just done a crossfit workout wearing stiletto shoes and dental floss as underwear, and the adrenaline high was quickly waning.

“Bridge, I can’t go out there.” She drew the line at lap dances, knowing comb-over guy would be the first in line. And despite the no touch rule, those lap dances got awfully grab-assy.

“Then you’re not getting your share,” Kiki declared haughtily, dabbing her pits with a tissue as she stared in the mirror. “Buck up, little one. Working the crowd is part of the job. Private dances are where the real money’s at.”

Bubba’s booming voice interrupted Bridget’s response.

“Y’all decent?” Stepping into no man’s land, his stubby fingers shielded his eyes from everything but the dressing room floor. “Ya’ got someone demandin’ to see ya’, Hope, and he ain’t takin’ no for an answer. I ain’t too pleased about it either, since ya’ told me when I hired ya’ that ya’ had no old man.”

Holy shit, what was Beck trying to do? Get her fired again? She was still seven weeks out on her financial plan to freedom.

“Oh, please,” Val said, not bothering to hide his eyes as he stood on his tip toes and peered over Bubba’s shoulder. “I’m not her old man. Unfortunately, I’m nobody’s old man right now.”

“Ya’ got five minutes, pal.” Bubba finally lifted his hand, trusting nothing beyond a few boring sets of breasts were bared, and pointed at Kiki. “And if she doesn’t wanna go out there, she doesn’t hafta’. Her shift is over when she chooses it ta’ be.” Looking back at Hope with concern, he added, “I think right ‘bout now would be good timin’, too.” The door slammed shut behind him.

Kiki shrugged. “You’re still not getting a third share.”

Val picked up an eyelash curler off the vanity and squeezed, turning it every which way.

“What the hell do you do with this thing? Does it go up something?” Shrugging when a peeved Kiki grabbed it out of his hands, he leaned back against the counter. “Did you put rouge on your nipples, Hope? They are so pink. And you did good up there. Very, daddy’s girl gone dirty.”

“No, I didn’t put rouge on my nipples! And nobody uses the word rouge anymore.” The irritation in her voice had everything to do with Val’s presence instead of Beck’s, and the fact that the next girl up—that flat chested bitch named Renee—was soon to be on the receiving end of Mr. Man Candy’s lackluster attention. “And you can’t take my share, Kiki, because I worked my ass off on that stage.”

The redhead’s temper came out. “No way! You’re not finishing the job!”

“Divided three ways, Kiki,” Bridget stated with finality, sticking up for Hope from her spot at the mirror, open lipstick tube in her hand. “Or else I’m telling everyone within earshot what your real name is. News flash, people,” she said, with wink, “it ain’t Kiki.”

Offended, Kiki’s mouth dropped open in disbelief and she looked around the busy dressing room, a half dozen other girls milling about, primping as they waited for their turn in the rotation. “You wouldn’t! You’re too much of a goody two shoes.”

No matter her sugar and spice personality, Bridget had claws. “Delores.”

Both Kiki and Val gasped in unison, equally outraged. If anybody knew the anguish of an unpleasant birth name, it was Valentino Sabato.

“You used to be so sweet and meek. What happened to you?” Kiki asked Bridget, her lips flattening in disapproval. “Fine! But don’t expect me to trade shifts with either of you for a very long time. Or hair products! Buy your own damn volumizer from now on!”

Hope grinned at Bridget as they watched a steaming Delores walk out the door.

The comb-over in the front row was the redhead’s for the taking. The ultra hot and mildly disgruntled hunk at the bar was all Hope’s tonight.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Scrubbed clean of any temporary stripper accoutrements, Hope pushed through the heavy back door of the still hopping club, exiting out onto the dark alleyway that led toward the employee parking lot. Other than running a quick brush through it, her loose hair was as big as ever, Kiki’s kick ass volumizer worth the apology she and Bridget would humbly issue tomorrow night. That was one pretty, but very pissed off Delores.

Refusing the standing offer of a bouncer escorted walk to her car, Hope clutched her canvas bag to her side and watched her step as she scaled the potholed parking lot, four hundred, sixty-seven dollars and forty-two cents richer. Not a bad haul for an hour’s worth of work, but it meant some asshole had the audacity to throw coins at them. Pennies, too, the tight-wadded pervert. Clearly the loser never had string underwear violating him in two different private places for ten minutes straight, while in full view of the judging public.

“Hey there, princess.”

Startled by the unexpected voice, Hope screeched and threw up her fists, barely landing back on her flip-flopped feet. “Jesus!” Hand over her racing heart, she wheezed the curse. “Jesus on the mountaintop, you scared me!”

Grinning, Beck looked her up and down. “That’s some vertical jump you’ve got.”

“It’s not easy. Getting all of this. Up off the ground.” Hyperventilating, she bent over, her hands on her knees as she sucked in life giving air. “And you shouldn’t do that, you know. Things go down in dark parking lots of strip clubs. And not all of it’s the good kind of going down, either.”

Leaning casually against the bumper of his black mustang, parked right next to her dusty Toyota, he seemed less than concerned for his safety. It was a privileged world when all you had to do was wear worn out jeans, a wrinkled flannel thrown over a faded t-shirt, and inherent confidence to look both scary and sexy. And get away with name calling, too.

“You’re back,” she said needlessly, ignoring his use of the P word.

“And you’re wearing clothes.” He seemed a little too pleased about that. Pushing away from the mustang, he crowded into her and she took a few steps back, not stopping until he had her against the trunk of her own car. “For now.”

Cupping the back of her neck with a rough hand, she expected his kiss. Craved it. Had her mouth all ready and everything. But instead, he rested his forehead against hers, his green eyes dark and unreadable in the moonlight.

“Missed you,” he breathed, as if the words were unwittingly torn from his soul.

And even with four hundred and some dollars worth of male adoration in her canvas bag, it was the best compliment she’d gotten all night. Okay, pretty much her entire life.

Hope nudged his nose with hers playfully. “Don’t panic when I tell you this, but I think you might’ve been abducted by aliens and they’ve invaded your body. Your brain for sure.” He smiled and she swooned inside. “I missed you, too.”

He did kiss her then. A slow, searing kiss that melded their mouths and spoke of longtime lovers reunited. Sparks of desire shot through her at the stroke of his talented tongue, kicking the kiss up a notch before he slid his mouth from hers, dragging it toward the nape of her neck even as she protested. Mumbling something about losing his everloving mind, he aligned his hard body against hers as she pulled him impossibly tighter to her, absorbing his heat.

Shuddering as he trailed little wet kisses along her neck, she squeezed her arms around his ripped torso, clutching a handful of shirt at the base of his back. “Did you like the show?”

Pulling back an inch, he dragged her hand between their bodies and laid it against an award winning hard-on, barely lifting his mouth from her fevered skin. Point made. “Could’ve done without everyone else liking it, too.”

The possessive comment shouldn’t make her happy. But it did. “Now, you’re sounding old and sexist. And I know you’re not sexist.”

She felt his grin. “I do have a question about this show you and your cohorts put on.”

Her cohorts
. Please don’t ask for Bridget’s phone number. Please don’t ask for Bridget’s phone number.
Because if you do, I’ll die. Right after I knee you in the balls.

“More of a complaint, really.” He paused, kissing the corner of her mouth. “I was told there would be oil.”

Okay, now she felt bad about the ball kneeing thing. “Bubba put a stop to it. Said it was too pornographic and his club is more about high class than shiny ass.” Dipping her chin, she inhaled the musky scent clinging to his throat. “I think it’s more about liability. Can’t have customers sticking fingers into places they shouldn’t because the terrain is too slippery.”

And speaking of fingers, his were grazing along the bare skin of her tummy, just below the hem of her shirt. “It would be the end of their days on this earth if they did.”

Hope didn’t like the thought of it any more than he did. The masterful fingers sliding along her body right now were the only ones she wanted. Ever. Like, the forever kind of ever.

“I have a new bottle of body oil in my bag. Bubble gum flavor and it makes your skin soft, too. I’ll let you taste it, but only if you let me use your tub.” Rubbing her palm over his denim covered erection with more uncertainty than a woman who just left a stripper stage should have, she flicked her tongue out to lash against his earlobe. “You have to be in there with me, though. Naked,” she added, in case he was an idiot and didn’t catch her drift.

“Deal.” Moving suddenly, he grabbed her hand, dragging her toward his mustang. “You’re riding with me.”

Seconds later, he had the car started and a hand on the gear shift when she stopped him. “Wait.”

“I don’t think I can, Hope. We need a bed. Now.”

“No, we don’t,” she whispered, leaning over the skinny center console.

She did the kissing this time and he let her take the lead, his head resting back against the seat. Steam crept up the windows as their enthusiasm grew, shrouding them in foggy privacy, and his reticence gave her courage. So did the dark desire to make him burn for her. Reaching low, she popped the top button on his jeans, the zipper stretched tightly across his erection as she slowly and methodically massaged him, working the placket open. A string of muffled growls and muted curses fell from his lips, charging the air around them. Her mouth trailed down the hot skin of his throat and she smiled as his pulse thumped rapidly against her lips.

God, how did one man smell so good? She didn’t know what magical ingredient the people who made his body wash were putting in it, but it was doing a number on her primal urges.

Proud that she released him from the confines of his jeans with relative smoothness, resulting in his long, drawn out groan, she gripped him with a tight fist, her fingers not even close to touching.