I think the issue is that I had liked it. I liked his cock in my mouth. I liked the look in his eyes when he watched me, the blatant need, as if I had been special. My body had responded to him, to his stare, to his touch. At one point he had tugged gently on my hair, had trailed his finger across my shoulder, and my body had ached at the contact. I had wanted—no, I want more. I want him to come back in. I want to feel his hands on my body; to do more than cum inside my mouth.
This is the first time I’ve ever been attracted to a patron. I don’t know if it’s the mystery, the money, the perfect features, or the cock, but I want him.
I close my eyes and push my head underneath the water, holding my breath. Maybe I just need to get laid. Scott would do it. I could call his cell and he’d be rolling out of bed as soon as I said the words. Seven months since our breakup, and he was still persistently around.
I lean forward and twist the knob, the water dying. Nah. Ten minutes with Scott wouldn’t solve anything. I’d still be thinking of this guy, and would have confused Scott even further.
I step from the shower and reach for my towel.
“Candy, you’re up.”
I look over my shoulder, raising an eyebrow at Dwayne, our bouncer. “Up?”
“That guy’s back. He’s asking for you again.”
He’s back. I bite my lip to hide my smile, turning back to my locker and stuffing my makeup bag inside.
“Good lord girl, you are lucky.” Jezebel hisses, leaning against her locker, her eyes on her phone. “There’s a number of things I’d like to do to that man.”
Tell me about it. I shrug, like he isn’t the best thing to walk through our doors in years, fighting the urge to bear my teeth and lay claim. “Can you take my spot? I’m supposed to dance after Mandi.” He asked for me. Just like before. Where had he gotten my name? Had one of my regulars referred him? I thank Jez and close my locker, my mind running through all of my clients who may have … it’s a dead end task. Strippers are like sports picks. Men love to brag about them, but when it comes to sharing details, they keep their mouths shut, uninterested in walking in and finding me grinding up against their friend.
I wind through tables and head to the VIP room, ducking through the velvet curtains, expecting to see him at his prior position, but the couches are empty and I am on full alert as I turn in a circle, searching the dim room. My shoulders relax silently when I see a group of men in the corner, Rick’s large mass present. They turn at my entrance, Rick’s face tinged with something akin to guilt. His hand moves quickly, and something disappears into his pocket. Cash? Drugs? Neither would surprise me. I fight to keep emotion off my face as my mind works hard at understanding what I am about to walk into.
“Candy,” Rick steps forward, clasping my hands in his sweaty palms. I stare at our hands, then shoot him a glare that causes him to drop the connection, a quick nervous motion that only raises my guard more. He takes a deep breath. “Candy, this gentleman has requested you to join him. Outside the club, I mean.” He flusters, wiping his sleeve across his forehead. “He wants you to go with him.”
The words don’t make sense. I take a moment, and look over Rick’s cheap polyester shoulder and at the stranger. Tonight, a different suit, paired with a tie, and the look is almost groom-like in its formality. He stands, feet apart, hands loose in his pants pockets, a confident stance that matches the level gaze he delivers. “Leave? Alone?” I can’t leave with him. It was bad enough what I did here, at the club. Leaving with a client … I swallow. Whatever I do in this building, at least I am safe, protected. Walk out the door with a client, and I might as well be a twenty-dollar Fort Walton hooker.
“My security will accompany us.” The words come from the blue-eyed stranger who steps forward, stopping beside Rick. His security? What good will that do me?
“And where would you take me?” Two years ago, one of us disappeared. Cindy Swans. Three weeks later, her body floated up somewhere around Pensacola. That’s the problem with living on an island. Give a man a boat and some concrete blocks, and you’re one wrong comment away from disappearing.
“To my suite.” His eyes meet mine, without hesitation, and if there was a pool to drown in, it’d be those murky blue depths. “The accommodations are very comfortable.”
My heart rate increases, as my mind actually considers the possibility. I can’t leave. There are a thousand reasons against it and only two reasons for it. Money is one, the ache between my legs another. This man wouldn’t take me somewhere and be content with a fifteen minute blowjob. He’ll want more. And right now, my hands trembling, body aching … so do I. I shouldn’t leave. Last year, Bethany started escorting on the side, and ended up in a trailer in Defuniak Springs, addicted to meth and some asshole named Justin. That could be me—I could be one stupid decision away from that life. And this could be my stupid decision. This could be the “just one time” that becomes a gateway to prostitution. Arrest. A pimp who feeds me drugs and invites spring breakers to try me on for size. “When would I return?”
He grins slightly. “In the morning. My driver can return you to the club.”
In the morning. A suite. A night spent away from Dibs and bills and my shitty life. I raise my chin slightly, keeping my eyes on him, and try to ignore our audience. “How much?”
His mouth twitches a little, and I can’t tell if it’s in disappointment or pleasure. “I’ll leave that up to you.”
I take a deep breath, my stomach churning with a mix of trepidation and excitement. “In that case, I’ll grab my purse.”
CHAPTER 4
My first night at Sammy’s, I believed in fairytales. I thought there was a chance of ending up like Julia Roberts, just days from a dashing, dignified Richard-Gere-type whisking me away to a lifetime of diamonds, caviar, and True Love.
Now I understand the truth. In this hellhole, my best hope for a happily ever after is the Anna Nicole Smith Dream – that an old rich man will hobble in, decide to part with half his riches so his few remaining years will be filled with bouncing breasts, bubble baths, and blow jobs to celebrate mahjong wins. I am almost happy with that scenario, happy with a slice of the good life minus the love. Love seems to be set aside for those who deserve it, for those who plan ahead, those who recycle and donate a dollar to the March of Dimes at the supermarket register. I’m a non-donater. I’m the girl who spends that spare dollar on a candy bar instead. I don’t deserve love. Ten years with a centenarian—that seems like a more attainable future.