She nodded. “Why don’t you tell me what’s really going on?”
For a moment, her question confused me. Then I realized she was talking about Grey, not Brant. How the hell does she do that? Ginger could always tell when one of her girls had trouble. Sometimes her spooky mind-reading ability was annoying, but her heart was in the right place, and her advice often helped.
I shrugged as nonchalantly as I could. “My husband’s former combat partner, Greyson Archer came into the club the other day.”
Her eyes widened. “And?”
“And he almost pulled me down off the stage.”
Ginger smiled knowingly. “So he has a thing for you.”
“No, of course not. Not like that. It’s just his guilty conscience getting the best of him. He was the one with Marcus when …” I didn’t continue, but I didn’t need to. Ginger knew all the gory details. You couldn’t keep much from her, and honestly I didn’t even want to. She was a good listener, and often had insightful advice.
“Finley, dear, I hate to break this to you, but you’re a very desirable woman. I’m not sure if you’ve thought about the future, but you can’t stay single forever.”
I held up one hand, stopping her.
“I’m not saying now is the time,” she continued, her tone soft and coaxing, “I just think it’d be wise of you to consider that perhaps the man is interested.”
I shook my head, and played with the gold bangles on my wrist. A nervous habit that I'd never managed to break. “For once, you’re off the mark, Ginger. Grey’s not interested in me like that …”
Then I remembered what he said. That he’d been excited watching me dance. I quickly decided to ignore that. Men got excited watching strippers dance period. It was normal. It wasn’t because it was me. In fact, Grey said that his cock had only stood at attention until he realized who I was. Ouch.
I frowned. Why was that thought so disappointing? It was never fun to hear that I'd killed someone's boner, but normally I wouldn't care about one single customer's opinion of my body.
Ginger held up her palms in a non-threatening gesture. I liked that she still wore her wedding ring so long after losing her husband. That was another thing we had in common. My own wedding band was now worn on my right ring finger instead of my left. My diamond solitaire I’d had to pawn months ago when my car broke down, but nothing would ever cause me to part with the simple gold band Marcus had slipped onto my finger that day in the church when he promised me forever.
“I’m just saying it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to let yourself start having a little fun again. Explore the possibility of dating. Hell, even just sex might be nice.” She smiled at me, her warm blue eyes crinkling in the corners.
“You did not just suggest I have a one-night stand with the man I told you is on my last nerve, did you?”
She reached over and patted my hand. “Just think about it.”
Had the world gone entirely fucking crazy? First Greyson was expecting me to just take a handout, and now grandmotherly Ginger was telling me I needed to get laid? What was next? Afraid to find out, I rose to my feet and peeked out from the curtain. Seeing that Brant was now gone from the seat near the stage he generally commandeered, I headed over toward the DJ booth to request my song and prepare for my next dance.
*
An hour later, I was worn out and more than ready to get home to my little girl and warm bed. Rising up from my vanity stool on bare feet, I slipped on a hooded sweatshirt and my sneakers. My feet were sore from the stiletto heels I’d danced in all night and I almost moaned when my instep met the cushioned sole. Thank God for small pleasures. Most of the girls sat counting out their money at the end of the night, but I merely shoved mine in my purse.
Tonight had been a disaster – between Brant hanging around half my shift, and then my bra clasp deciding to stick mid-striptease, I was off my game tonight. Big time. I was sure it had nothing to do with Ginger telling me I needed to get laid. Yeah right. That wasn’t on my agenda any time soon.
I was so glad when Layla stepped up to save me from anymore of Brant’s unwelcome advances. My evening had gone a little smoother after that.
The club was now dark and quiet, and there were only a few of us left in the building. I grabbed my oversized purse, which often doubled as a diaper bag, and headed for the back exit. Our bouncer was waiting by the door, his beefy arms folded, watching as each girl filtered out in the darkened night.
“Night, Bruce,” I said as I headed outside.
He gave me a nod and grunt, letting me know that nothing would happen to me where he could see it.
But the club's outdoor lights only reached so far. I was only three steps from my old beat-up Honda when Brant stepped out of the shadows.
Shit.
Glancing back toward the building, Bruce was nowhere in sight and the big steel door was already shut tight.