Her cheeks went bright pink.
“Seriously,” I said, “Where the hell did you learn moves like that?” I couldn’t help the touch of respect in my voice.
“I can’t believe you just told me you got hard …” She was still smirking at me and looking at me with a bit of wonder.
I shrugged. “We’ve been through too much to start beating around the bush now.”
Beating. Bush. Those may have been the wrong choice in words. God, what was with me? I definitely didn’t want her to know I’d gone home and jerked myself raw to thoughts of her naked breasts, tanned skin and silky curves.
She took a deep breath and released it slowly, her gaze lifting to mine. “When I’m on stage, it’s the only place where I can really let myself go. The only time I’m free. I’m not a mom, not a grieving widow, I’m someone more fun, casual, and desirable. I guess I don’t really think, I just feel the music and let it move me.”
“Trust me, you’re still very desirable.” My throat felt tight, but I forced the words out. “You must do very well with tips,” I added in an attempt to turn this conversation back to her profession and not her knockout body.
“No.” She shook her head at the compliment. “I do okay. The location just off the highway makes for some cheap clientele – people just passing through. Especially the weeknight shifts, those are really slow.”
My resolution to back off for now weakened. At the risk of sounding like a broken record, I took one last gamble. “I could help, Finley. You and Maple. I’m earning a good living, and with my retirement from the US Navy…”
I trailed off at the dead look in her lovely eyes. A dark, empty space carved out by grief, an anger so deep it had become a kind of exhaustion. It scared me what I saw there. I knew from personal experience the dark places your mind could go in those lowest moments.
“You can’t buy forgiveness, Greyson,” she said quietly, steadily. Too steady to be anything but holding back tears.
Her words sank between my ribs like cold, sharp steel. For a second, I couldn't remember how to breathe. So this is what she really thinks of me...a murderer.
It was nothing I hadn't yelled at myself every night for the past two years. The part that really felt like a kick in the balls was the idea that I was trying to pay off my guilt. Like all I wanted was permission to forget Marcus. When she put it that way, my offer sounded so...sleazy.
Before now, all her refusals had been grounded in her own pride. I can handle my own damn life my own damn way, she'd insisted. And while I respected the hell out of that strength, I could still negotiate with it. Her real, unfiltered opinion of me...now that was entirely different. Nothing I said could ever change her feelings. She probably wouldn't even believe me if I tried.
.
“I know the damage is done.” Resigned, I rose to my feet. This visit was long over. “I’m sorry it has to be this way. Let me know if you change your mind.”
“I won’t,” she whispered as she closed the door behind me.
Chapter Four
Finley
“Ugh, he’s out there again.” I stood backstage, peeking from behind the velvet curtain and cursed under my breath.
“Who is, dear?” Ginger asked shuffling by me with a stack of freshly laundered towels.
Ginger was in her sixties, and was the unofficial House Mom of the club. She was the manager’s stepmother and had a knack for looking after the girls. Her role was varied. Therapist, referee, makeup artist, hair stylist, schedule keeper, emergency seamstress, you name it, Ginger was on top of it.
But she was always here, and could always be counted on. She’d quickly become one of my favorite parts about working at the club.
“Brant freaking Rockwall.” I made a grumbled sigh.
“That man has no life,” Ginger remarked, setting a still-warm hand towel onto each girl’s vanity.
“Yeah he does, it’s called Watch Finley Like a Hawk.” Layla said beside me.
“Gross,” I muttered.
“Come back here and take a break. You don’t have to go out there right now,” Ginger said, patting the tufted chair in front of her desk.
“I do if I want to make some money tonight.” As tempting as her idea sounded, I couldn’t afford a break.
“Nonsense, you’ll make plenty tonight. Let’s just wait him out. Layla, go out there and tell him Stormy is gone for the night.”
Stormy was my stage name. It wasn’t something I’d put a lot of thought in to. When the manager asked me after my audition what I wanted to be called – I blurted the first word that popped into my head – and Stormy fit my mood exactly.
As Layla strutted out from backstage, obviously intent on telling Brant I was gone, I plopped down in the comfy chair in front of Ginger’s desk. “Thanks for that.” I guess I could sit for a few minutes while Layla got rid of Brant. Plus it was almost closing time, and I only had a few more songs to dance anyway.