Four Seconds to Lose Page 8

  I heave a reluctant sigh. Okay, hearing that helps a bit. Ginger’s always doing and saying things to try and make me feel better. I wonder if that means she’s a real friend. I don’t really know. I’ve only ever had superficial friends and casual acquaintances. The ones where people talked to me because I’m pretty and rich. I’ve never had a best friend before, one I could truly talk to about anything. Sam preferred it that way. I guess it all worked out for the best, as there was no one to miss me when I left Long Island. “Do you think Cain will give me the job?”

  She shrugs. “I don’t see why not.” Leaning in, she strikes Nate in his rib cage. “Where’s boss man?”

  “Out.”

  She rolls her eyes. “For . . .”

  “For the night.”

  “Thanks for elaborating, Nate.” With an exasperated sigh, she offers me a comforting pat on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. We’ll get an answer tomorrow and I’m sure it will be a positive one.” With a wink, she adds, “You’ll be working the bar with me.”

  “Hey.” Ben squeezes in between us, throwing a heavy, muscular arm over each of our shoulders. “You bring her in, Ginger?”

  She looks at him warily. “Yeah. Why?”

  A curious smile passes over his face. “How do you two know each other?”

  He buckles when Ginger’s fist rams into his side. “We’re friends, Ben,” she snarls as she stalks back toward the bar. Ben’s mischievous grin follows her, not disguising his brief appreciation of her ass, quite visible in a tight red dress.

  Turning that broad smile back to peer down at me, his arm still around my shoulder, Ben murmurs, “So, Charlie . . .”

  This guy is piece of work. He doesn’t hide the fact that he’s a player, but that easygoing boyish charm of his somehow makes it kind of cute. And dimples. Deep dimples that pull a temporary shroud over my worry and make me feel like all is right in the world. I wonder if he’s always this flirtatious.

  I’m not overly experienced in the flirting department. As abnormal as my life is, my relationship experience probably matches that of the average high school girl. Except where other high school girls were busy crying over unanswered texts and catfighting with empty threats, I just moved on, more focused on theater.

  So maybe I’m not average in any regard.

  Given my naturally reserved demeanor and how I was raised, I’m usually the one to listen rather than speak. I’ve never pursued a guy. I had a couple of boyfriends in high school. We went out in groups a lot. The times that I was alone with a guy, there wasn’t much need for flirting—or talking, in general.

  I lost my virginity to Ryan Fleming—the lead in the high school play—during my junior year. We weren’t even dating when it happened, but we had known each other for months and I knew he liked me. A lot of guys in high school seemed to like me. Ryan said it was because I was “mysterious” and “not annoying.” A lot of girls in high school hated me and I think it’s because of the attention I got from boys. And because I was marked a “snob” on account of my reserve.

  Ryan was the first and only guy that I felt anything for. He was sweet and understanding. Very well-mannered. I knew he was a future Ivy Leaguer. We had been dating for two months when he asked me to his senior prom. I happily accepted, already mapping out in my mind how we might make a long-distance relationship work the following year.

  Ryan never came to pick me up that night, though. He didn’t answer his phone or my texts to him, either. When I called his house, his mother seemed surprised that I was expecting him. She stammered a little, confused, finally admitting that she thought we had broken up.

  I sat on that spiral staircase of our foyer for hours, my shoulders hunched, my mind confused, my heart in dejected pieces.

  When Sam arrived home, his face was a mask of calm. He gave nothing away—certainly no worry, no sympathy. Taking a seat next to me, he explained how this was for the best, how I was young and I shouldn’t be tying myself down. I said nothing, simply looking up at him. And then he trained narrowed gray eyes on me as he said, in an even tone, that he wasn’t pleased with the idea of me getting serious with anyone. That he kept his end of the deal by giving me everything I could ever want, by protecting me, by not leaving me alone in this world.

  I’ve always had a visceral need to please Sam.

  I heard through the grapevine that Ryan did end up at his prom, arriving solo, and leaving with my childhood nemesis, Becky Taylor. When I saw him in the hallway on Monday, he walked past me as if he didn’t even know me, but I couldn’t help notice that his back was rigid, his pace was quick, and his face was a shade of pale I wasn’t used to seeing on him. As if he were terrified by the sight of me.

  There was a flicker of a thought back then—that Sam could be involved with this strange twist in Ryan’s behavior—but I quickly dismissed it. I mean, Sam would never allow me to be hurt so much.

  Now, though, I can’t help but wonder if Sam was the reason I sat on those steps in a violet dress until midnight, my phone in my hands, miserable.

  It took me a while to get over Ryan, but I did, and there were other boys. All short-lived, all fumbling-in-the-dark notches in my senior-year belt. All guys that I dumped the second I felt any hint of emotion. And after what happened with Sal, I haven’t had much interest in anyone.

  Now this attractive blond man is ogling me like he wants to teach me all that a teenage boy can’t, and then some.

  “Ben! Back off.” Nate’s booming voice pulls Ben’s attention away from my face with a small scowl.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Ben mutters, sliding his arm off me. But he shoots a wink at me immediately after. Nate doesn’t seem to notice. He’s busy listening to something in his earpiece. Something funny, apparently, because a broad smile splits that intimidating face in two. “Hey, Ginger! Your ‘client’ is here.”

  I look back in time to see Ginger’s face twist with displeasure. She slams back a shot of something and then slaps a rag down onto the counter as she comes out from behind the bar. Marching past Ben, who’s doubled over with laughter, she points her fingers at the two amused bouncers and says, “You just remember this sacrifice when you’re sucking back a cold Heineken later tonight.” With a pause and a wink, she adds, “Maybe next time you guys can take one for the team.”

  That cuts Ben’s laughter off cold. “Oh, no,” he says, shaking his head fervently. “I only play for one team, and King Kong and that fucking third leg of his are not allowed to join in my game.”

  “Feeling inadequate?” Nate responds with a grin and a slap over Ben’s shoulder before his tone once again turns serious. “You better follow her back there for this.”

  Casting a lazy salute in my direction, Ben trails Ginger as she grabs her brown-haired dancer friend by the elbow and heads toward the V.I.P. rooms.

  There’s no need for me to get comfortable here, not knowing if I’ll be allowed back, so I decide to go home. I prefer being alone, anyway. I take a long, scalding-hot shower so that perhaps I can rid myself of this vile feeling before I get up on that stage and strip again tomorrow.

  And the next night.

  And the next night.

  I hope.

  chapter seven

  ■ ■ ■

  CAIN

  I grip my steering wheel with white-knuckled force. If I don’t slow down, I’m going to get pulled over or wrap my truck around the guardrail. Acknowledging this, my foot still doesn’t ease off the gas pedal.

  She dances just like Penny did.

  The style, the grace, the class.

  With a mournful smile and her eyes closed. Like she has a secret. Like her mind has disappeared off somewhere, like she’s imagining herself anywhere but on that stage.

  It’s a thing of rare beauty, the way her body smoothly swung and dipped and contorted, teasing the men without the need to lie spread-eagled or with he
r ass in the air like an everyday stripper.

  I was hard the second she stepped onto the stage. I was thinking of ways to get her in a private room when her top finally came off.

  I’m no better than Rick Cassidy or any of those other vultures.

  Finally releasing the breath I’m holding, I lift my foot off the gas pedal, slowing my Navigator to the legal limit. Deep down, I know that’s not true. I don’t condone the girls getting high to loosen themselves up for lap dances and private shows. I don’t take the girls for a test drive when I hire them, and I sure as hell don’t demand late-afternoon blow jobs. The dancers don’t even turn me on anymore. All I see are girls who need a second chance. Girls who need someone to protect them because no one ever has.

  The way I should have protected my sister.

  And Penny.

  But here’s a woman who I want. The second Ben started joking about how her breasts were too flawless to be natural and how he’d be finding out for himself later tonight, I told him he was fired, and I wasn’t kidding. He and Nate exchanged a what-the-fuck-is-wrong-with-him look and then I guess Ben clued in, because he asked what was going on between Charlie and me. I decided that I needed to leave before I made more of an ass of myself.

  So I bolted.

  I don’t know if I can handle knowing she’s doing that in my club daily. A temptation that I might not be able to ignore indefinitely because, dammit, this feeling is as addictive as a heroin high.

  Hiring her would be a bad idea.

  I acknowledge this even as I glance at the stack of papers sitting on my passenger seat. Charlie’s application, her identification, everything I need to forward to my investigator. Just looking at it, at the photocopy of her face, reminds me of my present discomfort. I adjust myself. It’s a little after eleven o’clock. Even with my normal four hours of sleep and a two-hour workout, tonight will be a fucking long night.

  I hit the dial button located on my steering wheel.

  ■ ■ ■

  “It’s been a while,” Rebecka purrs, sauntering through my front door. The woman’s voice has a crispness to it that borders on snotty. Until she’s screaming, anyway.

  “I’ve been busy,” I manage to get out around a mouthful of cognac.

  “I’m glad you called.” Flipping her hands through her jet-black hair, she adds, “Even though it’s late.”

  “I’m glad you came.”

  “And you will too, soon.” Blood rushes to my cock with her promise. Sharp blue eyes roam my cabinetry as she steps into the kitchen. “Property value has gone up. I could make you a ton of money if you sold now.” It was her real estate agency that sold this condo to me in the first place. Sometimes I think she keeps coming back as much for the business opportunity as the sex. I think she might just be that kind of woman.

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” I assure her in a dry tone as I watch her turn and stalk toward me slowly, a teasing smile on those red-painted lips of hers.

  Her fingers go right for my pants, deftly undoing the button and zipper. “You do that.”

  That will be the extent of our conversation for the night.

  In seconds, Rebecka is on her knees with those lips wrapped around me, taking my entire length in. With a groan, I set my glass down. Grabbing the back of her head with a hand, I pull her against me. Normally I would never do that to a woman, but Rebecka likes it.

  She asks me to do a lot of things other women might not like.

  Things that should give me a few hours of distraction before I have to decide what to do about Charlie.

  chapter eight

  ■ ■ ■

  CHARLIE

  “Charlie Rourke. Twenty-two . . .” Insipid brown eyes slide down my body as he does a slow circle around me. I’m down to nothing but my white thong underwear. He made me undress before any conversation began.

  Now, it’s all I can do to pace my breathing and not coil my arms around myself.

  With that swollen belly protruding beneath an ill-fitted green-and-white striped golf tee, Rick Cassidy looks like he could be suffering from the impossible: male pregnancy. But it’s not his belly that makes him so unappealing. It’s not even the tuft of hair climbing out the back of his shirt, or his disproportionately skinny legs, or the comb-over, or his misshapen nose, or his porn star mustache.

  It’s that phony smile—empty of authenticity, full of bad intentions—that makes my skin want to crawl into my bones. He’s everything I pictured a strip club owner would be. “You’re what . . .” Coming back around to face me, he reaches up to cup my left breast, giving it a rough squeeze. His breath reeks of stale coffee and cigarettes. “A C-cup?”

  I swallow my revulsion. Outside of female retail specialists at Victoria’s Secret, I’ve never had to answer that question. And they certainly never groped me while they asked. So long as he focuses his grabby attention above my waist, I can stomach it. “Yes, that’s right.”

  “And,” he says as his hand slides down to graze my abdomen with his knuckles, “I’d say maybe a twenty-two-inch waist.” He snorts. “Like your age.”

  Fighting the urge to shrink back from him, I distract myself by scanning the cramped office. There’s a small desk off in one corner, covered in folded newspapers and cans of Diet Coke. Most of the space is taken up by a worn brown sectional leather couch. One that looks well used. There’s no way I’m ever sitting on that. In the opposite corner, I find a camera pointing toward us, the red light flashing tells me that it’s recording this “interview.”

  Ugh.

  “Here,” I say, steadying my hand as I hold out a copy of my résumé. It seems ridiculous, offering him my information now, but I may as well since I’ve gone to all the trouble of making it up. “I worked in Vegas, at—”

  “Don’t care,” Rick dismisses with a wave of his hand as he saunters over to the couch. “As long as you can give a good lap dance, you’re hired.” When he turns to face me—revealing a wide grin and a set of crooked front teeth—his fat fingers already have his belt undone and his zipper down.

  It only takes another second for those department store khakis to slide down to his knees. His black boxers follow next with the help of his hands, and my wide eyes automatically drop to see the veiny repulsion sticking out. Now I do wince. I can’t help it. Letting himself fall back into the couch with a smile of anticipation, he says, “Come show me how much you want a job at Sin City . . . and lose the panties.”

  It’s still dark when I bolt upright in bed, drenched in sweat, struggling for air, shaking with disgust. That’s the second time I’ve had that nightmare.

  No, not nightmare. Memory. Because it happened.

  Exactly. Like. That.

  Thank God it had ended with me throwing on my dress—skipping the bra—and running out the door. But, if Cain doesn’t hire me for this job, the nightmare may very well have a new ending soon. I need this job. It has to be Penny’s.

  ■ ■ ■

  “You’re a skeevy bastard!”

  At least I have some entertainment from my neighbors.

  If I can piece together the last five days at this place, it sounds like the guy has issues keeping his pants on with any and all willing females and the couple is trying to work their marital problems out with verbal abuse and flying objects. They usually make up by noon. Then I get to listen to them have wild monkey makeup sex. Today sounds more hostile, though, so I think she caught him in another compromising position last night.

  I moved to this small studio apartment two weeks ago. With its sunny-colored stucco walls and red tile roof, the building looked approachable. Cozy, even. It was the low rent that won me over, though. The extended-stay hotel was costing thousands per month and, though Sam ensured I had more than enough to cover it, I decided that the whole I-need-enough-money-to-disappear-off-the-face-of-the-earth plan required extreme changes to
my lifestyle. So, I quietly moved here. As far as Sam knows, I’m still at the extended stay.

  Right now, I really wish I were.

  Maybe I went a little too extreme.

  Something loud hits the wall next to my bed. I’m picturing a skillet. I’m hoping it’s not a head. I’d call the cops and report it, but I don’t need them on my doorstep asking me any questions or taking my name. So I wait, crossing my fingers that someone else makes the call.

  As I do, I check for any responses to my many chat-room inquiries. I know that I need a new identity. I just don’t know the first thing about getting one. The internet seems like the best place to start my research. Unfortunately, I’ve gotten absolutely nowhere. Not even a little nudge in the right direction. Aside from one guy telling me that my problems can’t be that bad and another one offering to send me pictures of his penis, I’ve had no response.

  And today . . . nothing.

  But I have time to figure things out, I tell myself. It’s not as if I have the money right now, anyway.

  Dragging myself out of bed to the tune of “you and your filthy dick can go straight to hell!” I stagger to the fridge to pour myself a glass of orange juice, keeping an eye on the liquid as it pours. I learned the hard way that roaches are common in low-rental apartment buildings, that they can get into a poorly maintained fridge, and that you should stick to screw-top jugs versus cartons or you may find brown corpses floating inside.

  The day I learned that hard lesson, I also had a mini-meltdown before coming to terms with my situation. I’d rather deal with roaches here than roaches in a federal penitentiary for the next twenty-five to life.

  This is a means to an end.

  I’m savoring the cold liquid, rejoicing in the small miracle that I feel less vile about last night after some sleep, when a sudden hard rapping sounds against my door. It startles me and I freeze, my mouth full of juice.

  No one visits me. No one knows where I live. This must be a mistake.

  But what if it isn’t? What if Sam found out that I moved? I don’t think he’ll be happy. He’s always saying how important it is for us to tell each other the truth. Ironic, given that we speak in code and never truly admit to anything. What will Sam do when he finds out? The prospect makes my heart begin racing. On tiptoes, I scurry to the door and peer through the tiny peephole to find a dark-haired man with sunglasses on.