Stripped From You: (Stripped Duet #1) Page 19

  I pause for a few beats; I know what needs to come next. My heart is pounding so hard I think it’s bruising the inside of my chest. She bites her lip as she looks down at me. She’s already undressed me with her eyes. I take a deep breath and stand.

  “Unbutton them,” I say, and she reaches up and makes quick work of my fly. I turn out to the rest of the room and dance a few seconds more, teasing the women in the crowd. Hey, if I’m going to do this, I’m going to do it right. They egg me on. I see Daniel, Divan, Logan, and Shayne watching me intently.

  Here goes nothing.

  I grab two fistfuls of fabric, pause for a heartbeat, and then rip my pants completely off.

  It sounds like the inside of a sports arena. The cheers are deafening. The song ends, and women rush the stage. Money is being thrown at me from every direction. But I can’t move. I can’t believe what I just did. I actually went through with it.

  And surprisingly, I didn’t hate it. Why didn’t I hate it?

  Divan grabs my arms and tows me off the stage.

  “Holy shit, man. Where the hell did that come from?” his dark eyes are big and round.

  I look at him blankly. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “I have never seen a crowd respond to anyone like that. They bum rushed the stage! They loved you!” A gleaming smile appears on his face once we’re back in the staging room.

  I shrug cluelessly, still trying to process what the fuck just happened.

  It’s just me and my good ole’ friend Johnny.

  Johnny Walker Black that is. The male revue has cleared out, and I have been drowning my sorrows ever since. What the fuck just happened? Did I really just hit the bottom of the barrel and become a stripper? And why, if it is the bottom of the barrel, did I like it so much? I pour myself another shot. I wonder if I can make it to the bottom of this bottle. I drop my head onto my arm. I bet I could. I’d probably be dead afterwards, but I betcha I could. I slam the shot. One of the other guys handed me a piece of paper after the show. I couldn’t leave the staging room until everyone was gone. So here I sit, reading the words.

  I want to play with magic.

  Your Dark Horse, Cassandra. Xx

  Not happening, honey. I couldn’t touch her even if I wanted to. She looks too much like my past. Like my demon. Like my goddess. I take another shot. It burns going down. I wonder what Alana would think if she saw me now? An ex-con stripping for a living. Letting her go was the smartest choice and dumbest decision I’ve ever made.

  Fuck the glass. I drink straight from the bottle.

  “There’s only two reasons a man drinks like that.” Lorenzo takes a seat next to me and the chair creaks.

  “Oh yeah? Do tell,” I mock.

  “Money and women.” He ignores my tone. “Which is yours?”

  I grip the Johnny Walker bottle. I wish everyone would just leave me the fuck alone.

  “Okay, I’ll guess then. Woman.”

  I scowl at Lorenzo. “No, no woman.”

  “Is that your don’t fuck with me face?” Lorenzo laughs. “It’s cute. It makes me want to pet you like a kitten.” I glare. “Did she leave you?”

  “No. It isn’t like that. It’s just... over.”

  Lorenzo grabs the bottle and takes a swig. “Only one person decides when it’s over.”

  “And who’s that?”

  “The man upstairs. Until then, everything else is fair game.”

  “Are you, like, some holy roller or something?” I ask sourly.

  “No, just a believer,” he rumbles.

  “I fucking destroyed it. So, trust me when I say, it’s over.” I take the bottle back and put it to my lips. “Tonight, I danced my first striptease, and I didn’t hate it. What does that say about me?”

  “You’re a born entertainer?”

  “I’m... I don’t know what the fuck I am.” I stare off into space.

  “You’re human, just like the rest of us. We make mistakes, we find out things about ourselves we never knew, and we adapt.”

  “Well, aren’t you insightful,” I gripe. “Do I also get to rub your belly for good luck, Buddha?”

  “Now that I would pay to see,” Divan butts in. He walks behind the bar and stands in front of us.

  “What you’re about to see is me put this miserable, cheeky bastard in a headlock,” Lorenzo threatens.

  “Go ahead.” I’m dying for a fight. Even if I have no chance of winning.

  “How about instead of violence we drink?” Divan suggests.

  “Already there.” I tip my bottle at him, halfway to hammered.

  “What should we drink to?” Divan pulls out a bottle of Captain Morgan.

  “Women, money, redemption, and second chances,” Lorenzo suggests.

  “Sounds good to me!” Divan pours two shots of rum for him and Lorenzo. I stick with my bottle of JW. “For you, big man.” He pushes a small glass with amber liquid forward for Lorenzo, then picks up his own. “To Jack the Stripper and his big, bright, star-studded future.”

  I roll my eyes and go to drink.

  Divan tsks me. “What about your toast?”

  I curl my lip. Lorenzo nudges me with his mammoth elbow. I almost fly off the chair. “Fine.” I hold myself steady, and then raise my bottle. “To... demons and goddesses.”

  Divan and Lorenzo both glance at each other curiously before downing their shots.

  “All right man. You have to explain what that’s about,” Divan insists.

  “It’s a long story.”

  “We’ve got time. And plenty of alcohol.” He motions to the buffet of bottles behind him.

  This could be dangerous on all accounts.

  I glance back and forth between Divan and Lorenzo, reluctant to talk.

  “You are a master of suspense, you know that?” Divan chuckles. “Just spill it. Ain’t no one going to judge you here.”

  I polish off the rest of the Johnny Walker in one gulp. “Open another one,” I tell Divan.

  Seconds later, I hear the top crack. My head is swimming in intoxication as he places the bottle in front of me.

  “Her name is Alana,” I haphazardly begin.

  It’s the last thing I remember from the night.

  Birth Day

  “What the fuck?” Mac’s voice echoes like a sonic boom through my head.

  I crack open one eye. It’s morning, I think. I groan; the light feels like it’s trying to crush my skull with its bare hands.

  “What the fuck, what?” I croak. My throat is on fire. I guess two bottles of Johnny Walker will do that to you.

  “What the fuck was up with Taye Diggs and Fat Joe dropping you at our doorstep at five a.m. this morning?”

  I shrug. I’m lying face down on the couch, and I think that’s how I’m going to stay. Forever. I feel like death.

  “You smell like a brewery, you have no shirt on, and what are these?” He snaps my G-string.

  I jump. “Hey! That hurts!”

  “So, let me reiterate. What. The. Fuck?”

  I shift my leg. I’m wearing pants. How does he know what’s underneath them? I glance down to find my jeans literally tearing at the seams. I’m still wearing Jimmy’s specially made pants.

  “Mac?” I hear Ashley’s voice. “I have to go.”

  “Okay, babe,” he replies irritated, and I’m not sure if it’s directed at me or her. “Stay right there. I don’t want you seeing the mess of a man in front of me.”

  Ashley giggles.

  He walks around the couch, and I hear the front door open. They whisper about something, and then they’re kissing. Like loud, sopping wet kisses.

  “Get a room!” I complain.

  “Shut the fuck up over there,” Mac snaps. Then the door closes.

  “Can you get me some OJ?” I beg, before he launches an FBI-sized interrogation.

  I sit up, and I think my head weighs three times more than my body. I’m going to die.

  Mac hands me the orange juice, and I
take a sip. It does wonders for my throat, but not a damn thing for my stomach. I will not throw up.

  Mac sits next to me on the couch and drops his head in his hands.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you?” I ask as the world spins.

  “Ashley.”

  “What about her?”

  “She might be leaving.”

  “To go where?”

  “California. She applied for a fellowship. She graduates in May.”

  “And this upsets you?” I pry. Mac isn’t one to get attached. I don’t think in all the time I’ve known him he’s ever had a steady girlfriend. Ashley is the closest he’s come.

  He huffs. “You know when I first met her, she was this mousy girl. She wore glasses and baggy clothes.” The girl he’s describing is definitely not the one who just left this apartment. “But she was cool, you know. I liked talking to her, even if it was just briefly.”

  “And now you’re head over heels in love with her, and it’s killing you that you might not be able to keep her.” I feel compelled to communicate to Mac exactly what he’s feeling.

  He lifts his head and looks at me. His elbows still resting on his knees. “How the hell did you do it, man? How did you just walk away?”

  “It doesn’t feel like I walked away.” I vacantly take another sip of juice. “Sometimes it feels like I was stripped away.”

  “Whatever it feels like, I don’t know how I’m going to handle it if she leaves.”

  “You can always go with her,” I suggest offhandedly.

  Mac looks at me like I just discovered the cure for cancer. “I never thought of that.”

  “That’s why you need me. I think for you.” I grin.

  “Whatever.” He shoves me, and I groan. My brain vibrates, and my stomach rolls.

  “If you want to avoid me throwing up in your lap, I suggest you don’t touch me again.”

  “I hear that. So, are you going to tell me what the fuck happened last night?”

  I chew on the inside of me cheek. “I stripped.”

  “You fucking didn’t.”

  I nod. “Then I got piss-drunk.”

  Mac is staring at me dumbfounded.

  “What ever possessed you?”

  “They needed someone to fill in.”

  “So you offered?” He’s flabbergasted.

  “No. They sort of forced me. But then I did it. And I don’t know. It was fun. Liberating almost.”

  “So, you’re a stripper now?” Mac’s green eyes are wide and questioning.

  “Maybe?” I shrug.

  “You know, when I got you this job, it was to make some money and get laid. Not start a career in professional clothing removal.”

  “I didn’t exactly plan it. And I don’t even know if I’ll do it again.”

  “Do you have a stage name?” Mac is making serious fun of me now.

  “Jack the Stripper.” I drop my head. It’s ridiculous.

  Mac barks a laugh. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. My roommate is the serial killer of the adult entertainment world. Slaying panties one striptease at a time.”

  There is a line of women standing outside of Culture when I arrive.

  Divan and Lorenzo are trying to corral the crowd as I walk up.

  “What’s up with all this?”

  It’s not unusual for Lorenzo to be guarding the front door. He’s the gatekeeper, but Divan is usually inside helping Daniel with whatever needs to be done. It’s a first for me to see him playing security guard.

  “New circus act,” Lorenzo says, and his insinuation makes me suspicious. “Boss man wants to see you,” he tells me as he lights a cigarette, “Like yesterday.”

  “You know those things will kill you,” I goad as I stroll past him.

  “No one asked for your snarky opinion.” He blows smoke in my face.

  Dick.

  Divan walks in with me and follows as I make my way to Daniel’s office. “Do I need a personal escort?”

  “No, I just wanted to tell you that everything is cool. Last night made me understand some things. Like why you bugged when Shayne touched you.”

  “Yeah, well jail does fucked-up things to people.”

  “I know that’s true.” Divan grabs my arm before I walk into Daniel’s office. “Just try to remember you’re not inside anymore. And even felons deserve to be happy.”

  I stare at him. Last night is still a little fuzzy. I don’t remember how much I told Divan and Lorenzo, but judging by his tone and grip on my arm, I suspect I revealed way more skeletons than I would have sober.

  I knock, then poke my head in Daniel’s office. He’s sitting behind his desk with his feet up, looking through some paperwork. He’s wearing that stupid cowboy hat and a pair of outlandish snakeskin cowboy boots.

  “Take a seat, kid.”

  I walk in and plop myself in the leather chair opposite him. I’m ready for a lecture of some kind. Something along the lines of how I royally screwed up last night. How I hesitated. Or didn’t do the right kind of moves. I’m prepared for whatever he’s going to throw my way. I didn’t want to do it in the first place, so it’s on him if I fucked up.

  He tosses the thick wad of paperwork down in front of me.

  “Contract,” he says.

  “Contract for what?”

  He sits up straight in his chair. “All rights to the name Jack the Stripper and a three-year deal to dance here exclusively.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “There’s a five thousand dollar signing bonus, too.”

  “What?” I choke. Okay, so maybe I underestimated myself when I said I was prepared for anything Daniel was going to throw my way. Because I sure as hell wasn’t expecting this.

  “You’re a natural, kid. Did you see that line at the door? They’re all here to see you.”

  “Me?”

  A new circus act.

  “Well, you and Jack. So, what do you say?” Daniel’s eyes are alight with dollar signs.

  “I say when the hell did you have time to write up a contract?”

  “I had it drafted last night after your performance.”

  I pick up the contract and flip through it. “You’re serious about this?”

  Daniel leans forward. “There are two things I never joke about, and money is the other one. You’re going to make yourself, and me, a ton. So, sign on the dotted line and let’s get started. You have a heap of raw talent, and I can help you harness it.”

  A professional stripper? Me?

  “Don’t think too much about it, kid. Stigma is the silent killer of hopes and dreams.”

  “Well, lucky for you, I don’t have any hopes or dreams at the moment, so why the fuck not?” I pick up a pen and sign my life away.

  Jack the Stripper has officially been born.

  The Lady Killers

  I went from mailroom clerk to CEO with one swipe of a pen.

  The hierarchy at Culture differs greatly from any other club I’ve worked at. Usually, bartenders are the top of the food chain. Here, they’re the bottom of the totem pole. The performers (that’s me now, in case you forgot) have full access to the entire club. The VIP rooms, the dance quarter, the B&B, and wherever else they feel like “entertaining”. Then there’s the Commons. These are the guys who can give private dances and engage with patrons on the floor. Lastly, there are the servers and bartenders. As you know, bartenders do their fair share of putting on a show. But it pales in money and comparison to what the Commons and Performers do. Daniel is VERY particular. It took a ton of convincing on my part to have Shayne promoted to Common. But once Daniel gave him a shot, there was no looking back. Shayne became one of the most sought-after dancers in the club.

  Next to me, of course.

  I’ve been working at Culture for seven months. Here, I’m Jack. And I’m free. Jack never went to prison. Jack isn’t estranged from his family. Jack never destroyed love. Jack has no regrets.

  Now, being Jack hasn’t exactly been a cake walk. It’s fun. I
t’s liberating. But it is also humbling. Especially when your first private dance is an epic fail. I don’t know what happened. I think I psyched myself out. My moves were awkward and robotic. My heart wasn’t in it, and I scolded myself every chance I got. Luckily for me, the girl I was dancing for was one of the coolest chicks on the planet. She giggled the whole time. She even tried to coach me, but nothing helped. We ended up just talking, and it connected us somehow.

  “When you said you were working at a nightclub, this is not what I imagined.” I know that voice. It’s the carbon copy of mine. I turn around to find Sean standing behind me. I haven’t seen my brother since the day I punched him in the face. We text every now and again, but I’ve kept my distance. I guess not even Jack is immune to Ryan’s problems.

  “Well, what did you imagine?”

  “Not this.” He eyes one of the guys walking past us dressed in nothing but tiny blue shorts.

  “It pays the bills.” I turn toward the bar and ask one the bartenders for a shot. Something strong.

  I down the brown alcohol. Jack Daniels, yuck. “What are you doing here?” I cut to the quick with Sean. I’m not too happy to see him, but I’m not all that upset either. I fucking hate admitting this, but as much shit as my family’s put me through, there are still times I miss him and my mom.

  “I wanted to check on you.” He throws a ten on the bar and orders a beer. “It’s been too long. I miss my brother.”

  “Did you miss me while I was doing time?” Your time?

  “You at least talked to me then. This silence shit sucks.” He swigs his beer.

  “I’m angry, Sean.” No reason to beat around the bush.

  “I know. We both know.” He takes another sip. There’s a long pause. Nothing is said as the music pounds and people loiter around us.

  “She isn’t drinking as much as you think,” Sean finally pronounces as he picks at the label on his beer bottle.

  “Oh really? Cause when I came home that day, it looked like she bought out an entire liquor store.”

  “She was nervous.”

  “Stop defending her.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Of course, you are. You always have. You have a connection with her I’ll never have.”