Trophy Wife Page 2

  * * *

  Flying. A hundred hours of practice, and the action is seamless as my heels fly through the air, my momentum perfect, one leg hooking on the pole, my speed increasing as I spin once, twice, three times, my muscles tightening on the pole, my speed slowing in perfect cadence with the beat, and I release the final ounce of breath in the moment I land.

  * * *

  I am reckless on a pole, trusting my legs and arms in a way certain to cause damage. It is a lover I hate and I ride it relentlessly, caressing it in a sensual way that leaves nothing to the imagination. The beat moves through me and I get lost in its strength, pulsating against steel, spinning away only to return to it, my heels a blur of clear sparkle, my thoughts lost in the movement.

  * * *

  Everything is a swirl of bright lights, the dark back wall of the stage, the glossy black of the floor, the chrome of the pole. I can’t see the stranger or those blue eyes, can’t see the men who protect him, or the glow of his cigar, the five-o-clock shadow that had coated his jaw, or the dark clean lines of his suit.

  * * *

  My bra is the first victim. One quick unclasp, the release of heavy breasts as I spin slowly downward, my legs suspending my body upside down above the hard floor. One outward fling, and sparkles and black sequins become airborne and joyful in their flight. I keep my panties on, the thin fabric the only thing between me and the pole.

  * * *

  When the final beat hits, I am panting, my back against the pole, my legs trembling slightly from the performance. The lights flicker off and my eyes move, traveling across the empty room and over to his. The eye contact is terrifying, the cigar tight in his mouth, a fierce look in his eyes. It is more than simple arousal, a hungry and possessive stare that rips pieces of me off and marks them as his, each dagger of eye contact laced with blatant desire that he makes no attempt to hide.

  * * *

  “Come here,” he commands.

  * * *

  I move carefully down the stage’s steps, my sky-high stilettos wobbling slightly on their downward descent. Then I am before him, watching as his hand moves, adjusting himself, the hard line of his cock outlined in his pants. He glances down at it, then at me. “Suck me off.”

  * * *

  I hesitate, the look in his eyes intoxicating, a vivid blue that commands. Against my tongue, the questions formulate. How much? What about your security? I swallow the questions, along with the sentences that I typically say. I’m not a prostitute. How about a dance instead? I don’t want to dance for this man. I want, more than anything, to unzip his pants and wrap my lips around his cock. I want to feel the arousal, to know that it is all caused by me, to know that this beautiful wealthy man finds me attractive. Despite the shitty club, or my worn-out bikini. I fall to my knees, the carpet scratchy against my bare skin, another reminder that what I’m doing is wrong. I think whoever picked it out had us in mind, wanted every stripper in this place punished whenever we fell to our knees and broke the sacred rule that everyone in VIP loves to ignore.

  * * *

  My hands work the smooth leather of his belt, the zipper of his pants. I flick my eyes up, glancing behind him, where motionless and silent, the two bodyguards stand, their eyes forward and hands clasped. I look back to him, pulling apart the top of his dress pants. He is wearing thin boxer briefs, and I slide my hand into them, a hiss coming from his mouth when I wrap my grip around his cock.

  * * *

  “Your hands are cold. Just use your mouth.” There is a slight break in his words, a catch in the vowel that gives me confidence, my eyes closing as I tilt the stiff length of him toward me and lower my mouth to his tip.

  * * *

  He’s big in my mouth, my lips sliding over rock hard thickness. He groans and I place my hands on his thighs, working my mouth up and down his shaft, taking him as deep as I can manage before withdrawing, the sounds of the blowjob loud in the quiet room.

  * * *

  There is the creak of leather as he settles back against the couch, his thighs flexing under my palms. “Keep going.” I do, my lips stretched around his thick length, his cock flexing against my tongue. Minutes pass, and then I feel his hands, firm on the back of my head, pulling himself deeper into my mouth. He growls and his cock twitches, his cum filling my mouth, his grip tilting back my head, his eyes capturing mine as he finishes, intense blue orbs of possession locked on me. Then his eyes close and his head drops back, his cock pumping one final release into my mouth.

  * * *

  I pull slowly off of him, moving backward on my knees, my attempt to stand uncoordinated, my left foot choosing an inopportune time to fall asleep. One of his bodyguards steps forward, helping me to my feet, a fold of crisp bills discreetly pressed into my palm. I don’t know who he’s hiding it from. There are only four of us in this room, and every one of us was an audience to what I just did.

  * * *

  I glance toward the man, who is sliding his belt into the clasp. He looks away, making eye contact with the other bodyguard. “Let’s go.”

  * * *

  Of all of tonight’s words, those two cut the hardest. Even more than suck me. I feel cheap and used, the fat roll of cash burning at my palm, and if I was a stronger woman, I’d give the money back.

  * * *

  But I’m not a stronger woman. I’m a broke idiot of a girl who needs rent money and who has been in this same place a half dozen times before. At least most of the men thank me. Most ask for a hug, or a kiss, or at least fake kindness.

  * * *

  I watch them leave, and I am suddenly alone in the room. I open up my palm, my fingers slowly moving through the bills. A thousand dollars.

  * * *

  It doesn’t seem like enough for my dignity.

  CHAPTER 3

  I leave a hundred dollars on the dining room table, along with a check for the rest of the rent. The house is dark, snores coming from Dibs room, and I step into the bathroom, turning on the shower and stripping in the middle of the tight spot.

  * * *

  I don’t know what I expected. That he would pull me to my feet and onto his lap? That he would nuzzle my neck and plant kisses on my mouth, and ask me on a date? He was probably on I-10 right now, his limo headed somewhere else. Or on a private plane, the Destin airport just a stop in his flight plan. A short stop for gas. Something to eat. A blowjob and dance.

  * * *

  I test the water with my hand and step under the spray, pulling the curtain closed, the rings rattling against the rod. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, putting my face under the water. If only he hadn’t been so beautiful. It’s easier to forget the ugly assholes that leer while adjusting their beer gut. This man … I come up for air, wiping the water out of my eyes, my fingertips black from the mascara. This man had been painful in his perfection, his intensity only enhancing his fierce good looks. He is probably married. A father. He probably has some perfect model in a mansion sleeping on thousand-dollar sheets and waiting for his return. No way a man makes it to his age without being snatched up.

  * * *

  Not that it matters. He didn’t come into Sammy’s looking for a wife. He came into Sammy’s looking for exactly what he got. I squeeze some face wash into my palm.

  * * *

  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 undernea
th 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.

  * * *

  We haven’t had a rich old guy in quite some time. Coco came close to nabbing one, had a pasty white ancient who was all about her ethnic curves. But he died, mid-fuck, a heart attack yanking his life away as she rode up and down his scrawny body. His family was less than accommodating, kicking her out of his mansion with no ride home, and no invitation to the funeral.

  * * *

  This guy is too young to be my love story, too handsome, too perfect to have any part in the rest of my life. His type marries blue blood heiresses who keep their cardigans clean and their sex cleaner. This invitation to leave with him is not the start of a love story. It’s just sex, in a location less public than our VIP couch. Sex for money, the amount seemingly up for discussion. With this man, I am willing to break my No Sex Rule, my body desperate for his touch – my bank account in bad need of a cash infusion. He'd paid a thousand dollars for a blow job. How much will he pay for an evening?

  * * *

  Our back room reeks of lotion and perfume. I open my locker and grab the worn Michael Kors bag—one purchased on a girl’s trip to New York sophomore year, back when a new student loan replenished any shortage of funds, and credit card limits increased every time I asked. I check my phone, and grab a peppermint, twisting the plastic ties and popping the mint into my mouth.

  * * *

  “You going somewhere?” A South Carolina drawl coats the syllables, the accent one that can only belong to one person—Nikki.

  * * *

  I yank a bright blue minidress off a hanger and turn to the petite redhead, who grips an open SlimFast can and a half-eaten Milky Way bar.

  * * *

  “Leaving early.” I work my
arms into the dress and pull it over my head.

  * * *

  “With that guy?” Jealousy is never pretty, but on Nikki, it comes dipped in kerosene, with a blowtorch in hand. I won't be surprised, if the moment I turn my back, she dials the cops and turns me in for prostitution.

  * * *

  “He’s an ex-boyfriend,” I lie, and it’s a moment of pure brilliance, her features falling in disappointment before her glittery lips slide back into a smile.