A Ballad of Betrayal and Beauty (Carnal Sins #3)

1. Cherry Bomb

CHAPTER 1

Cherry Bomb

DUSTY

T he only reason men are worth putting up with is their money. If I didn’t need it to survive, I’d turn around and walk out of this club in these impossible heels. But I can’t. Rent is due and while I have enough money stashed away in my dresser at home to cover my share, I still need to eat. Besides, I’m no one’s charity case. And I’ll never let myself rely on the word of a man to save me ever again—no matter what.

My head pounds, each throb made all the more potent by the flashing lights. The good mood I brought with me to work tonight is gone, and I’m dreading my stage time, even if it’s the best moneymaker around here. Hopefully security followed through because the thought of him here, watching me. Him seeing me . . . I don’t need to see pity in anyone’s eyes—especially his. It’s too painful.

I’m not ashamed of being a stripper. The money is great and I’ve made friends, and while it’s not as glamorous as it looks, it pays the bills. I survive here. But what he said crawls under my skin, and I just can’t get it out of my head.

Let me save you.

I scoff. I don’t need saving, never have. I’m twenty-three years old and know how to take care of myself. How dare he? After everything? All types of guys come in here. The jerks who believe they can own you, for a few bucks. The lonely ones looking for a girlfriend for the night. The married guys who aren’t getting it at home so they come here for a little release. And while they’re rare, there are also the ones with the savior complex. The ones who think this job is the lowest of the low and that I’m just waiting for a knight in shining armor to appear in this godforsaken strobe-lit club.

Well, news flash. This isn’t a fairy tale. I don’t need some guy who thinks he understands me to walk in and make me feel like shit. Besides, Vegas is the best place to be for a stripper. The endless supply of men willing to throw all their money at you is staggering, and the nightlife never quits. Why would I want to leave?

Let me save you.

Ugh, I feel like punching something. I push through the swing door into the back to give myself a once-over and calm down before I head onstage. Nausea rolls in my stomach and my hands shake.

“You okay, Cherry?”

I look up at the sound of my stage name, my eyes locking on Mandy in the mirror, standing behind me. I shrug. “Just some entitled prick I let get to me. That’s all.”

She comes around to lean on the counter. “Want me to tell security to throw him out?”

My red curls tumble down my back as I shake my head. “No, I handled it. He wasn’t—” How do I even explain myself? “He wasn’t getting handsy or anything. Just said something that bothered me. That’s all.”

She turns to look over her shoulder at herself in the mirror and wipes some of the smudged lipstick from the corner of her lips. “Okay, well, you’re up next, right?”

I plaster on a bright smile, fluffing up my hair as high as it’ll go atop my head. “Yup.”

She hip-checks me and heads back toward the door with a wink. “Break a leg.”

My smile falls once she’s gone, and I take a deep breath. I can do this. I shake out my limbs and stretch my neck from side to side before adjusting the neon green fishnet mini dress over my itty bitty string bikini top and thong. It barely covers my nipples and my bare butt cheeks rub against the mesh fabric of the dress in a satisfying way. I wipe away the mascara from my undereyes and reapply my red lipstick.

“Next up, gentlemen, please give it up for our fire engine bombshell, Cherry!” the announcer calls, and my stomach swoops.

I straighten my spine and give myself a hard look. “Get your money, girl.” Then I turn around and push through the doors toward the stage.

As I swing my hips, the sound of the whistling from the crowd chases my nerves away a little. At least it’s dark in here; if I focus on one face in the crowd, I won’t have to envision him .

My eyes are fixed on the silver pole in the middle of the stage, and I climb the treacherous stairs in my sky-high heels. The lights are warm on my glittery skin as I wrap my fingers around the pole and stick out my left leg in a pose as I wait for the music.

One face . . . just one . . .

There’s a man sitting at the very end of the long narrow stage, and I’m immediately struck by how gorgeous he is. His dark hair hangs long and thick past his shoulders, and his cheekbones are so sharp they could cut glass. I hope this guy’s got cash to burn, because I think I just found my target for the night.

“Cherry Bomb” by The Runaways starts to blast through the speakers, and I wrap my leg around the pole, falling into a slow spin. I lean forward, my breasts hanging heavily as I smile at him. He swallows hard, his dark eyes flitting over every square inch of me he can see. I run my hands up my thighs, over my breasts, and up into my hair as my inner thighs clench around the pole. I let my head fall, my back arching until I spot the man from my upside-down vantage point. He leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees, his eyes intense and ever-watchful as I dance for him.

I lift myself back up and allow the spinning pole to twist my body down onto the stage floor. Rolling over on my hips, I spread my legs right toward him as my body turns so he knows he’s the chosen one. The other men lining the stage reach forward to tuck their bills into any exposed part of me they can reach, and while I take it all, I never break my gaze with him.

He grins as I crawl across the stage toward him. My god, that kind of smile breaks hearts, I know it—and I bet he does too. When I near the end of the stage, I turn to lie on my back, my hair falling over the edge of the stage into his lap. Lifting my legs, I watch his face as he follows the way my legs point to the ceiling. How they kick and roll, then spread, and I smirk as he goes a bit cross-eyed—like he’s trying to assign an eye to each leg.

I watch him laugh at himself before he slides a twenty-dollar bill between my breasts.

His gaze finds mine, and I bite my lip. I wonder what kind of man this one is. Lonely? A jerk? Married? Hopefully, he’s not another savior.

I pull myself up, chest first, then use the pole to stand. I do another sweep as the men hold out their money, stuffing it through the holes in my fishnet over my ass. Turning back to my gorgeous stranger, I wink at him so he knows he’s special. That I’ll be back for him when I’m done with these losers. Sure enough, as the song ends, I make sure to pose right in front of him, lay my body back in a long sultry pose.

There’s an eruption of wolf whistles and applause as I stand, heading for the stairs. The man sits back in his chair as though inviting me over. Good, I was coming anyway. Walking toward him, I finally get a good look at what he’s wearing. Okay, definitely not some douchey clown with a flipped-up collar and pushed-up blazer sleeves. No, this guy is into music. Metal music, from the graphic on his T-shirt and the ghoulish tattoos covering his arms and neck.

But before I can reach my mark, a man in an expensive suit with slicked-back hair blocks my path. “Cherry, baby,” he says, “what’s a guy gotta do to get that ass rubbing my dick?”

Can the mind vomit?

I blink and take care not to breathe too deeply as the amount of cologne wafting off this creep might choke me. I press my lips together in a pained smile and place a hand on my hip. “Oh darlin’, I save that for my private dances, but afraid I have somewhere?—”

“Let’s go then,” he says, then grasps my wrist and pulls me toward the black velvet door.

“Sir, you can’t just grab me,” I say, pulling against his tight grip. Looking over my shoulder, I spot my handsome stranger watching me, the smile on his face vanishing the longer I’m detained by this dickhead.

“Come on, Red, I’m good for the money,” he argues, fanning a display of twenties like playing cards. My eyes latch on the bills, realizing that this guy alone could fill my nightly goal. But that cologne . . . It’s cheap, which means he is too, and however much he has in his hand doesn’t mean he’ll hand it over willingly. Besides, he’s a fucking scumbag.

I manage to wriggle free and step back. His face contorts, as though he can’t possibly understand why I’m not running toward that door with him to “rub my ass” on his dick. “Sorry, but I have another date to see first.”

Turning back, I sigh with relief when I see my long-haired admirer still sitting in his chair, staring down the neck of his beer bottle. I stop when I’m standing between his spread knees, and he does a double take when he sees me.

“Hey, darlin’,” I say over the blare of the next song. “How’re ya doin’ tonight?”

“Much better now that you’re here,” he says, his voice a rich baritone. “I, uh . . . thought maybe you were busy.”

I scoff. “With who? Victor Von Douche?” I ask, tilting my head back to where I’m sure that lump of a man is staring after me, in shock that he couldn’t buy my attention.

He grins, that smile lighting up his face. “He really is, isn’t he?”

“May I sit with you?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

“Hell yeah.” He gestures at the next chair, but I turn, sitting down in his lap, propped up on his strong thigh. His eyes widen, a smile growing on his face.

I loop my arms around his neck and lean in, my lips grazing the shell of his ear. “Did ya like my dance?” I whisper.

He blinks slowly. “I like everything about you, princess. I could watch you dance all night.”

I wiggle my hips on his lap and watch as the muscles in his jaw tense. It makes this gorgeous man even more beautiful.

“Maybe you’d like a private show.”

“How much will that run me?” he asks.

I hum, then push him back in the chair, leaning forward so that my breasts are flush against his chest. His eyes bounce just enough to tell me he’s hooked. “Five bucks a song. Or three for twelve.”

“Right,” he says, reaching down to his pocket. My eyes widen when he pulls out a stack of cash, and I have to bite my cheek to keep from squealing. “Guess that means I can have you all night then, Cherry.”

Winner, winner, chicken dinner.

“Come with me then, darlin’.” With one last roll of my hips, I stand and grab his hand, easing him off his chair. He follows along behind me as I head toward the private rooms, the heat of him blazing against my back.

“Wait, I should tell my friend . . .” He trails off, stopping to look around.

I follow his gaze. With two, I can make double. But after searching for a solid minute, my new date shakes his head.

“Ah, fuck it. Asshole’s probably already found himself some entertainment.”

Bummer. Oh well, this guy’s got enough cash to make sure I can eat for a month. I wink at one of the bouncers as we approach, and he moves aside to let us through the velvet-adorned black door. Finding the first room free, I lead the man in behind me before shutting the door.

This room, like all the others, has tufted leather bench seats, a table in the middle, and a phone hanging on the wall to call to the bar—or, in rare circumstances, security if anyone gets out of hand. I don’t think my handsome stranger will be a problem tonight, though.

“Have a seat,” I say, slipping my hand from his and looking back over my shoulder. “Should I call for some drinks?”

He sinks into the leather bench, and I’m surprised when he shakes his head. “Maybe later. Got a pretty good buzz going on and don’t want to fuck with that.”

Right, because he plans to keep me for a while. I could think of worse ways to spend an evening. Besides, when guys get too drunk, they can be hard to manage.

He relaxes onto the couch and gestures me forward with his fingers. I step toward him slowly, my knees pressing into the leather as I straddle him. He groans as I sink my hips onto him, and he reaches forward to grab my thigh but stops.

“What are the rules in here?” he asks. “Can I touch you?”

I smile. Yeah, he won’t be any problem. “Such a gentleman to ask.”

“Trust me, there’s nothing gentlemanly about the intention.”

He grins, and I smile. Okay, so he’s funny. Funny and good-looking. Damn.

“Yes, you can touch me. Everything but between my legs.”

“What happens if I do? You got a bear trap hidden in there?”

I narrow my eyes. “They’d kick you out.”

He snaps his fingers. “Damn. Okay. But just so you know,” he says, looking me up and down, “I’d happily lose a finger for you.”

A laugh bursts out of me, and he grins. “Just one?” I pout.

“I need the others for my extracurricular activities.” As if to prove his point, he grabs my thighs, each finger pressing deliciously firm into my skin. Usually, these guys just grab enough skin to fill their fists while I dry hump them to a three-song time limit. But there’s something about this guy. And while he doesn’t seem to take life too seriously, there’s something reverent about the way he looks at me. I grind my hips and feel his fingers tighten sharply. I gasp. He’s stronger than he looks.

“Sorry,” he mutters, relaxing his hands.

“It’s fine,” I say, and start to make deliberately slow circles, dragging my center against his thighs. “What’s your name, sugar?”

He swallows. “Joel.”

“Hmm, I love that name.”

“You say that to everyone, don’t you?” He cocks a brow.

Busted. “Of course, but I don’t always mean it. I do today.” That part is true.

“Why’d you blow off Von Douche for me?” he asks, catching me off guard.

I shrug. “Would you prefer I didn’t?”

“Fuck no!” he insists. “I guess I’m just surprised. Most girls would look between the two of us and go for the clean-cut guy in a sharp suit over ripped jeans and leather cuffs.”

I press my breasts against his chest and lean in toward his ear. “I like my men in leather.”

He laughs. “I’m sure you do.” He leans his head back on a sigh, and I can feel the hard length of him between my legs.

“Cherry . . . that your real name?”

I drag my fingers along the hard ridges of his chest and smirk. “Do you want it to be?”

“I’d rather know your real name.”

My hips grind against him a little harder, and he groans. “Sorry, darlin’. No one here knows my real name.”

“Occupational hazard?”

“Something like that.”

“And the Texan accent? Is that real?”

Rising, I spin around and sit on his lap, leaning back against him. I take his hands and place them on my stomach, gently encouraging him to roam my body at his leisure.

“No.”

“So where are you from then?” he asks.

“I can be from anywhere you like. Texas?” I ask in the accent I use 90 percent of the time. “Georgia?” I offer, adding a singsong lilt to my voice. “England?” I attempt a terrible English accent.

“Do you find it tiring? Never being yourself?”

My eyes fly open and I stare at the ceiling. Why does he care? I angle my face toward his. “This version of me is much more fun.”

His lips touch my ear. “I doubt that.” He cups my breast with one hand, and heat pools in my belly. I don’t normally get turned on at work, but something about this guy . . . Careful now, Dusty.

“How’d you end up in Vegas?”

He softly pinches my nipple, and my eyes flutter closed as my head drops back onto his shoulder. “How most people end up here. I was down on my luck and wanted to change that.”

“Hmm, and did you?”

Okay, what is with all the personal questions? This guy pays for my time then wants to grill me? Why can’t he just accept the part I’m playing for him? Time to put him on the spot.

“What brings you to Sin City?” I ask.

His warm breath tickles my neck as whispers, “A wedding,” in my ear.

I stiffen. Did this guy seriously come here to get married?

As though sensing the direction of my thoughts, he raises his left hand, showing off his ring-free finger. “Don’t worry, not mine.”

Exhaling, I soften back into his touch. Why do I care? He wouldn’t be the first asshole to ditch his wife to be here. I strip for married guys all the time, but I have to admit it bothers me to think this guy might be just like the others. “So, what do you do for a living?”

“I’m a famous rockstar, princess.” I can hear the smile in his voice, and I can’t help but smile too. There it is . This isn’t as deep as he made it seem. He wants to pretend too. I don’t know why all the pretense . . . I’m happy to play into his fantasy. It’s why I’m here.

“Your life must be so glamorous,” I say, winding my hips again.

“It has its moments,” he says, his fingers trailing down my stomach toward the top of my panties.

“So why come here when you have girls lining up backstage for a chance to be near you?”

He pauses, then retracts his hand. “Stand up.”

Shit, did I insult him? Hesitating for just a moment, I do as instructed.

“Turn around.”

His face is serious now. The semi-permanent smile that seems carved in his skin is gone. I shiver, goose bumps scattering across my collarbone in the absence of his warmth. His eyes travel all the way down my body before slowly rising to meet mine. And while the jokester appears to have gone, his gaze isn’t menacing. Just . . . intense.

“I’m here,” he says slowly, “because I love looking at beautiful things. And since being in Vegas, you are by far the most beautiful thing I’ve seen.”

My heart races. Careful. Careful.

I drop my hip and smile nervously, trying to break the tension. “You don’t have to woo me, Joel,” I say, leaning forward. “Just say the word, and you can see everything. Touch almost everything.”

He leans forward on his thighs so our noses are almost touching. “This version of me is much more fun.”

Damn. Why did he have to turn the tables on me so quickly? This is dangerous. We’re close enough now it wouldn’t take much for him to kiss me. I wonder what that would be like. It’s been a long time since I let anyone kiss me. His breath is warm and smells a little earthy, sour, from his beer. When he drops his eyes to my lips, I can’t help but lick them, like simply tasting the air between us could satiate the aching heat inside me.

I shake my head, then pull back, forcing a smile. Something tells me a kiss from Joel would break me, and I can’t afford to fall apart. “As long as you know that your efforts sadly won’t end with you getting laid.”

He shrugs. “I don’t need to fuck the Mona Lisa to appreciate that it’s a masterpiece.”

My smile falters. Is this guy for real?

He reaches out slowly, fingers skimming the bottom of my fishnet dress. He raises his eyebrows, asking for permission, and I nod. He pulls it up and up and up, my heart racing in my chest as he tosses it down onto the seat next to us. Fingers digging into the flesh of my hips, he pulls me back down onto his lap, my core throbbing as it rubs against the bulge in his jeans. We’re close again, and I’m suddenly on edge. Why is this so intimate? How did this stranger come in and knock down all of my defenses so quickly?

“I’m not a work of art,” I say, and I hate that my voice trembles.

“Yes, you are.”

I shake my head. “I just won the genetic lottery, that’s all. Big tits and long legs don’t exactly equal art.”

“Then I don’t think you’re looking at yourself close enough.”

His eyes hold mine as he pulls on the thin strings of my bikini top.

“This is gorgeous,” he says, his calloused fingers tracing down my sides. My top falls to the floor and all that separates me from him now is my underwear. “But this,” he says, his hand trailing back to circle over my heart. “This is too.” My lips part and while I try to stop it, some of the ice that has crystalized around the organ melts at his words.

As I search his eyes, he gently taps the rhythm of my heart over my skin. “See?”

I squeeze my eyes shut, my chest tightening, and shake my head. When I open them again I stare into his. I thought they were brown before, but they’re not. They’re amber—like dark honey in a pool of moss.

Beautiful. He’s beautiful. He’s the art.

“Tell me something about you that’s true,” he whispers.

“My hair,” I say, all hesitation gone. “The red is real.”

“Knew it had to be,” he says, twirling a strand around his finger. “The way the light hits it. It’s like the sun.”

My heart is not prepared for this tonight.

“It’s funny,” he says, almost to himself. “My mom told me once that a redhead would steal my heart.” My brow furrows, but then he wraps his arms around me, pulling me close until his face is buried in my chest. He squeezes me gently and I feel the inhale he takes, his nose gently gliding up my sternum. As he moans, I’m shocked to find myself daydreaming about some impossible future together. Where he really is a world-famous rockstar and I’m his muse—his leading lady. How he’d be a generous and attentive lover, and we’d live in some twelve-bedroom mansion with a household staff, and I’d never have to work again.

Let me save you.

This is too much. Why am I thinking about this? My life is fine. I don’t need this man who’s only interested in one night of my time. He’s probably exactly like the one earlier, wanting to ride in on his white horse and save me. I don’t need saving. And I don’t need him. I just need his money. But the longer he touches me, the more we talk, the more I find myself desperate to take this somewhere I’ve never allowed myself to before.

I shake my head.

“I—you know, all this talking is really eating up your money.”

“I like talking,” he says, his palms moving over my ass. “It would be weird to do this silently.”

“Most guys don’t talk as much,” I counter.

“I’m not like most guys.”

No, he definitely is not.

“However,” he continues, looking up at me. “Talking is what is keeping me from breaking the rules.”

“Oh.”

Break them. God, how I want him to touch me in the one place he can’t.

He drops his hands onto the bench, his head falling back with his eyes closed, and sighs. I open my mouth, wondering if I’ve done something wrong. Do I keep moving? Finally, he opens his eyes and looks at me for a long moment. A shiver races up my scalp as he wraps a red curl around his finger, staring at it intently. Then with a smirk, he says, “How about we get out of here and have some real fun?”

“What? I’m—Joel, I’m working.”

“Oh, right.” He frowns. “Well, what time are you off?”

* * *

Life really is unpredictable sometimes. After a shitty start to my night, I’ve had the most fun since moving to Vegas. Joel handed me two hundred dollars for my time—an amount that was way overboard for the time we shared in the backrooms and had me melting into the floor, speechless—and said he’d come back when my shift ended. Imagine my surprise when, even after I stressed how that fun wouldn’t include sex, he still seemed keen.

Walking down the Vegas strip this morning, with my arm tucked into his, I feel on top of the world. It’s nice to be out. It feels like a date. Maybe that’s what he wants. The girlfriend experience. And I make sure to lay it on thick. Agree with wherever he wants to go, accept what he wants to give me—which includes a snazzy new pair of shoes—and laugh at his jokes . . . Okay, this part’s been easy because he’s actually funny. I can’t remember the last time I smiled so much.

But as the sun begins to rise over the tops of the buildings, the light chasing the stars away, this happy little balloon begins to deflate. Reality hits me when I remember that this is a guy who got lucky with some cash and wanted to have a great night out. After I leave, he’ll go back to wherever he came from and years from now have a story to tell his buddies about that one time he went to Vegas.

My feet ache, and I’m exhausted and hungry as we walk toward a motel next to a wedding chapel. What I would give to simply fall into one of those beds and sleep the day away. Stomach twisting, we slow down our pace as we approach.

“This is . . . well,” he stammers, “this is me.”

I glance between him and the motel. “Oh, right.”

He looks down and shuffles his feet. “You could . . .” He pauses, then sighs. “If you’ve changed your mind, you could come in with me.”

The offer is so tempting, despite it being a cheap motel. Joel has been nothing but generous and fun, and the way he makes me feel . . . I haven’t had sex in a long time, and I know based on the intimacy we’ve already shared that he could rock my world. But then he’d be gone, and the part of my heart that’s already been captivated by him in a few short hours would shatter.

I glance down. “It’s very tempting, Joel, but I’m going to have to say no.”

He runs a hand down the back of his head. “Yeah, I figured.” When he glances back up, his cheeks are pink. “Thought I’d ask again. Just in case.”

“I really had a lot of fun tonight,” I say softly. “More fun than I’ve had in a while. So, thank you for that.”

He grins. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget it. Last night was insane. Here.”

Holding out another small stack of bills, he pushes them toward me.

“What’s this for?”

“For indulging me.”

Part of me doesn’t want to take it. I was happy enough to be around him. But then he’d wonder why a stripper didn’t take cash from a paying customer. And if he starts poking holes in my refusal to join him in his motel room, I don’t think I’ll have the strength not to end up on my back.

“Well, I guess I’ll be going then.”

His lips press together in a hard line. “You, uh, should I call you a cab?”

“No, I’m . . . the bus is more my speed,” I say, gesturing past him to the bus stop.

“Oh.”

“Thank you.” Shit, why am I getting so emotional? I step toward him and press up to my tiptoes, kissing him on the cheek. My lips linger a moment too long before I pull back, my hand instinctively brushing my mouth where that small, sweet touch tingles, and I avoid looking into that beautiful gaze.

“You know, I think my mom was right,” he calls, taking a step forward like he’s about to come after me. But he stops.

“What?”

“She was right. This gorgeous redhead,” he says, placing a hand over his heart dramatically. “Think she stole a piece of my heart.”

I shake my head, fighting a smile. “Goodbye, Joel.”

I steel myself and walk away, heels clicking against the pavement of the parking lot. When I look over my shoulder, he’s already walking toward the motel, and I let out a long breath. I see the bus stop and pause, changing course to grab something to eat at that diner first. As I head toward it and further from Joel, my fingers clutch at my chest and I blink up at the pastel morning sky. Everything looks different today.

And his mom was wrong. I didn’t steal a piece of his heart. He stole mine the moment I saw him.