His Valentine (Tangled in Temptation)

5. Kennedy

5

KENNEDY

“ I t’s rowdy out there tonight. Be careful,” Starr says after she gets off the stage. I’m waiting to go up for my first set. Nerves have settled in more than normal. There’s a buzzing in the air, it’s busier than normal, and then there’s the owner, who’s back today, Tommy. It’s turning Mitch into a grade-A asshole. The damn man has me ready to say fuck it and walk the hell out. The only reason I’m not is I’ve already paid for my spot and am here. Tonight, though, this is going to be the end. I’m done. I’ll ask to buy my mom’s car or deal with a car payment and try to work a night or two a week at a bar instead of at a glorified titty bar. The drama the manager creates, stirring the pot between dancers, bartenders, and waitresses, is the equivalent of being in high school. A lot of us can see through Mitch’s bullshit, but there are those rare few who thrive off drama and like the attention.

“Great. Worse than last night?” I ask. The extra money isn’t enough. Mitch being a certified douchebag helped push me to the decision of calling it quits. A couple more hours gave me a couple thousand dollars. It also meant I had to be on high alert, and I’d rather not deal with that again.

“I’d say about the same except double the amount of people,” Starr says. We all have stage names. None of us know each other’s government names, at least I don’t. I’ve kept my head down and my eye on the prize. Out in the real world, I’m Kennedy Lynn Sinclair, but in The Velvet Lounge , I’m Daisy.

“Great, thanks for the heads-up.” The deejay announces my name. I’ve got one platform-heeled foot on the step up, trying to put my game face in place.

“No problem, stay sharp.” The heavy guitar solo starts, and I lock the fuck in, strutting my ass with a sway to my hips, hands trailing along the outer edges of my body as soon as I make it to the center of the stage. Tonight’s outfit is one I haven’t used in weeks, trying to change things up, and luckily for us girls, the club keeps the dressing room well stocked for us to choose from. Hence, the school girl theme. It makes it a whole lot sexier. My hair is in two braids, makeup to the nines, body highlighted with some glitter sticking in all the right places. Then there’s the outfit: a white button-down shirt, open all the way down and tied up between my breasts. I went without a triangle-type bathing suit top tonight since it would ruin the effect of the see-through fabric. My stomach is bare, skirt hanging low on my hips, Velcro latch at the side for easy disposal, and a bright red thong beneath. The Mary Jane platform shoes complete the outfit.

I’m dancing, slowly undoing the knot between my breasts, when the lyrics guide me to the next part. She wraps those hands around that pole. She licks those lips and off we go. And she takes it off nice and slow.

The music guides me through my routine, and I zone out the crowd, the noise, and every little thing in life that can take me out of this moment. When I drop my shirt, the crowd goes wild, and when my hands grip the pole, making my breast lift and bounce, I do a back hook spin. A move that uses your dominant hand for strength up at the top of the pole. I walk around turning my body in the opposite direction, swinging my now inside leg forward and then backward. It gives the crowd another peek at what I have beneath my skirt. None of them really know that most strippers use an adhesive to keep everything in place so nothing slips out. I use the momentum to spin me around. I’m about to put my outside leg up and bend at the knee when a loud crashing commotion has me pausing.

“Hands in the air! Hands in the fuckin’ air!”

“Get on the ground!”

“On your knees!”

Meanwhile, I’m frozen, hands above my head still on the pole, shirt open, breasts out while the sparkly red heart-shaped nipple pasties are on display. The lights start turning on one by one. There are more cops in here than I’ve ever seen before. One by one, they take down Mitch, Tommy, the guys who came with Tommy last night, a woman who I’ve never seen before, and a few of the dancers. I close my eyes when they land on the one person I’ve been hoping of all hopes would not be a part of what I can only describe as a joint-effort takedown. I fall to the stage, knees to my head, the back of my legs against my thighs, and wrap my arms around my body tightly.

“You fucked up big time, Kenny. Big, huge, massive, of epic proportions,” I mutter into myself. He clocked me. Trent Hawthorne is privy to my little secret, and he’s about to bust it wide open. For now, it’s a waiting game. I bury my head and ignore the outside chaos only to sit and wait. I’m sneaking glances here and there, watching as they walk dancers and patrons out of the backrooms, most of them in some form of undress. While I don’t judge, my nose wrinkles all the same. Mitch tried his hardest to have me go back there last night, but no way would I sell a piece of myself to a man who has zero feelings for me.

“Stand up.” His voice, the tone, it’s stern and sharp, giving me no room to do anything except follow his demand.

“Trent.” I wobble, trying to get my footing beneath me. I’m tempted to reach out and use him as support, except the way he’s looking through me and not at me has me hesitating.

“Hush. Don’t say a fucking word. Not to me, not to anyone, you hear me?” He’s in full tactical gear—helmet, bulletproof vest with his agency name O.C.P.D, gun, and cargo pants.

“Loud and clear.” I’m about to salute him since he’s acting like a drill sergeant. The only thing giving away that he’s not as unaffected as he is trying to portray is his lingering gaze on my mostly bare body. My nipples tighten, and even though they’re technically covered by stickers, there’s no way they can’t be seen.

“Turn around, spread your legs, and place your hands on your head.” In another world and under different circumstances, I’d probably play this out a different way. One where we’re in my bedroom, I’m handcuffed to the bed, and he’s devouring me in a way where I’m coming over and over again. But there are piles of police officers from all kinds of different agencies here, and I’m smart enough to know this shit is not on the up and up. I knew it beforehand but looked away, which still makes me guilty by association if you want to get technical. Last night was when I realized all was not what it seemed. Add in Mitch the bitch being, well, a bitch, and my luck of staying oblivious, dancing, making money, and leaving would be coming to an end.

“I should have quit last night,” I mumble beneath my breath. Trent doesn’t hear me, and that’s fine. I do as he asks. Getting arrested isn’t what I thought would happen tonight. Happy Valentine’s Day to me. I’d at least like to be wined and dined before getting frisked.

“Stay still,” he whispers huskily near my ear as his hands work their way along each and every inch of my body. The rough texture of Trent’s fingers on my smooth skin causes my flesh to awaken.

“Sure, I can do that. It’s not you being frisked, having zero idea what’s going on. All I’ve been doing is making extra money, keeping my head down, and look what it’s gotten me.” Trent huffs out a breath. His chest meets my back, which does nothing for my wayward thoughts. I can feel him through his clothes. The outline of his cock hits my ass, and imagine my surprise when he moves in closer.

“It’s about to get you a whole hell of a lot more, Kennedy.” I feel his hand touch my wrist, pulling it behind my back. The metal clink of the handcuffs is cold against my heated skin. Trent takes my other hand and links it with the first, and I’m officially arrested. Never in all of my thirty-two years on this earth have I ever had this type of problem. Picking the wrong man to father my daughter? Yes. Choosing to not take handouts when I should have? Yes. But never have I been arrested.

“Please don’t say my name in here.” I close my eyes, forehead pressed against the pole, legs spread wide. Dignity is a thing of the past.

“No fucking problem. What I do next, you’re not gonna like. Cooperate, though, yeah? My agency isn’t the only one here. I’m going to take you to my patrol car, put you in the back, and finish what I have to do. I need to know what you have here, and we’ll figure out the rest. I’m swinging my ass out on the line. These guys could take you, and even I couldn’t get you out. There are SWAT, DEA, O.C.P.D, and Homeland Security is creeping the fuck in. Nod your head if you understand.” My stomach sinks to my toes. I could curl into a ball and cry myself to sleep right this instant. Instead, I do what Trent says and nod.

“Alright, nice and easy.” He helps me stand up straight. The lights are now completely on. Some of the officers have dispersed along with customers who I’m assuming weren’t in the backroom. I’m paraded down the steps of the stage, keeping my eyes averted from everything going on. The less I see, the less I know, and the less I’ll think about late at night when the house is quiet.

“Hawthorne, you good?” another man in the same gear as Trent asks.

“Yeah, I’ve got her. Give me a minute, and I’ll be back in to help with anything else.” We never stop walking, maintain a momentum that won’t have me toppling over yet enough to get us to where we’re going at a pace where I have to be sharp on my feet. Trent is on a mission, whether it’s to shred me to bad cop or good cop is anyone’s guess.

“Sounds good.” The night air calms my haywire nerves a little bit. Gone is the smoke-filled room mixed with cologne, alcohol, and sweat. At least the silver lining in being arrested is I get fresh air. You know, minus missing my last night of making money, being humiliated, and having Trent witness my demise. Otherwise, it’s a normal Saturday night.

“Watch your head,” Trent says. We’re at his patrol car, undercover style, black on black. He helps guide me in the back, which is a lot harder with handcuffs on, mind you. Yet I look at his face the entire time, watching the tightening of his jaw as my breasts bounce free out in the open. He’s not as unaffected as he likes to pretend to be.

“Do you have a jacket at least?” I didn’t ask because there were piles of people around, plus he told me to remain quiet. What he didn’t do is read me my Miranda rights. Hmm, I have a sneaking suspicion this isn’t your typical run-of-the-mill arrest.

“Yeah, hold on,” he grunts, backing away to move toward the front seat. I watch him the entire time. Trent’s presence dominates the space around you. He’s more than aware of it, too, at least it seems that way.

“Thanks.” I’m immediately warmed up with his hoodie, the police department logo emblazoned on the front and his spicy scent clinging to the fabric. Trent tucks it around me as much as he can with how I’m situated.

“No problem. Be right back.” I don’t respond. He’s back to being Detective Hawthorne. He’s locked down, not even so much as looking at me. I should not feel ashamed. No one should ever make you feel this way, especially when you’re doing your best to try and earn a living. Too bad Trent never got that memo.