Chapter 3
THE SPIDER WEB
EMERY
Look at them all. Drooling. Gawking. Wishing they could touch me.
I’ve had lights in my face my whole life, but not like this.
These people aren’t trying to find out what’s wrong with me.
They’re not searching for explanations or methods of treatment.
No. They’re looking at me because I drive them crazy.
Because I’m a fantasy.
A dirty little desire that pricks at the most deranged and degenerate parts of their psyche. They’re staring at me because I’m an amalgamation of everything they’ve ever wished to touch, to hold, to fuck.
And I love it. The attention. I sweep my gaze across the room, acknowledging my regular tippers so they can toss their entire life savings on this stage, so they can tuck their kids' college funds into my lacey black panties, so that when they leave, they think they’ve taken a part of me home with them.
To their beds. To their wives. To their miserable lives.
Hey, I don’t judge. I get it. I get it all too well.
Once I pay a visual visit to all my generous fans, I look out into the audience, to the center alcoves.
Those seats are reserved for VIPs. They’re not as generous.
Not as loyal. They’re what the girls and I call takers.
We don’t fuck with takers at Lux. It’s a little funny to think about.
The more money they have, the less they’re willing to part with it.
This isn’t the 1 percent I’m talking about.
It’s the .001 percent. The rarest of the rare.
Like cancer. Like a malignant tumor that only a handful of people in the world are unfortunate enough to grow.
I give them all a glance, nonetheless. It’s important to be polite.
When my rehearsed gaze floats across the alcoves, I catch a set of obsidian black eyes glaring at me, and I freeze. My chest expands as I inhale a sharp breath of air. I know those eyes. I’ve seen them somewhere. Somewhere dark and deep; a place I seldom let myself visit.
I discreetly scan the man’s other memorable features: sharp jaw speckled with stubble, strong nose, big and juicy lips, and his hands.
Clasped. Strong and commanding. The rings on his fingers interlocked like a complex puzzle.
Inwardly chuckling at his simping demeanor, I sink my teeth into my bottom lip as he refuses to pull his icy gaze from mine.
Someone call TMZ. He’s baaack.
Continuing my routine, I make sure to check in on the missing billionaire every so often.
Make sure he’s still looking. And he is.
Always. Even when I’m grinding my pussy on a football player’s arm, I feel him looking.
His stare stabs me in the back, the blade first hot then cold, then scolding then frigid.
I like it—the unknown. It’s cute when they get jealous.
He doesn’t even know me, and yet here we are, already having our first argument.
When my song is near its end, I position myself center stage, thighs spread apart for one last view.
They pack dozens of bills into my panties as I lick my lips, open my mouth, and suck on my index finger; every man in this joint, visualizing it as their tiny little cock.
His jaw visibly tenses as I snap my gaze upward and slowly drag my finger out of my mouth, a string of saliva glistening under the light like a spider web.
And he’s the poor little fly trapped inside.
He doesn’t like that. Not one bit.
“Give it up for Luna Lush,” the DJ announces as my set comes to an end.
God, that was fucking fun. But I’m exhausted. Leaving the tip collection to the back staff, I get off the stage and rush to the dressing room for a sip of water.
“Did you see him?!” Crystal squeals, swapping out her nipple tassels as I walk into the back room. “I literally thought he was dead.”
“Same!” Ginger giggles, reapplying her lipstick. “Maybe he was secretly in jail or something!”
“That’s fine with me,” Crystal smirks. “I love me a man in uniform.” She notices me lingering by the water cooler. “You see him out there, Luna?”
“Who?” I ask innocently. Oh, I saw him. And he saw me. And he won’t forget me for a long time. “Who are you guys talking about?”
“Damon Cavanaugh.” Ginger nearly falls off her seat while swooning over his name. “Ugh, he’s so fine.”
Crystal scoffs, perking a brow. “Fine? That man is not fine. He is,” she kisses the tips of her fingers, “a God.”
I roll my eyes. “He’s a man.”
“A very rich man,” Ginger adds.
“They’re all rich,” I note, shrugging. “He’s just another John with a black card. Nothing we haven’t seen before.”
“Honey,” Crystal tilts her head, “He doesn’t just have a black card, he owns the black cards. That man’s daddy could’ve paid off this country’s debt.”
“I doubt it.” I snort. “The gross federal debt, held publicly and federally, is roughly thirty-five trillion dollars.”
Crystal scowls at me. “You know what I mean.”
I shrug. “If you want to win an argument by throwing out comparables, make sure they’re at least factually accurate.”
Ginger tosses a tube of lip gloss at my head. “There. Maybe she’ll be dumber next week.”
“Ow!” I rub my temple, chucking the tube back at my Friday night friend. “That hurt!”
Before Ginger can fake an apology to me, the club’s manager waltzes into the dressing room and makes a beeline toward me.
“How much did I make?” I ask, holding out my hand.
“Depends.” Georgina purses her lips. “You willing to entertain a table for an hour?”
“Let me guess,” I say, “VIP table? Center stage?” I hear Crystal and Ginger gasp behind me. Fan girls. All of them. “How much?”
“He must’ve liked you,” Georgina smirks, holding out a check. “He gave me a blank.”
Crystal and Ginger rush to my side. “A blank check?!” Crystal snatches it from Georgina’s hand, holding it up to the light as if it were a hundred dollar bill. “Holy shit, it’s signed! Damon Cavanaugh. Says so right here at the top.” She beams, looking up at me. “You’re gonna go, right?”
“Fuck yeah, she is!” Ginger insists on my behalf. “You can write ten grand if you want.”
“Or twenty!” Crystal chimes in, shimmying her shoulders. “You know my birthday’s coming up…”
An idea pops into my head. A fun little game to see just how badly the fly wishes to remain on my web. “A pen?” I hold out my hand, and Georgina immediately gives me one. I scribble down a number, smirking at the absurdity. “There. Let’s see if he agrees.”
Crystal hovers over my shoulder, her voice ringing in my ears as she screeches, “One million dollars? Luna! Have you lost your damn mind? Obviously, he’s going to say no!”
“Luna, come on.” Georgina frowns, knowing that she won’t make her cut if I go in with such a ridiculously unreasonable amount. “Be realistic.”
“I am,” I say, folding up the check and slipping into my bra. “He’s a billionaire, right? What’s a puny million to him?”
Before any of the women can protest, I blow them a kiss and head into the club, ready to tease my poor fly a bit more before I eat him. I know it’s rude to play with your food, but times are tough these days. Anything for a laugh.
When I round the corner toward the VIP section, I tilt my head and give Mister Money Bags another once over.
He is a rather attractive man. That’s unarguable.
He’s got that golden ratio symmetry that your brain is hardwired to recognize and appreciate.
He’s visually appealing. I’ll give him that.
But in the past twenty-three months, I’ve learned that those who win the genetic lottery often have the IQ of a turnip.
Let’s see what this root vegetable has to offer.
When I’m six feet away from the table, his head snaps in the direction of my attention-commanding heels.
I knew these babies would be popular tonight.
The two older men he was sitting with are nowhere to be seen.
Oh, he wanted a private chat, I see. A victorious smirk clips the corner of his lip as I strut toward him.
He thinks he’s won. He thinks I’m the fly.
Silly boy.
“I wasn’t sure if you were going to accept my invitation,” he rasps, straightening his posture as I approach the head of the table. He motions beside him. “Why don’t you sit down?”
“How presumptuous,” I coo. “Perhaps I only came over to inform you that I’m not interested.” I bat my lash extensions. “Not everything is for sale, you know?”
He grins, letting out a husky chuckle. “Is that what you’ve been told?” He leans over the table, voice dipping to a gritty whisper. “Everyone’s got their price, mami.” He lifts a brow. “What was yours?”
“Let’s see…” I keep my scheming gaze locked with his as I fish the check out of my bra, purposely revealing a little too much skin. His pupils widen with arousal. Simple creatures, the rich. Sighing, I unfold the check and place it on the table, rotating it in his direction. “Well?”
He reaches out, faintly running his fingers along the amount, and it’s like I can feel his touch on my spine.
“Hmm…” He flashes me a cunning smile once he looks up and cocks his head. “It’s a shame, really.”
I shrug. “You can rip it up.”
“It’s a shame,” he slides the check back in my direction, “that you undervalue yourself so.”
I snort. Not very ladylike, but he’s got to be fucking with me. “I beg your pardon?”
He moves down a couple of inches, and like an unwilling magnet, I find myself sitting down next to him.
“Is that what you think you’re worth…?” He waits for my name.
“Luna,” I say, defensively keeping my distance from him.
“That’s not your name.” He gives me a knowing look. “For a million dollars, don’t you think I have the right to know what your parents call you?”
“See?” I chuckle, shaking my head. “This is the problem with you people, you bleed arrogance.” I nod to the check. “This buys you my time, not my story.”
“Perhaps we switch the one to a two, hmm?” He pulls out a pen from the inside of his black suit jacket. “What does that get me?”
“I’m not interested in your money, Mr. Cavanaugh,” I state, lowering his hand. He’s really putting on a performance. The effort is admirable. “I just came out here to meet the man who's stupid enough to offer a blank check to a potentially desperate woman.”
He narrows his speculative eyes. “You know who I am.” I tap the name on the top of the check. He frowns. “Right…”
“Plus,” I lean over, whispering into his ear, my lips barely grazing his lobe, “you were on the front page of The Wild today.” I stick my tongue out, licking the soft flesh.
“They used a rather flattering photograph.” He swallows.
I hear it but continue, “So flattering, I might’ve even…
” I find his rigid hand and guide it under the table, placing it on the inside of my thigh.
He grunts, and I release a soft giggle. “What’s wrong, mister? Isn’t this what you wanted?”
“Who are you?” he asks through gritted teeth as I pull away. Frustration oozes through his poreless skin, and I find great pleasure in his pain. “Your name. Tell me your name.”
“Guess.”
“Pardon?” His demeanor hardens. Cute.
“Guess. I’ll give you three chances to guess my name.” I flip the white hair of my wig off my shoulder. “What do I look like to you? Jessica, maybe? Perhaps, a Sarah? Ooooh, maybe an Anne?”
He glowers at me. “I’m not someone you want to play games with.”
I pout. “Why not, mister? Worried you’ll lose?” I click my tongue. “Every king eventually falls, you know?” Biting my lip, I tilt my head. “Maybe it’s your turn.”
He stiffens. “I’ve fallen before, Miss Lush. I don’t intend to fall again.”
“Is that so?” I quirk a brow, intrigued by the mystery of the man. “Sounds like you’ve got quite a story yourself.” My voice lowers. “Would you sell your story?”
“No,” he answers flatly. “I would not.”
“Not even for two million dollars?”
He struggles to keep his composure as he grunts out, “No.”
“Hmm.” Shrugging, I push myself out of the booth. It’s getting late. Driving in the dark can be dangerous. “It appears you and I might have something in common after all.” I grab the check off the table and rip it into shreds, sprinkling the pieces like flakes of a winter storm. “Neither would I.”
“Wait—”
“Enjoy the rest of your evening, Mr. Cavanaugh.” I toss him a parting wink. “Maybe I’ll see you around.”
“You will.”
Is that a promise? Or a threat? Either way, how exciting.
Or not.