Chapter 4
Once again, the box lures her in.
I knew it. Pearl is fond of a mystery.
This time I didn’t go for something so obvious as jewelry. As my friends pointed out, the dancer seems uninterested in big-ticket items. Not that the box I set at her feet is cheap. There’s a Petal Pusher in Washington that creates beautiful carvings, and I had this commissioned special.
Different shades of wood create a wave pattern on the lid of the box, the pieces fitting together seamlessly. When you run your fingers over the surface, you’ll find delicate engravings of sea creatures and ocean birds. This is a one-of-a-kind piece.
If Pearl is intrigued by boxes, then I’ll give her one hell of a box.
Hopefully, she doesn’t chuck it at my head.
I watch her stroll toward me, trying not to let on exactly how eager I am. But she can probably still tell. Coyness is not one of my strong suits.
Like every night she’s on the stage, Pearl is gorgeous. She’s opted for a silky white outfit tonight that looks like something a woman might wear to bed. Which leads me to imagining her in my bed, only a thin sheet draped over her, a husky laugh tempting me to join her.
These are the thoughts she probably wanted to bring to mind when picking out the outfit. A strategic move.
Or at least it would be if she wanted to earn more money from besotted men like me.
Why does she dance if not for the payment?
I can’t figure the puzzle out, and I don’t have the mental capacity at the moment when Pearl stops in front of me. The entrancing woman doesn’t kneel this time. She does something far more mind-melting.
Balancing in her towering heels, Pearl bends her knees and settles in a seemingly effortless squat. The thick muscles in her thighs flex under her glitter-covered skin, and her calves look carved from marble.
Does she ache at the end of the night? Does she need someone to massage her tight muscles until they’re loose and pliant?
I could be that helper.
The exceptionally talented woman threatens to turn me into a puddle on the floor when I finally acknowledge that this position leaves her legs spread wide enough for me to stare directly at her silk-covered pussy. The fabric is scant enough to tease me with the curves of her ass cheeks.
When I raise my drink to my mouth, there’s a shake in my hand. Pearl’s fingers are steady as she unlatches the lid and lifts it open. I know what she’ll see inside and wait with held breath to see how she’ll react.
Her lips purse, maybe in the start of a frown, or maybe in the attempt to push away a smile.
I hope for the latter.
Pearl reaches into the box and pulls out the contents.
Another—slightly smaller—box. This one was also a commission, crafted with equal care and expertise.
She lifts the lid…and pulls out another box. This one is just as carefully wrought as the first, though slightly smaller.
Over the music, I could swear I hear the huff of her breath.
A frustrated sigh?
A disbelieving laugh?
My Russian doll-style gift continues, and I maintain hope as she opens the fourth box in a row. Her curiosity hasn’t waned.
In the last container, which is small enough to sit snuggly in her palm, Pearl finally discovers something different. She plucks the card stock from its home and tilts the note, so the dim lighting illuminates the words. She doesn’t have to read them aloud for me to recall what I wrote.
The message was simple:
Hi! My name is Sammy. Would you like to get dinner with me?
With nervous fingers, I clutch my glass tight while silently reminding myself to breathe and try to look attractive rather than desperate and creepy.
This could change everything. If she gives me a chance.
Then something amazing happens. Finally, after months of visiting The Jewelry Box and watching Pearl dance, she meets my eyes.
I suck in a gasp, her attention heavy like a hit. I feel like a ghost who’s been haunting the VIP section, and now, finally, I’m acknowledged as existing.
But just as I come to terms with the fact that Pearl is looking at me, holding my gaze with hers, the dancer lets out a sigh so loud no background music can dampen the noise.
Then she rolls her eyes.
And finally, the dancer extends her hand, reaching toward me, the note pinched between her fingers. She drops the paper in my drink, the same as she did with the pearls. The amber liquid soaks into the cardstock, but I don’t bother trying to snatch it out. My magic rocks through me, tugging on the alcohol until it swirls and wets the note completely. Demoralized, I watch as Pearl smoothly straightens, towering over me and this entire club on her raised platform and in her deadly heels.
My heart sinks out of my ribcage to land heavy in my gut as she steps away.
But then she pauses.
And turns back to me.
And I choke on air as she leans over, face getting closer to mine …
Only to watch her scoop up the boxes into her arms and carry them with her when she struts off stage.
“Need another drink?”
I glance down to realize Cat hovers at my elbow, her crimson brows raised in question as she eyes my contaminated glass.
“Hey, Red,” I greet my friend using her club name. For the same reason dancers use pseudonyms, the waitstaff can choose to be labeled as a color if they don’t want their real names tossed around. “Sure. Did you see?” I wave at the stage.
“See you get rejected? Again?” She snorts with zero sympathy. “Yeah.”
“That’s not all that happened.” I smirk at my friend, earning a scowl from her.
“What else happened then?”
My face warms with triumph. “She accepted my gift.”
“You mean the boxes?”
“Exactly. The boxes.”
Her crimson brows dip. “You didn’t put a tracking device in them, did you?”
“Gods, no! Seriously?” I huff. “They’re normal, beautiful, one-of-a-kind boxes that Pearl liked enough to keep.”
Cat’s suspicious expression fades, but she still appears skeptical. “And you find this promising?” From the Pyro’s tone, she doesn’t. But I hang on to my optimism.
“I do.”