3. Riley
It’s a Tuesday night,so instead of a DJ, I’m stripping to a mix from the 90s that the manager at Club M has a serious hard-on for. It’s the same one he always plays on slow nights, and it’s definitely not taking me out of my head.
“Show me your ass, Destiny,” grunts a guy with a beer gut and a stained t-shirt, waving a couple of ones at me from the corner of the stage.
Ones. Fucking Tuesday nights. But every dollar adds up, so I give him a sultry look as I trail my hand up the steel pole I’ve been working. I circle the pole once, then grab it with both hands and thrust my ass back to give him some good spank bank material for when he’s all alone, back in whatever hole he crawled out of tonight.
“Fuck, you’re hot.” Licking his lips lasciviously, he pulls out a few more bills.
I turn back to the pole and roll my eyes, thankful that the club is too cheap to have mirrors behind the stage. But Beer Gut is right about one thing. I do look hot… although why I bothered with the black garter leg wraps that crisscross my thighs tonight, I don’t even know. They look sexy as hell and pair well with the O-ring choker and black, stainless steel-heeled stilettos I’m wearing, but their main benefit is that they’ll hold more bills.
In other words, a waste of opportunity on a Tuesday.
Still, a girl’s gotta have her fun where she can, and since I’ve also got a spiked steel hoop in my nose—which made Chloe raise her eyebrows when I left the apartment earlier since she calls this one my ready-to-start-some-shit mood ring—that about sums up how I’m feeling tonight.
There’s no real reason for me to be in this kind of mood. I’ve just been… restless lately.
Maybe I’m just waiting for the other shoe to drop with our dad, because there’s no way in hell I expect him to actually respect the fuck-off I gave him on the phone Friday night.
Or maybe it’s just that I’m ready for something to fucking happen. Something to break the boredom of the kind of Tuesday night that I can already tell isn’t going to net me enough to make it worth it.
The music rolls into a remix of some old rap song that Beer Gut Guy was probably jerking off to a decade before I was born, and I go through a few moves on autopilot while I scan the half-empty club.
What I should be doing is trying to catch the eye of anyone who looks like they’ll wave more than a one dollar bill at me, but honestly, I’m just looking around because I’m fucking bored and tired of making eye contact with Beer Gut.
It’s slow as shit, though. Sugar is on her hands and knees on the smaller stage, dry humping the stage floor for a couple of boys who look too young to know what to do with their dicks, the bartender is busy trying to talk one of the girls into sucking his cock for free drinks on her break, and at the two-top over by the staff door in the corner, a couple of men knock back shots and ignore all the dancers, which means they’re doing business.
My gaze starts to skim past them, but it lingers for a moment on the bigger of the two—the one with dark, tousled hair and ink winding over his arms in intricate patterns.
Damn. He’s hot as hell.
Two bearded Daddies in motorcycle leathers saunter up to my stage and block my view of the tattooed man, and I earn a few more bucks gyrating my pussy in their faces for the next few songs.
When they finally head over to the bar, my eyes drift back to the two-top.
The men are still there. The smaller one is hunched over the table, his fingers drumming on it nervously as his mouth moves a mile a minute, but the hot one looks so chill it’s almost like he’s not paying attention to whatever the other guy is getting so intense about. He’s tipped back in his chair with one arm draped over an empty seat next to him, sprawled out as if he owns that corner of the club now, and as his hooded gaze moves lazily around the room, the sexy-as-fuck little smile hovering over his lips makes me want to lick them.
His eyes meet mine, and something electric shoots through me, making the hip roll I’m in the middle of turn into something fucking filthy, just for him.
His gaze locks on to me instead of moving on, and I stare right back at him as I run my hands up my body to cup my breasts like an offering.
The corner he’s sitting in is shadowy, but even so, I catch the glint of approval in his eyes as he watches me, momentarily distracted from whatever discussion he’s been having with his table partner.
I swing around the pole without looking away from his heated gaze, then drop down and roll my body back up the hard steel, showing him what he’s been missing way over there in the corner.
His lips tip up a little more, and he raises the shot glass he’s been toying with. He still hasn’t taken his eyes off me, and for a second, I think he’s going to toast me with it.
Instead, he brings it to his lips and tips his head back, downing it in one go. Then he shakes his head like he’s trying to clear it before turning his attention back to the smaller man, who’s still talking.
“Squeeze your tits!”
Beer Gut Guy calls out to me, leaning closer to the stage as his tongue hangs out of his mouth, and I jerk slightly, my own attention wrenched back to what I’m doing.
Shit. What am I doing?
I follow his drunken directive, doing a half-assed job of fondling my breasts in a suggestive way as I try to get my heart rate back to normal and talk some fucking sense into myself.
It doesn’t matter how restless I’ve been feeling lately. There’s no way I’m hooking up with anybody I meet at Club M again—not after the shitshow dating Rob turned out to be. It’s not worth breaking my rules. Not even for someone as gorgeous as the man in the corner, covered in sexy ink that I’m dying to see under better light.
But that doesn’t mean I can’t give us both a little treat by dancing for him. Hell, I don’t think I can help dancing for him, not with the way my body is suddenly buzzing with awareness.
I may have heard this outdated playlist a million times, but even though I don’t look over at the two-top again for the rest of my set, I work my pole to it like I’m trying to earn Chloe’s college tuition all in one night.
It pays off.
Half the patrons who were lingering deeper in the club end up crowding my stage, panting over the way I’m bumping and grinding for them. They stuff my g-string, leather garters, and boots so full of cash that I’m pretty sure I’ll walk out of here with the kind of money I’m usually lucky to make on the weekends.
And the whole time, even though I don’t let myself look again, I swear I can feel the man at the two-top watching me.
Or maybe I’m just imagining it, indulging in a fantasy as I replay the moment when our gazes met, his gaze hooded and a cocky half-smile tilting his lips.
By the time my set ends, I’m no longer just restless. I’ve worked myself up so much that I’m feeling full-on reckless… so I finally look back over at the two-top in the corner.
He’s gone. They both are.
Dammit.
“Whatever,” I whisper under my breath, pissed that I even let myself hope he would still be here.
I slip off the stage as the next dancer strides onto it, stretching out my tired muscles as I head for the dressing room. I worked harder tonight than I normally do on a Tuesday, and I can feel it in my body.
After changing quickly, I head outside, slipping out the back door and into the alley like I always do. But as the heavy metal door closes with a thud behind me, the hair on the back of my neck prickles.
I whip my head around just as the musclehead who followed me to the dressing rooms on Friday night steps closer, blocking my way back into the building.
“Hey, bitch,” he says in a hard voice that’s stone-cold sober this time. “Remember me?”
“No,” I lie, mentally cursing myself for being too distracted to pay attention to my surroundings. “Should I?”
I raise an eyebrow as I ask, crossing my arms over my chest and trying to project an unimpressed vibe. I suddenly wish I’d bothered to put a bra on under my tank top, just to have an extra layer between us.
“Oh, I think you do remember me,” he drawls, crowding into my space. He glowers down at me, his thick eyebrows drawing low over his eyes as his hands ball up into fists. “We got some unfinished business, Destiny.”
“Pretty sure you’re wrong,” I say, lifting my chin even as my heart starts to pound faster. “So why don’t you fuck off?”
My mind races as I speak, trying to figure out the best way out of this. He’s blocking my way to the door, and I’m still several yards away from the mouth of the alley. It wasn’t that hard to take care of this guy the other night when he was sloppy drunk, but there’s a clarity in his eyes that makes me certain he isn’t drunk tonight. He’s just pissed. And it won’t matter how dirty I can fight when he’s sober and has got, what, at least eighty pounds of muscle on me?
As if he can see me working out my odds in my head, a slow smile spreads across Musclehead’s face, sending a chill through me.
“Nah,” he drawls. “I don’t think I will fuck off. Not until I get what I want.”
I knew exactly what he wanted when he was drunk, stupid, and horny. Now he just looks straight-up mean, and adrenaline floods my system in a nauseating rush.
He reaches for me, and I slap his hand away. Lunging forward, I go for the same move I used last time, hoping that if I catch him off-guard, I might be able to get a good hit in before he can stop me.
But he’s too quick when he’s sober, and this time, he’s expecting it. He twists to the side when I try to knee him, then punches me in the chest with an open palm, hitting my sternum hard enough to knock the wind out of me. I wheeze for breath, staggering backward and colliding with the brick wall of the building, and he crowds my space, grabbing my left breast through my tank top hard enough to make me cry out.
“Jesus, fuck,” I gasp, clawing at his wrist in vain as I try to get him off me.
“Yeah, that’s right,” he croons, a vicious sneer in his voice. “Now you’re getting it.”
“Let me go, you fucking pussy,” I pant, my stomach filled with hot rage.
Pinning me to the wall with the weight of his body, he shoves a hand between my legs, his hot breath wafting into my face. “Oh, you talking about this pussy?”
“Fuck… off!”
The rough texture of the wall bites into my skin as I writhe and twist, trying to get some leverage to shove him away from me.
But before I can, someone grabs him from behind.
Two large, inked hands fall onto his shoulders, yanking him away from me so fast that I stumble forward and almost trip over him when those same hands throw him to the ground.
“What the fuck?” Musclehead grunts, his voice strained as he lands with a thud.
He tries to push up to his feet, only to be slammed right back down again. And this time he stays down, thanks to two rapid-fire kicks to the ribs from a large boot. Before he can recover from the kick, the boot presses against his throat, pinning him in place as he groans pitifully and tries to roll out of the way.
I stare down at the man on the ground and then slowly raise my eyes to look at the one who’s got him pinned, rubbing my sore boob and trying to get my breathing under control as adrenaline pounds through me.
“Oh my god,” I whisper as my eyes lock with a pair of startlingly green ones.
It’s him. The gorgeous man I spent all night dancing for—whether he knew it or not.
“God? Nah, I just go by Dante,” he says, shooting me a cocky smirk.
“Get… the fuck… off me,” Musclehead wheezes from the ground, flopping like a fish as he tries and fails to move the boot off his throat. “You’re a… a fucking dead man.”
My rescuer—Dante—ignores him, choosing instead to keep his attention entirely focused on me. “You done working now, princess?”
“Yeah,” I say, disbelief still filling my voice. I can’t believe he stayed. And thank fuck he did.
“That’s good,” Dante says, a lazy smile hovering over his lips. “I was hoping I’d catch you after you got off.”
“Did you… hear me, mother…fucker?”
The piece of shit under Dante’s boot sounds like he can’t get enough air, and I can’t find it in myself to feel sorry for him about that.
“Someone’s… about to… to fucking die… if you don’t… move… your fucking… foot.”
Dante finally looks down at him, cocking his head to the side like he’s examining a trapped bug.
The guy on the ground must not be as dumb as he looks, because even though Dante is still wearing that sexy little half smile, Musclehead’s eyes widen and he goes completely still, like prey who just realized he’s in the sights of a predator.
“You think someone should die here? That can be arranged,” Dante tells him in a tone so mild that it almost sounds friendly.
Almost. But it’s definitely not.
“What should we do with him?” Dante asks, shifting his attention back to me as the man he’s holding down makes a gurgling sound.
I blink, surprised he’s asking me. As satisfying as it is to hear the man who tried to assault me gasping for breath, I don’t really want things to escalate. Management at Club M is a lot more focused on keeping the clients happy than protecting the dancers, so if Musclehead decides to sue for getting his ass kicked outside the club, I’m sure I’ll end up paying for it somehow.
I don’t know what Dante sees on my face as those thoughts race through my head, but even though I haven’t actually given him an answer, he nods.
“All right.” He removes his boot from the shitbag’s throat, then casually slams it into the guy’s ribs again. “Go on then. It’s time for you to fuck off now.”
Musclehead scrambles away, clutching his throat with one hand and his ribs with the other as he bolts for the parking lot like his ass is on fire. Dante doesn’t even watch him go. Instead, he takes a couple of long strides toward me, closing up the distance between us until the spicy, smoky scent of whatever bodywash he uses tickles my nose.
“You all right?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I breathe, tilting my head up to meet his gaze. I’m five-foot-eight, nowhere near a tiny little thing, but he’s still got at least five or six inches on me.
“Good.” His voice is a rough burn as he hooks a finger through the O-ring in the choker I still have on and tugs me a little closer.
The action somehow seems to go straight to my clit, the leftover adrenaline in my system shifting to arousal as my pulse starts to race for an entirely new reason.
“Thank you for that.” I lick my lips, my hands landing on his hips as I nod in the direction where my attacker ran off.
“My pleasure,” he murmurs, giving me one of those hooded-eyed smiles again. His eyes are dark green, such a striking color that I almost wonder if it’s real.
Maybe it is, because this man is all color. I want to trace his tattoos with my fingertips, or bury my hands in his messy chocolate brown hair. He caught my eye when I saw him sitting at that table in the corner, but up close, he’s more than just sexy. He’s one of the most breathtaking men I’ve ever seen.
He chuckles like he can read my thoughts, and when his fingers caress my throat under the choker, goosebumps scatter over my skin.
Fuck good decisions. Life is too short, and I need to erase that awful encounter between me and Musclehead with something fun. Something just for me.
So I tip my head toward the staff door at the back of the club. “Come with me?”
“Nah, I’ll make sure you come first,” he says with a wink that makes my clit throb. It would sound like a cheesy line coming from anyone else, but from this man, it just sounds like a promise.
Heart pounding, I lead him back into the club, but I don’t take him to the dressing room. Tuesday nights might be slow, but there will still be a few girls wandering in and out of there until the club closes.
Besides, the dressing room isn’t where I’ve got a bottle of Crown Royal stashed, and the least I can do is offer him a drink for coming to my rescue.
Or at least… I can start with a drink.
“You got a name, princess?” Dante asks as I lead him into the storage room at the opposite end of the building.
He sits down on a stack of crates in the small room, watching as I pull out the bottle of booze I keep stashed behind another crate. There are no glasses to go with it, so I take a drink from the bottle, humming as the whiskey burns down my throat.
“It’s Riley,” I say as I pass the bottle over. I should probably just give him my stripper name, but for some reason, I really want to hear him say my real name in that deep voice of his.
“Riley,” Dante repeats. He rolls the word over his tongue like he’s tasting it, and I was right—it sounds incredible. “I like it. It suits you.”
“Thanks,” I say as he takes a swig and then passes the bottle back. I drink again, letting it burn its way down my throat and pool in my belly to mix with the heat already brewing there. Then I cock my head at him, giving him an assessing look. “I’ve never seen you here before. I’m guessing you didn’t come for the entertainment tonight.”
“Nah. Business meeting,” Dante says, just like I thought. He reaches out and pulls me closer by the hips, spreading his legs so that I’m standing right between his thighs. “Is that what you brought me back here to talk about? Whether I came for the entertainment or not?”
I shake my head. “No. I just wanted to thank you.”
We’re close enough that his chest brushes against me as he stands and takes the bottle back, keeping one hand wrapped around my hip in a surprisingly possessive gesture.
He takes another drink, then sets the bottle aside and grips my chin, tipping my head up.
“You already did that, princess.” His thumb moves across my lips, teasing them open. “Got any other ideas?”
He doesn’t wait for my answer, and when he leans in and replaces his thumb with his mouth, he tastes just like I expected him to.
Like good whiskey, bad decisions, and exactly what I fucking need right now.