Chapter Nine
Love Boat
Daisy
I sat with my bare feet up on a chair in the dressing
room at Smithie’s, a cold Fat Tire beer in my hand.
The beer was not my choice. It was Wynter’s birthday. She
wanted a tub filled with Fat Tire, so Smithie left one for us in the dressing
room. Though it wasn’t my choice, it was the first time I’d ever had it and
that beer was yum.
My contribution was a big birthday sheet cake practically
covered with huge frosting roses.
Oh, and the cake also had the words Happy Birthday,
Wynter! and the whole thing was covered in edible glitter dust.
I was sipping and grinning at Chardonnay, who was telling a
story.
“So then I was all, ‘What’s your problem?’ And she was all,
‘I don’t have a problem. What’s your problem?’ And I was all,
‘Do you see me talking to this guy?” And she was all, ‘Whatever.’ And I was
all, ‘Not whatever. You just came up to him while I was talking to him
and shoved your tits in his face.’ And she was all, ‘I did not do that.’ And I
was all, ‘I got eyes in my head, don’t I?’ And then the guy says, ‘You did do
that. And it was not cool. I’m talking to her.’” Her face got dreamy
and so did her voice when she finished, “His name was Dylan, and he was fine.”
Then she gave me big eyes.
“How fine, sugar bunch?” I asked.
She lifted her hands and held her pointed fingers out at
least ten inches. “Fine.”
That was when my eyes got big. “That is
fine.”
“So what happened with this chick?” Ashlynn asked.
“She bitchslapped her,” Paris put
in. “I was there. It was fucking aces.”
“Good for you,” I said to Chardonnay.
“You got that right, sister,” Chardonnay replied.
We giggled.
“Know this chick,” Paris said into our giggles, grabbing up
a handful of the cashews that Ashlynn brought, which, as far as I was
concerned, seriously classed up a birthday party in a stripper dressing room.
Then again, cashews classed up anything. “Her name is Dawn. She’s so good spreadin’ her bitch around, think she’s goin’
for the world record of bitchdom.”
Then she threw back the cashews.
“Dawn?” China sidled up, pulling out her own Fat Tire and
reaching for the opener. “I think I know her. She went after my girl Bethany’s
man. He is hot.” Her face got distracted. “Though I think she’s just a
booty call. His name is Hawk. And that night when that Dawn chick made her move
was the only time he’s been seen with her in public and that’s only because he
was pickin’ her up from this party so he could have
his booty call.”
“This dude’s name is Hawk?” Chardonnay asked.
China nodded.
“Who’s called Hawk?” Chardonnay went on.
“I’d call him whatever he wanted me to call him, he’s just that
hot,” China replied.
“Now, sugar,” I began to advise, “this guy could be hot but
she’s givin’ him some and he’s been seen with her in
public once?”
I left it at that but shook my head slowly.
“Daisy, serious,” China said. “I was at that party. I saw
him. And Bethany has talked about him. A lot. So even if half the shit
she said is true, just getting a load of him, I’d not only call him whatever he
wanted me to call him, I wouldn’t care if we saw the light of day, just as long
as he kept the lights on when he was doin’ me.
Because, I’ll repeat, he’s just that hot.”
“Well then,” I murmured on a grin, “there you go.”
There was a knock on the door and Wynter called out,
“Decent.”
Smithie swung in with the door, just his torso, his hand
still on the knob, his scowl already set.
“Any a’ you bitches feel like doin’
somethin’ other than sittin’
around throwin’ back a few beers, like, I don’t know,
dancing?”
“Is it time?” Chardonnay asked.
Smithie’s gaze cut to the big clock on the wall that said
yes, the day girls were done, the night girls were on seven minutes ago.
He didn’t use those words. He just returned his scowl to the
room.
The day girls didn’t leave the stage until the night girls
scooted out.
So it was definitely time for them to hit it.
“Right, we better go,” Ashlynn said, setting her beer aside.
“Thanks for the cake. I can’t wait to try some during your
first set,” Wynter added, shooting me a smile.
I gave her a smile back.
“Knock ’em dead, sugars!” I called
after them.
Smithie didn’t move, glowering at them as they filed out in
front of him.
After China, the last of them, cleared the room, his eyes
came to me.
“Sloan’s booth is empty and the place is already packed. I
need the space if he ain’t gonna
show. He comin’ tonight?”
I nodded, feeling my heart squeeze and not in a good way.
I’d been back at work for over five weeks.
If I was working, most nights, at some point during the
night, Marcus slid into the semi-circular booth at the very end on the north
side of the club. A booth that had become his. No one sat at it because, first,
it was Marcus Sloan’s and second, Smithie put a red velvet rope in front of it
until he showed.
Sometimes I’d watch from the dancers’ hall, and when I did,
I’d see that he didn’t watch the dancers (though I noticed his eyes never left
me when I was onstage). He would either be on his phone, talking to one of his
men, or going over papers he had on the table while he sipped his bourbon and
branch.
Whether Marcus showed or not, Brady stood outside the
dressing room door if I was in it. If I was onstage, he stood just offstage,
eyes on the club.
Yes, Marcus gave me his bodyguard.
After the night was done, if Marcus was there, Brady
escorted me out the back door and into Marcus’s limo. If he wasn’t, Brady
escorted me to my Porsche then followed me wherever I went after and then
escorted me behind closed doors once I got there.
That there usually being Marcus’s place, sometimes
my place, though that was rarely.
If I had a day off and it wasn’t a weekend (and I was a
headliner and weekends were big for Smithie’s, so it was rare I had time off on
the weekends), I’d do my thing, Marcus would do his, but we’d meet for dinner.
The majority of the time he took me to fancy places. The
other times, I made him let me cook for him (yes, I’d horned in on his
kitchen). Twice, he got takeout but it wasn’t from Twin Dragon or alternate
goodness like that. It was always from swanky places that didn’t even do
takeout (except for men like Marcus).
In the beginning, I slept in his big bed, him in his guest
room, or the times we were at my place, he insisted on sleeping on the couch.
Giving me hope, about two weeks ago, I got him to messing
around in his bed, and even though he stopped the good stuff, he didn’t leave.
He got on his pajama bottoms (silk, drawstring, navy-blue, f-i-n-e, fine) and joined me there.
And from then on, we slept together.
Without, it was important to add, sleeping together.
He held me when we slept. Or he didn’t move all night if I
cuddled up to him.
That was good.
But I will repeat, we slept together without sleeping
together.
That was bad.
He’d slid into second base repeatedly. And he was good at
that in a big way. And once (giving me more hope), with his fingers over my
panties, he’d given me the very good stuff.
But only once and that was it.
Mostly, he stopped the festivities before they got too
heated, turned me into his arms or let me snuggle into him, gave me a soft kiss
on my nose or forehead, and then we went to sleep.
And I’ll repeat something else.
That was it.
For over five weeks.
We’d had conversations about this. Twelve of them to be
exact. (Yes, I was counting.)
And I was getting nowhere except to know really
well Marcus thought we should “take it slow.”
I hadn’t had a drama since my first time eating at his
dining room table. I’d never had another nightmare. Not to mention, he knew I
was no fragile flower. And I was giving him every indication I was ready to
move us forward.
I understood why he wanted to take it slow and that was
sweet.
But this wasn’t slow.
This was alarming.
Because, see, shit like this messed with a girl’s head.
A man doesn’t want down her pants, that speaks volumes.
Or, more to the point, it makes a girl ask a lot of
questions that might not seem logical to some, but to a girl, they were as
logical as it could get.
For me, these questions were two in particular.
The first, was I the damsel in distress in place of the
sister he’d wished he could save? And part B of that question, was he in denial
about that, thinking he was doing the right thing when he was not?
Or second, was I a kind of employee he was looking after to
keep safe while they kept looking for the guy who did what he’d done to me?
And no one had said anything, so I reckoned he was still out
there. Detective Jimmy Marker had called at least ten times to share that he
was disappointed with the progress of the case, but he had no intention of
giving up so they were still looking.
Sure, the illogical part in all of this was that it had been
way more than five weeks where Marcus had been sweet to me, kind, thoughtful,
attentive, gentlemanly, generous, and even sexy. That should speak volumes too.
But, I mean, in my life, one of the many things I’d learned
was that if a guy wants it, it’s offered, he takes it. Especially if it’s
offered repeatedly.
So Marcus not taking it had to mean he didn’t want it.
Now he’d seen me doing my thing on the stage and he’d seen
it a lot. He was sweet as usual when I got in his limo with him after work.
Complimentary. Touchy. Kissy. Nice. He hadn’t acted, not once, like watching me
do my gig made him think I was skeevy. Not even close.
In fact, it was the opposite.
It could not be said when he first started coming to the
club it didn’t make me feel all kinds of special, not only that he’d come, but
that his eyes never left me when I was onstage, like he was transfixed,
spellbound.
And not just in the beginning, that kept right on going, in
actions and words, he gave me the sense he was proud of me. Proud that, at the