What a superficial asshole.
“I’ve never seen you here before,” he says, that smile still curling his lush mouth. His friends are calling his name but he’s ignoring them, completely focused on me.
“I’m usually here in the morning.” This is a lie. Though my shift usually starts Saturday afternoon so normally I wouldn’t be here no matter what.
“Well, lucky me that you’re here right now.” His smile grows and I find myself smiling in return. I almost stop, almost wear the scowl that wants to appear when he’s around.
I need to smile, though, so I let go, offering him a quick one before I press my lips together, like I have to contain my excitement at his proximity.
We remain quiet for a moment, just staring at each other, and I’m not sure how this is happening but I go along with it. His friends are still calling his name, the waitress having already seated them at a nearby booth. They don’t want him talking to me. They want to bask in his attention for a few hours more.
I’m starting to get the sense that everyone wants to bask in Rhett Montgomery’s attention.
“Your friends are calling you,” I finally say.
He glances over his shoulder, then returns his attention to me. “They can wait.”
I’m surprised he’s putting talking to me above wanting to spend time with his friends. “Well, my homework can’t.” I gesture to the open textbook by my laptop. “Nice to see you again.”
“Nice to see you again? That’s all I get?” He slides into the booth seat across from mine, leaning across the table like he wants to get closer to me. “I bet you don’t even remember my name.”
“I bet you don’t remember mine either,” I toss back at him, tacking on an annoying giggle after I say it.
He makes a face, like he knows I’m fake as hell. “Jensen.”
“Rhett.”
His smile is back, wider than ever. “You should come sit with us.”
“No, thank you.” My voice is prim, like a snotty rich girl’s would be. Wouldn’t they find it hilarious to know that I spent my teenage years living in a mobile-home-slash-trailer, in the decrepit old fifth-wheel my dad called our new home right before I started eighth grade.
One brow lifts. “My friends would love to meet you.”
“I doubt that.”
“It’s true.” He glances over his shoulder again, and they call out to him, a couple of choice words ringing in the air. The waitress glares, stomping over to their table to give them a lecture I suppose, and Rhett whirls around so he’s facing me once more, his expression full of amusement. “Or maybe not.”
“Go hang out with your friends,” I tell him gently, wanting to give the impression that I am the perfectly understanding girlfriend. He might not have those types of serious thoughts about me—yet—but my good behavior can enter his subconscious, right?
“Jensen. I want to see you again.” He reaches across the table and touches the top of my right hand, his warm fingers practically burning my skin. I snatch my hand away from his, my fingers trembling as I clutch my hands together in my lap.
One casual touch from him and I feel like I’m going to erupt in flames.
It’s terrifying.
“I don’t have a lot of time,” I tell him, nibbling on my lower lip. Like it’s a major dilemma, being asked out by the hottest guy on campus.
“What do you mean?” He’s frowning so hard he’s got wrinkles in his forehead.
“I’m taking a heavy course load.” That’s true. “Plus, I work.” Also true. “Part-time, but it’s a lot to deal with.” Okay, that’s a lie. “And I just…I have so much on my plate.” Not so much that I wouldn’t use this guy to get close to the woman he calls Mom.
I can rightfully call her Mom too. Even more than he can.
Because here’s my big secret. The reason I want to get close to Rhett Montgomery. My mother, the fancy lady I saw in the magazines and newspaper articles my father had stashed in his desk, is named Diane Montgomery.
She married Rhett’s dad. He is my…
Stepbrother.
Talk about twisted.
“You gotta make time for fun, Jens.” No one has ever called me Jens before. “What are you doing tonight?”
“Working.” True.
“Where do you work?”
I do not want to tell him where I work.
“I clean offices at night, when no one else is around.” Lie. A big, fat lie.
He’s frowning again. “That sounds dangerous.”
Is he for real right now? “How?”
“If no one is around, that means the parking lots are empty, the buildings are empty. Some creeper could totally attack you when you least expect it.” My eyes go wide and he immediately leans back against the seat, shaking his head. “Sorry. I didn’t want to scare you, but you know what I mean.”
“I have a tiny bottle of mace on my keychain.” And I keep a pocketknife in my purse. I deal with a lot of creepers at work. He has no freaking idea how many.
“Good.” He nods, placated by my lame declaration. “You want my advice?”
“Oh, please.” Like this pretty boy has ever had to defend himself.
“Kick them in the nuts if you’re ever attacked.”
I nod, trying my best to remain solemn. Serious. “Good advice.” The best advice is go for the eyes and gouge them out if you can, but what does he know?
“Since you’re so busy, being a big time working girl and all, you probably need a break. You should go out with me tomorrow then.”
I’m taken off guard by his request. “But it’s Sunday.” What, like I go to church? Please, it’s more like I sleep in till the midafternoon since I don’t get home from work until late.
“So? Go to brunch with me.”
Where I come from, we don’t brunch. I don’t think I’ve ever been to brunch. Sometimes we would have to skip a meal because there was no food in the house, but I don’t think that counts.
“Um, what time?” I ask, trying to sound casual. Inside, I’m a bundle of nerves.
His smile returns yet again, flashing lots of shiny white teeth. “Eleven?”
“Eleven thirty?” I counter.
“Okay. Give me your number.” He flicks his chin at my crappy old iPhone 5c and then pulls out his fancy new iPhone, opening it with a glance, his fingers poised over the screen.
I rattle off my number, noticing the way my voice shakes, how my knees are knocking together. Crap, he’s making me nervous, and I told myself I wouldn’t get nervous. He enters the digits into his phone and I immediately have a text notification pop up on my cracked screen.
Grabbing my phone, I read his message.
Tell me where you live.
Glancing up from my phone, I send him a pointed look. “How about you tell me where we’re going and I’ll meet you there?” I don’t want him to know where I live. I really don’t want him to know much of anything about me.
The less he knows, the better.
“I wanted to pick you up. Be a gentleman.” He sounds sincere, which I find unbelievable. But maybe he is. Maybe Rhett Montgomery is too good to be true.
“It’s easier if I can meet you. I have to work tomorrow afternoon.” A lie, since I’m not on the schedule. Though if I wanted to go into work and catch a few extra hours, Don would let me.
Don’s my boss. He’d let me do whatever I want if I would only spread my legs for him, but I won’t cross that line. I might not take sex seriously, but I take having sex with my boss very seriously.
As in, I won’t do it.
“I’ll text you the restaurant’s name and address. I still need to figure out where we’re going.” He slides out of the booth seat. “Talk to you later.”
And then he’s gone.
So my job that I didn’t want to reveal to the precious, perfect Rhett? I work at a dance club.
That’s code for strip joint.
I’m not a stripper, though. I’m—oh my God—a topless
server. Yes, it’s so degrading, but the tips are amazing and the money allows me to live on my own. I may live in a shit-hole, but it’s mine and I don’t have to share it with a stranger who’ll write her name on all her food in the refrigerator and have her slimy boyfriend stay over all the time.
Yes, I’ve got an overactive imagination, thank you very much.
I make good money, mostly in cash tips that go straight into my pockets, and my job allows me to go to school during the day and work at night. I have long, late hours, though. I come home past two in the morning, sometimes almost three. I’ve been propositioned for lap dances, blowjobs and the like more times than I can remember. Plenty of men—and women—have touched my ass. Pinched it, slapped it, cupped it, caressed it. That’s what happens when you walk around without a shirt on for hours at a time.
If my dear, lovely mother knew what kind of person I turned out to be, she’d probably freak the hell out.
Or maybe not, since she’s never seemed to care about me anyway.
Did I mention that we haven’t seen each other since I was a baby? Not even two years old? Maybe I was around seventeen months when she left? I don’t know exactly—I can’t remember that far back—but I’ve heard the story countless times. That one night when she ran out on my dad and me after a huge fight and never came back.
That was twenty years ago. It’s pretty sad that she could forget me so easily. Raise another family—three kids who aren’t even her blood—yet never acknowledge me.
God, I hate that bitch. I hate those kids she raised too. And one of them I’m going to have to fuck and pretend I actually like it. Like him. I’ll deserve an Academy Award for my performance by the time I’m through.
“You’re late,” Don says as the heavy door slams behind me. Employees use the entrance in the back of the club so we don’t have to deal with the customers. Guests, Don calls them. Sounds classier, he’s always saying before he explodes with that phlegmy, gross laugh of his. Which then turns into a coughing fit, and I’m always afraid he’ll hack up a lung.
“No, I’m not,” I say as I check the time just before I punch in for my shift. I head for the employee lockers where I’ll stash my bag and my sweatshirt, Don right on my heels.
“Fine, fine,” he mutters. “So tell me. When you gonna jump on stage? You’re starting to get more requests.”
I jerk open the metal door, shoving my bag inside before I turn to face him. “Never.”
His pale blue eyes fill with disappointment. “You would be perfect out there. You have a fantastic body.”
I’ve become used to people analyzing my body, and I’ve only worked here for a little over two months. I moved to this town to attend the university and got the job before school started. I needed money, fast, and this was the ideal solution to my cash flow problem.
“I’m a terrible dancer,” I tell the inside of my locker. No way do I want to turn and face Don. Since my encounter with Rhett, I’ve been feeling extra low about coming to work tonight. If Rhett knew what I really did to earn money, he’d probably be disgusted.
Shame washes over my skin at the thought of him finding me here, making me burn with embarrassment.
“I bet you’re a better dancer than you think you are. You could probably really shake it on the stage.” Don says this stuff to me pretty much every time I come into work. He doesn’t know when to give up. “You’d look good on stage, Jen.”
I tell everyone at work to call me Jen. It reminds me of who I really am. Sometimes I need that, so I don’t forget where I came from, or what my purpose is.
“Just because I have nice tits doesn’t mean I should be shaking them on stage.” As if to prove my point, I whip off my sweatshirt, shove it into my tiny locker and slam the door before turning to face Don. I can tell it takes everything within him to keep his gaze fixed on my face and not let it drop to my chest. “I’m perfectly happy working as a server.”
Don’s gaze lingers on my breasts for a minute too long and I sorta want to slap him on the face for it. He’s such a perv. “You know you’d make a hell of a lot more money if you stripped, doll.”
Always tempting. He knows where to get me. I’ve never really had money, so I have no idea what that’s like, to be comfortable financially.
No. No way. Keep your eye on your long-term goal. Stripping isn’t it. Getting in good with the Montgomery family is where you’ll find your fortune.
“I’ll consider your suggestion,” I say just to appease him, and he grins, his mouth opening like he’s going to say something I don’t want to hear. I start walking, heading for the bar so I can grab my tray and start taking orders. I came to work in my short, tight black skirt and high stiletto heels, wearing my favorite old gray sweatshirt temporarily so I can be semi-comfortable until it’s show time.
And right now, it is definitely show time.
“You mean it?” Don sounds so hopeful, I almost wish I was telling him the truth.
“Sure,” I say halfheartedly, speeding up so I can lose him, which I easily do. Don isn’t the most physical guy, and we’ve all learned real fast that if you stay quick on your feet, you can outrun him most nights. The majority of us who work for Don want to outrun him as much as possible.
The club is packed, the music loud and the multicolored lights that flash are almost blinding. I weave my way through the thick crowds, chin up, gaze not meeting anyone’s. I know they’re looking at my naked chest, and I know if I make eye connection with any of them, they’ll more than likely make a suggestive comment I’m not in the mood for.
I’m almost to the bar when I hear a friendly voice and I nearly sag with relief. “Hey, hooker.”
I smile at my coworker who calls all of us hookers, almost like it’s a term of endearment, which from her, I guess it is. Savannah is tough as nails and a college student like me, though she’s a senior set to graduate in the spring. She’s been working at City Lights since she was barely eighteen, and she’s seen it all. But she sticks it out since she needs the money. She’s fully funded her college education with her income and tips, and she plans on being a child psychologist someday.
“Don try to get you to strip?” she finally asks when I don’t really say anything.
“Of course.” I grab an empty tray but stay by Savannah’s side. She’s waiting for Chuck the bartender to make her drink order, and I should go start taking drink orders too since it looks busy tonight, but I’m not quite ready to face the crowds yet.
“You finally give in and say yes?”
“Of course not.”
Savannah laughs and shakes her head. “That’s my girl. Don’t ever give in, or else you’ll end up like that.” She nods toward the stage, and we both watch the woman writhing on the floor in nothing but a see-through white G-string.
Candy Raine is one of the older strippers at City Lights, and one of the least popular because she’s so old. And when I say old, she’s barely thirty-five. That’s not ancient, not by a long shot, but in the stripper world it is. Candy can’t seem to do anything else. She has no other job, no other skills, and no ambition to get out of here either. Savannah always uses Candy as the prime example of what not to turn into.
“Seven more months,” Savannah says as Chuck loads up her tray full of drinks. “Seven more months and then I can leave this hellhole once and for all and be done with this place. I cannot wait.”
“I’m jealous,” I say wistfully, though deep down I’m not. I won’t be here as long as Savannah. I have a plan, one that’s way better than working at a strip club for the next four years of my life.
“Just don’t get dazzled by the big tips and you’ll be fine. Keep your head on straight and eyes fixed on the end game. If you do that, lap dances and blowjobs in the back room won’t be your fate.” Savannah’s evil laugh rings as she grabs her tray and balances it over her head with one hand. “See ya.” She winks at me and then she’s gone, off making her way toward her various tables.
“Better get o
n it,” Chuck urges, his gruff voice making me turn to look at him. He’s a good guy, not very affectionate, but you can tell he cares about us. He never gives me the creeps either, which makes me trust him more than any other guy that works at this club. “It’s extra busy tonight.”
For the tiniest moment, I’m tempted to turn around and run out. Just keep running and never look back. If I could, I’d head all the way back home.
I can’t go back there, though. My home is gone. Dad is gone. This is my reality now. Going to school and stalking some guy I’m supposed to pretend to like. Working at a strip club where I serve leering perverts their drinks while I walk around topless. This is my world.
And I fucking hate it.
“You showed up,” Rhett says when he catches sight of me slowly approaching the restaurant. He rises from the bench he was sitting on, his eyes lighting up when they land on me and I can’t help but feel like there’s a spotlight following me as I walk toward him. Like we’re on a stage, putting on some sort of show for our invisible yet enthralled viewers, ready and eager to be tantalized by our burdening supposed-romance.
“I said I would,” I reply, stopping just in front of him. He’s dressed up in pressed khakis and a light blue button-down shirt, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows giving him a more casual air. Though I can tell by the way his clothes look that they’re designer, more expensive than anything I own.
Me? I tried to dress up in my best jeans, a plain white T-shirt and a cute burgundy cardigan I got on sale. I’m not even close to designer. I can’t afford anything expensive, unless it’s some collab with a designer at Target. That’s about as high end as I get.
“I’m glad you kept your word.” His voice is a low murmur, heavy on the flirtation, and I remind myself that I can pretend to think he’s hot, but deep down I have to remember that I’m using him. I’m not attracted to him, I’m merely acting like I’m attracted to him.