I was thinking of trying on one of these instead. . . .
I quickly type my reply to PJ’s request of trying on the peach wrap dress and send the picture Ariel took before I lose my nerve. Turning the phone around so Ariel can see what I’ve done, she gives me a smile.
“Oh, you are a naughty one. So, so naughty.”
“Oh my God! That’s it!” Belle suddenly shouts. “The Naughty Princess Club! That’s what we should name our business.”
Ariel and I both laugh, but our laughter quickly dies as we toss the name around in our heads.
“Shit. That’s kind of perfect. Much better than my idea of Shut Up and Give Us Your Money,” Ariel mutters.
“I like it. I really, really like it. To the Naughty Princess Club!” I announce, holding my glass in the air as Ariel does the same and Belle smiles proudly.
“Fuck that. To Cindy learning how to flirt and ride a nonmediocre dick!”
We clink our glasses together and I stare down at my phone, hoping I didn’t completely misread PJ and make myself look like an idiot for sending that text.
Chapter 20: Tit Sweat
“Oh my God. I can’t take anymore. It’s too much.”
I grunt with exertion and a bead of sweat rolls down from my forehead, temporarily blinding me when it falls into my eye.
“It’s not too much. Take it all. Do it harder, faster!”
PJ’s face hovers over mine and I try to remember all the things I like about it, but he’s being a sadist, and I kind of hate him right now.
“Yeah, that’s it. Feels good, doesn’t it?” he murmurs softly, his voice dripping with sex even while he tortures me.
I let out another groan, my body protesting everything he’s currently doing to it.
“It hurts. I want to stop,” I complain, gritting my teeth.
“If it’s not burning, you’re not doing it right.”
After I mutter a few more curses, PJ finally grabs the barbell from me, pulling it out of my hands and placing it in the holder attached to the weight bench I’m currently lying on.
“How do you think you’re going to handle dancing at these parties all the time if you can’t even handle an hour at the gym?”
I’m such an idiot. I never should have sent that text.
I spent the last two days since I sent that stupid lingerie photo to PJ doing everything I could to distract myself and not look at my phone for a reply every two seconds. I filed for our business license now that we settled on a name, I designed our website, I made flyers, I ordered business cards, I made eight dozen I Make Poor Choices When I’m Drunk Devil’s Food Cake Cookies, and I scrubbed every inch of my house from top to bottom, even though it was already clean, but nothing worked. I’ve looked at my phone obsessively every five minutes for the last forty-eight hours, and I even called my cell phone provider to make sure they didn’t close my account without telling me. They reassured me everything was in working order and even sent me a text message to confirm my cell still worked, while also reminding me I had three days to make a payment before my account would be closed.
I have turned into a teenage girl from the ’90s who picks up the phone every two seconds checking for a dial tone when the boy she likes hasn’t called, when what I should be worrying about is paying my damn bills.
Tequila and peer pressure have officially ruined my life. Why did I send that text? But more importantly, why didn’t he reply? Two days of radio silence that turned me more neurotic than normal, and then I get a text from him first thing this morning telling me to meet him here at the gym.
No winky emoji, no flirting, just Meet me at the gym at noon, with the address attached.
And of course, like the stupid woman I am, I show up here like he ordered, wearing a ridiculous pair of black shorts that barely cover my ass and a purple-and-black formfitting Nike tank top. When I put my outfit on this morning, knowing I would be wearing it in front of PJ and a whole gym full of strangers, it felt empowering, and I felt sexy. Now I just feel stupid and half-naked, since he hasn’t mentioned that text at all. Not one word. Not, “That was some hot lingerie you’ve got there,” or, “Couldn’t stop thinking about you in that purple-lace number.” Nothing.
All he’s done since I got here was order me around, make me do a hundred flight of stairs on the StairMaster, lift weights, and run a mile on the treadmill, barking at me and telling me to stop being a baby the whole time.
This is definitely not how I thought flirting was supposed to go. At all.
“Running is stupid and people who run are stupid. I won’t need to run while I’m taking my clothes off,” I grumble in annoyance as I sit up on the bench, deciding not to bring up the fact that I did indeed run from his home the first time I was expected to take my clothes off.
“Of course you won’t. But you need stamina. You need to build up your endurance and work those muscles that haven’t been used in a while, which you’re going to need for dancing. I told you I was putting you through boot camp, and this is phase two: Getting in shape.”
He hands me a towel and sits down next to me on the bench as I wipe the sweat from my face, wondering why in the hell I even did my hair or put on makeup before I left the house.
PJ hasn’t broken a sweat all morning, doing everything next to me the entire time, in his white T-shirt with the word Charming’s in black cursive script across his muscular chest, black basketball shorts, and a black baseball cap turned backward on his head.
What the hell is it about a guy who wears a baseball hat backward that makes them look so much hotter?
“Tell me how this whole business is going to work.”
PJ hands me a bottle of water. I take a minute to drink half the bottle and force myself to stop staring at him. He clearly has no trouble not staring at me the same way.
“Well, each of us will have a profile page on the website with our photo, wearing a costume that represents the princess we’re emulating and—”
“Please, for the love of God, tell me you’re not wearing the same costume you had on the night you came to my house,” PJ interrupts, his eyes pleading with me.
“That was an authentic Cinderella costume and it was adorable!” I remind him in annoyance. “But no. For your information, Ariel found us sexy replicas, thank you very much.”
I slowly run the cap from the water bottle back and forth over my bottom lip, trying to do something sensual as I lean my body closer to his on the bench.
He stares at what I’m doing, and for a minute, I see a spark of something in his eyes. But it quickly disappears when the stupid cap falls from my fingers and drops right down into my cleavage.
“Good. That’s good. Never, ever wear that horrible costume again,” PJ mutters.
His eyes blink rapidly and he glances nervously around at the people still working out around us as I reach down in between my boobs to retrieve the damn cap. I probably should have tried to do it all sexy-like, leaning forward and pushing my boobs together or something, but what’s the point? There is nothing sexy about me shoving my hand down my shirt and digging around in between my sweaty tits to pull out a fucking tiny piece of plastic that is literally ruining my life right now and will not stay put so I can grab it.
“Anyway,” I continue, letting out a sigh of relief when I finally manage to get two of my fingers around the cap and pull it out. “Like I said, we’ll have princess profiles on the website. People can choose which princess they’d like to strip at their party, and then they fill out an online form, basically ordering us.”
PJ nods, his eyes glued to my hands as I screw the cap covered in boob sweat back onto my water bottle.
“You should probably set up a list of rules they have to follow before you accept the booking,” he says distractedly. “Like, no touching the dancers, no jerking off in front of the dancers, no removing of their own clothes in front of the dancers, etcetera, etcetera.”
His eyes finally meet mine as I set the water bottle down o
n the other side of the bench, and I start to wonder if that whole digging around in my boobs did something for him. I mean, I was kind of, sort of touching myself while I did it. Guys think that’s hot, right? Maybe all hope is not lost. I can still do this.
I scoot closer to him on the bench until our thighs our touching and rub my shoulder against his.
“Those are great suggestions. I never would have thought of that.”
My words come out all soft and breathy, and I almost don’t recognize myself. Who is this woman being all bold and flirty while sober and not behind the safety of a cell phone? Maybe he knew I was drunk when I sent that photo of my lingerie and that’s why he never replied with one of his usual flirtatious texts. Maybe I just need to show him that I’m on board with whatever this is, even during the bright light of day and without a drop of alcohol in my system.
“You must work out a lot.”
The words fly out of my mouth and my hand reaches up and squeezes his bicep before I can even think about what I’m doing.
Oh my God, what am I doing? That’s like asking him if he comes here often or something else equally stupid. And why can’t I stop squeezing his muscle? Holy hell it’s a nice muscle. Very firm. I bet the rest of his body is just like this.
Focus, Cynthia. Ask him what he thought about the text you sent. And for God’s sake, let go of his arm!
“So, I was just wondering . . . ,” I start again, trailing off when he flexes the muscle of his arm under my hand. “I . . . um . . . if you got . . .”
“Well, if it isn’t PJ Charming.”
My hand finally jerks away from PJ’s muscle and my head turns to look up at the voice that just greeted him.
Mistake number one.
I suddenly feel very frumpy and very sweaty. The woman standing in front of us is nothing short of a blond bombshell. She’s got on red shorts, even smaller than mine, with a matching red sports bra that barely contains her ginormous boobs. Boobs that are not covered in sweat. She looks like the type of woman who could pull off a very lovely sex kitten pose if she dropped something between those puppies, instead of shoving her hand down in there like she was digging for gold while biting her lip and grunting in annoyance. She’d probably rub her hands all over herself and moan.
“Hello, Melissa, it’s nice to see you again.” PJ smiles up at her but makes no move to stand up and greet her, which should make me feel happy, but doesn’t.
“It’s been a while. Too long, in fact.”
Melissa reaches out and runs one red-painted fingernail over PJ’s chest and down the muscular arm I just had my hand on, and I have to bite back a growl of annoyance. She’s touching him and looking at him in a way that screams “I’ve seen you naked and we should do it again.”
While Melissa continues fondling PJ with her talonlike fingernail, I quietly compare myself to her.
Mistake number two.
Her long blond hair isn’t a sweaty, disgusting mess stuck to her cheeks. It’s perfectly styled with big, bouncy curls, and her makeup is flawless. Her big, pouty lips are covered in bright red lipstick, the same color as the outfit she’s wearing. Her legs are ten miles long with the perfect amount of muscle definition, and judging by the abs on this chick, she clearly works out a lot more than I do.
“Give me a call. We should get together soon. I’ve missed you.”
Not even looking in my direction once, she winks at PJ before turning and walking away. And it’s more than a little annoying that PJ and I are both staring at her ass as she goes. She’s got a killer ass, and I hate her. I bet her ass doesn’t jiggle when she’s on the StairMaster. Stupid Melissa and her stupid, perfect ass.
No wonder PJ never returned my text. I sent him a ridiculous picture of my underwear. Why the hell would he reply to that when he could have a living, breathing Barbie? And going by the words she said to him, he’s already had her. And will have her again soon. Shit, even I wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to sleep with her if she propositioned me.
With a sigh, PJ pushes himself up from the bench.
“Time to hit the free weights.”
Seriously? That’s it? He’s not even going to acknowledge the chick who just waltzed up here and practically screwed him with her eyes right in front of me? I mean, it’s not like we’re dating or anything, but a little common curtesy would be nice.
“So, was that one of your dancers or something?”
That woman had stripper written all over her.
“No. I don’t shit where I eat. And I don’t date strippers,” is his only gruff reply as he turns away from me and heads over to the far corner of the room, where the pile of handheld weights are.
Super. Just super.
Mistake number ten thousand.
Maybe I’m not a stripper at his club, but I’m still planning on being a stripper, and it looks like PJ will not be shitting anywhere near me anytime soon.
I realize how dumb that sounds as soon as I think it, but I don’t care. If that’s the type of woman PJ usually goes for, I am barking up the wrong damn hot-guy tree.
Chapter 21: Jazz Hands
I stand in the middle of an empty Charming’s, nervously watching PJ pull a chair away from one of the tables and take a seat, folding his hands in his lap as he sits there staring at me, all calm and quiet and broody, which just makes me panic even more.
After the second phase of boot camp—where PJ tortured me at the gym, I unsuccessfully tried to flirt with him, and Malibu Barbie Melissa ruined my life—I took ten steps back in this whole self-discovery crap, and that pissed me off. Why was I letting some woman I didn’t even know knock me down a few pegs? Why was I second-guessing everything about myself now that I’d seen the kind of woman PJ goes for? It’s not like I wanted a relationship with this man. I barely knew him.
And yet, as soon as he sent me another text this morning, this time telling me to meet him at Charming’s before they opened, the butterflies started swarming in my stomach, and I took an ungodly amount of time picking out my clothes and getting ready.
I’m wearing that damn peach wrap dress he mentioned in the last flirty text he sent me, and six-inch nude heels that Ariel said make my legs look amazing. It took me an hour and a half to curl my hair and put on my makeup and attempt to look like I wasn’t trying too hard, but it’s all bullshit. I did try too hard. Too hard to be sexy and flirty, and now look where it’s gotten me: Waiting by the phone and jumping at the first sign of attention, even if it’s not the attention I was hoping for. I just wanted him to look at me today and not see the sweaty, hot mess who digs around in her boobs for a water-bottle cap.
I definitely read all the signs wrong. I have no business even trying to look at signs when I’m so far out of my element I’m on another planet. For ten of the thirteen years I was married, Brian’s idea of flirting was telling me dinner was delicious and he’ll meet me up in the bedroom. I shouldn’t be allowed to make decisions on my own. Or when I drink. Or when I’m ticked off. Or pretty much ever.
And of course PJ has to sit there in that chair a few feet away from me, still saying nothing, looking entirely too good for a guy wearing a T-shirt and a pair of basketball shorts, just like at the gym the other day. The club is completely empty except for us, with the main overhead lights off and nothing but the soft glow of pink-and-white stage lights surrounding us. The silence is deafening as I stand here fidgeting, shifting my body from one foot to the other, until I can’t stand the quiet anymore. It gives me entirely too much time to think.
“So, I’m guessing this is the next phase of boot camp? You want me to dance at the club tonight, right?” I ask, breaking the silence.
He finally makes a sound, but it’s a short burst of laughter, his face completely devoid of a smile. Definitely not what I was expecting and definitely not something that will help boost my wounded ego from my obvious failed attempt at flirting with him.
“No. You’re not ready for that. You have to learn how to walk before you can
run. So, move that sexy ass and dance for me.”
Is he messing with me right now? What is happening?
His words should be hot, but they come out all terse and slightly annoyed. What the hell does he have to be annoyed about? I’m the one who put myself out there and got rejected. Clearly sending him that picture of my lingerie was a bad idea. He’d probably just been all flirty with me as part of this stupid stripper boot camp he’s putting me through, and I went and made things awkward and uncomfortable. What guy in his right mind wants to be with a woman who has as much baggage as I do? Who came right out and admitted her ex never satisfied her and she can’t remember the last time she had an orgasm? That’s too much pressure for any guy to handle.
Might as well rip the Band-Aid off and just put it out there in the open so we can move on and never speak of it or think of it again.
“Look, I’m sorry about that stupid text I sent you the other night. It was obviously a mistake and you’ll be happy to know I’m never drinking tequila again. Can we just pretend it never happened and why in the hell are you looking at me like that?” I ask with irritation when halfway through my rambling his eyes lose their annoyance, and even in the dim lighting of the club I can see them darken.
“Looking at you like what?” he asks in a low voice that sends a spark of electricity right between my legs.
“Like . . . like . . . uugghhh, I don’t know!”
I throw my hands up in the air in frustration, realizing I should probably just keep my mouth shut.
“Lesson number one: You have to be able to read your customers and know what they want so you can give it to them. Pretend I’m a customer. Look at me. Look at my face. What do I want?” he asks.
Seriously? How am I supposed to know what he wants when all this time I thought he might want me, and I was wrong?
“I just learned how to dress myself, and you expect me to read your mind now? I have no clue what you want. I thought I did, but I was wrong. I sent you that stupid text, and that was wrong. I tried to be all sexy and flirty at the gym, and I lost a bottle cap in my boobs. And then I saw the type of woman you’ve been with before and newsflash, I am nothing like her. And now you’re quiet and broody and mad and not being winky, and it’s confusing. You’re sitting there all casual and unwinky and it’s making me nervous, and I don’t like it!” I ramble.