this stripper fetish started? What if he’d cheated on me when we were together? Bile rose in my throat. Was I simply naïve expecting him to be faithful to me?
Dinner with Grant was not the plan. I wanted to observe him with the strippers. See who else talked to the guys, try to figure out who the girls were at Paul’s place the night of the murder.
But I couldn’t say no to Grant. I was in character. I was Ksenya, and she wanted someone to save her.
I seethed inwardly. I didn’t need a man to save me. The only good thing that had resulted out of this nightmare was that for the first time in my life I had proved that I could take care of myself. Without my parents, Joaquín, or Grant to pick me up when I fell. Yes, Joaquín had left me the money in the safe deposit box, but every red cent went toward this plan. Once my brother was free, I refused to ever rely on anyone but myself again.
What was I going to wear? I’d just finished my shift twenty minutes ago. I rummaged through my duffel bag in the dressing room—stripper costumes, Victoria’s Secret PINK sweats, and a skintight black dress I’d worn last week for VIP night. Mia would’ve worn sweats, but Ksenya would choose the dress. And heels, earrings, and makeup. Playing Ukrainian Barbie was hard. I just hoped she was hot enough to get her Ken doll to talk.
What I would give to go home to my room in El Cajon, shower, scrub off this makeup, crawl into my pajamas, and binge-watch Dancing under the Stars . The arches in my feet were cramped from those ridiculous stripper shoes, my empty stomach was craving a heaping plate of pesto pasta, not sushi, and my eyes were heavy from lack of sleep. Not to mention these humongous tits were killing my back. But I wasn’t going to blow my big chance.
I waited by the back entrance for Grant. My goal for the night was to get him to open up to me, even just a little. Then maybe he’d invite me to the next stripper party he and his buddies had. But I had no intention of sleeping with him—not now, not ever again. I was confident in my acting ability, but I couldn’t control the way my body would respond to his touch. If we made love, he would know I was Mia. I closed my eyes, imagined the warmth of his chest pressing on my skin, the stubble from his beard tickling the nape of my neck, the tender way he used to hold me.
I stared down Convoy Street, scanning for Grant’s truck. Our club was next to used car dealerships and Korean barbecues and the scent of burning animal flesh and kimchee was made my skin crawl. A few customers catcalled me, and I resisted the urge to flip them off.
The roar of a motorcycle shook the air. Grant had bought a bike? I was so pissed at him. He’d always wanted one when we were together, but I refused to let him get one. It was one thing for him to risk his life overseas defending our freedom; it was another to end up as roadkill for a drunk driver and die the way my parents had.
I wanted to go off on him, but I highly doubted Ksenya would nag him. I took a deep breath and centered myself, slipping back into Ksenya’s world.
His windblown hair framed his face. I loved his masculine jaw line, his beard, his intensity. The deep scar on his neck beckoned me to reach out and caress it. I had clearly underestimated the hold this man still had over me.
“Hey, gorgeous. Hop on.” He handed me a helmet.
“You drive motorcycle? Is dangerous, no?” Screw it, I figured Grant would like a little bit of sass from Ksenya.
“Nothing’s dangerous when you’re with me. Let’s go.”
Cocky son of a bitch. In the past six months, I’d never once considered how hard it would be to shut my mouth and not call Grant out on his bullshit. I pulled the tight helmet over my head, wrapped my arms around his waist, and held on.
The wind chilled my legs as we entered the freeway, my skintight dress riding up around my thighs. I’d never been on a motorcycle, fundamentally refused to ever ride one
Dinner with Grant was not the plan. I wanted to observe him with the strippers. See who else talked to the guys, try to figure out who the girls were at Paul’s place the night of the murder.
But I couldn’t say no to Grant. I was in character. I was Ksenya, and she wanted someone to save her.
I seethed inwardly. I didn’t need a man to save me. The only good thing that had resulted out of this nightmare was that for the first time in my life I had proved that I could take care of myself. Without my parents, Joaquín, or Grant to pick me up when I fell. Yes, Joaquín had left me the money in the safe deposit box, but every red cent went toward this plan. Once my brother was free, I refused to ever rely on anyone but myself again.
What was I going to wear? I’d just finished my shift twenty minutes ago. I rummaged through my duffel bag in the dressing room—stripper costumes, Victoria’s Secret PINK sweats, and a skintight black dress I’d worn last week for VIP night. Mia would’ve worn sweats, but Ksenya would choose the dress. And heels, earrings, and makeup. Playing Ukrainian Barbie was hard. I just hoped she was hot enough to get her Ken doll to talk.
What I would give to go home to my room in El Cajon, shower, scrub off this makeup, crawl into my pajamas, and binge-watch Dancing under the Stars . The arches in my feet were cramped from those ridiculous stripper shoes, my empty stomach was craving a heaping plate of pesto pasta, not sushi, and my eyes were heavy from lack of sleep. Not to mention these humongous tits were killing my back. But I wasn’t going to blow my big chance.
I waited by the back entrance for Grant. My goal for the night was to get him to open up to me, even just a little. Then maybe he’d invite me to the next stripper party he and his buddies had. But I had no intention of sleeping with him—not now, not ever again. I was confident in my acting ability, but I couldn’t control the way my body would respond to his touch. If we made love, he would know I was Mia. I closed my eyes, imagined the warmth of his chest pressing on my skin, the stubble from his beard tickling the nape of my neck, the tender way he used to hold me.
I stared down Convoy Street, scanning for Grant’s truck. Our club was next to used car dealerships and Korean barbecues and the scent of burning animal flesh and kimchee was made my skin crawl. A few customers catcalled me, and I resisted the urge to flip them off.
The roar of a motorcycle shook the air. Grant had bought a bike? I was so pissed at him. He’d always wanted one when we were together, but I refused to let him get one. It was one thing for him to risk his life overseas defending our freedom; it was another to end up as roadkill for a drunk driver and die the way my parents had.
I wanted to go off on him, but I highly doubted Ksenya would nag him. I took a deep breath and centered myself, slipping back into Ksenya’s world.
His windblown hair framed his face. I loved his masculine jaw line, his beard, his intensity. The deep scar on his neck beckoned me to reach out and caress it. I had clearly underestimated the hold this man still had over me.
“Hey, gorgeous. Hop on.” He handed me a helmet.
“You drive motorcycle? Is dangerous, no?” Screw it, I figured Grant would like a little bit of sass from Ksenya.
“Nothing’s dangerous when you’re with me. Let’s go.”
Cocky son of a bitch. In the past six months, I’d never once considered how hard it would be to shut my mouth and not call Grant out on his bullshit. I pulled the tight helmet over my head, wrapped my arms around his waist, and held on.
The wind chilled my legs as we entered the freeway, my skintight dress riding up around my thighs. I’d never been on a motorcycle, fundamentally refused to ever ride one
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