SCORCHED: A Firefighter Stepbrother Romance Thriller by Evelyn Graves

covered by
only a semi-sheer thong. What I was wearing tonight wasn’t my hottest ensemble,
but short on time and short on cash, it would have to do.

 
    Thank
God I’d kept a few outfits in my locker, or I’d really be shit out of luck.

 
    There
weren’t a whole lot of men crowded around my stage tonight, which wasn’t doing
much for my self-esteem. Ginger—not her real name—had twice as many
guys as I did, all of whom were in various stages of
professing their undying love to her ass. On most nights I drew a decent turn-out , including a few regulars. I had something of a
cult following here. Guys had even followed me from my old club, the Dollhouse,
just so they could keep watching me and my show, the one that kept their greedy
eyes glued to me and my tits half the night.

 
    It
wasn’t rocket science. All I did was take a few classes—belly dancing,
air aerobics, and some “stripping for exercise” course all the new moms were dying
to try. Shit, I think I even got a Groupon for that
one. It pissed me off a little that these middle-class thirty- somethings thought working a pole was all fun and games.
They didn’t know jack shit about being a stripper. They wouldn’t have lasted
five seconds in any of the clubs I’d worked in.

 
    The
classes paid off, though. Gave me an edge over my competitors. And that was
what they were at the end of the day, all these women grinding on the stage—my
competition.

 
    And
tonight, I was failing miserably.

 
    I
lunged forward and crawled toward my audience. It didn’t come off as sexy as it
usually did—I had to sort of army-crawl on my forearms so’s to keep pressure off my bandaged hand. I tried to make
my movements sensual and slow, but the guys couldn’t get a good view of my
tits, and when I looked into their eyes, I saw frustration. Pity.

 
    I
wasn’t sure which made me feel worse.

 
    But
then I saw it: somebody holding up a twenty, waving it around like a matador flagging down a bull. I blew out a sigh of
relief and sat up, sweeping my legs off the stage and putting my feet on the
ground.

 
    Thank
God. I was starting to think I wasn’t going to make back my bus fare for the
evening. Not to mention that the more money I put in my pocket—or my G-string—the
quicker I could get the hell out of my stepbrother’s house.

 
    Asshole thinks he owns me now, I
thought, walking toward my customer with long strides that made my tits jiggle. Like he can just swoop in after all these
years and start acting like we’re family again.

 
    But
Gunner wasn’t really acting like we
were family at all. The way he’d looked at me when I stepped out of the shower.
The way his eyes had roamed over every inch and curve of my body. The way his jaw
twitched like he was just barely holding back. God, he’d looked at me
like . . .

 
    Like he
wanted to fuck me.

 
    On the
other side of the group of men, I finally caught a glimpse of the guy with the
twenty. My heart sank. Motherfucker—it was Gino.

 
    He folded
up the bill in one of his pudgy hands and gave me an appraising look. His lips
tightened into a thin, grim line across his sweaty face, and he slowly shook
his head as his gaze snagged on my bandaged hand.

 
    “Shit.
If you’d told me it was this bad, I
would’ve let you stay home.”

 
    I did tell you it was this bad, I wanted to say, but I knew better than to
argue with Gino. It was like playing chess with a pigeon. No matter how right I
was, he was just gonna shit
all over the board and strut around like he’d won, anyway.

 
    “Chastity’s
got your stage for the next hour,” he continued, using the bill to mop sweat
from under his chins. “You got a visitor.”

 
    I
squinted at him. “A visitor? I’m workin ’ here, Gino.”

 
    “Yeah,
and now you’re workin ’ there, ” he said, jerking his head toward the back of the club, “in
the champagne room.”

 
    The
Domino wasn’t nice enough to have