SCORCHED: A Firefighter Stepbrother Romance Thriller by Evelyn Graves Page B

a lot of girls who never
had that choice and came to work the next day with scrapes and bruises as a
result.

 
    And
here that vicious cycle was, perpetuating right in front of me. Men’s ownership of women, of our bodies. It made me think of
what Gunner would say if he could see me here, shaking my tits up on stage.

 
    That
was why I had to get out of his house. He was just another Jim waiting to
happen. I was sure of it.

 
    Hell,
they all were.

 
    I left
Chelsea to it after mouthing “we’ll talk later” and
seeing her wink in reply. No way she was gonna give up a sweet tip just ‘cause of the guy’s fuck-face father. I understood it.
Didn’t like it, especially since she was my friend, but money makes the world
go ‘round.

 
    I knew
that all too well.

 
    As soon
as I neared the back door, the smell hit me: sweat, sex, and somebody’s
shattered dignity. It hung stale in the air. I wrinkled my nose. It had smelled
exactly like this the last time I was in here with a man—the one who’d
turned me off to the idea of private dances for a long, long time.

 
    Usually,
all a stripper had to worry about was some guy who didn’t know when enough was
enough. Some asshole who’d get too handsy , or who
wouldn’t listen when a girl said “no.” Then we’d just call one of the bouncers
and hope they got to us before the guy had a chance to clock us, or worse, get
their bodily fluids in our hair.

 
    But
this guy . . . I’d known from the moment I shut the
door that something about him was off. Maybe it was the mask he wore over his
face. Like Comedy and Tragedy, only this guy had forgot the Comedy part.

 
    I could
see his eyes glinting through the dark socket holes, and I think that’s when I
knew for sure shit would go wrong. There was nothing there. No hope, no desire,
not even a drunken spark. His eyes were flat and dead. Like a
shark’s.

 
    He
didn’t want me to dance, either. He wanted me to take my top off. He wanted me
to stand in the middle of the room and he circled around me, looking me up and
down, judging me, scrutinizing me. He’d made me feel like a slab of meat.

 
    Then
he’d bent me over the stage, spread my legs, and began grinding between my ass
cheeks. I could feel him filling up, getting harder. When I tried to speak, he
put his hand on the back of my neck and squeezed. And then he’d started
talking.

 
    He used
a voice scrambler—holy fuck, was that horrifying. He’d told me all about
his mother, how she used to be a stripper just like me. How she’d been a whore,
too, though he thought I might be above that. He said there was something pure
about me, something perfect. I reminded him of what his mother could’ve been.
I’d probably make a great mom, myself.

 
    And
then he told me how she died. How one night, she’d fallen asleep after some rum
and Vicodin . He told me about how some nights when
she was passed out, he’d sniff her panties. But how on this night, he’d stuffed them down
her throat.

 
    “The
way she choked is a sound that will never leave me. How does it sound when you
choke, Tanya?” Too fast for me to stop him, he’d wrapped his arm around my
throat. “I’ll bet it sounds the same.”

 
    That’s
when I screamed. It took everything I had, but I shrieked and bucked and
bellowed Nick’s name until he’d come crashing in, murder on his face. But by
the time he had the psycho was gone. My backside was moist—he’d gotten
off on the sound of my screaming.

 
    I
wobbled near the doors and put my good hand on the wall to steady myself. My
pulse pounded in my ears so loud I couldn’t hear the bassline anymore. My throat was dry and my stomach was turning, threatening to spill my
guts right there on the floor. I took a deep breath through my nose and shut my
eyes, telling myself the same thing I had every time I had to come to the
champagne room.

 
    It’s not him. He hasn’t been here in weeks.

 
    A hand
on