Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 73930 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 370(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73930 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 370(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 246(@300wpm)
“Hey, Lindsey,” Trevor says flatly.
She fixes her eyes on me now. “You look familiar,” she says, tilting her head to the left and then to the right as she assesses me. “I’ve seen your picture on the website, haven’t I? Another stripper for hire? Poor Autumn just can’t get enough. What’s your name?”
“We were just leaving,” I say, pushing the rum and vodka bottles back away from the edge of the counter, my jaw going tight at her dismissive tone when she mentioned Autumn.
“What’s your hurry? You boys want to come up to my room for a while?” She curls her head toward her shoulder and fiddles with her hair in what I guess she thinks is an alluring pose.
“No, thanks,” Trevor says.
As we move to leave the kitchen, Lindsey stays put and doesn’t get out of our way until I say, “Excuse me,” in a voice that lets her know I’m serious about getting past her.
The woman’s tone turns harsh as we head down the hall that leads to the front door. “Wait a minute. Is it money you want? Since you’re already here, what’s your rate to strip for me right now?”
With a diplomacy that I wouldn’t have been able to muster, Trevor says, “If you’re looking to hire someone, you can contact the club.”
And then we’re gone.
22
Autumn
When I’m in the shower, it’s almost like I’m washing a different body. I’m still technically a virgin, but I’ve done some things now, and with three men! It’s like a fast track to experience, especially with Trevor willing to guide me and give tips.
The men all made me feel so good. I can only hope that I gave them at least half of the pleasure they gave me. They almost make me regret that I waited this long to do things with a man, but I have a feeling that my experience might not have been as good if it were with most other men.
I still can’t believe I shared my bed with Adrian all night, and after my nerves passed, it felt so easy and so comfortable. How nice it would be to wake up next to him every day, or Trevor or Garret. Adrian asked if I was coming back to the club. Does that mean he’d like to get together again?
I wish I didn’t need to rush off to work. It would have been so nice to linger with them, but maybe it would have been awkward.
As I dry my hair, I decide that the men wouldn’t have let things get awkward, and I’m hoping that they might still be in my room when I return, but they’re gone.
Something isn’t right, though.
At first, I think it’s just the fact that the room is empty when it had so recently been full of gorgeous men, but then my guitar case catches my eye. It’s flat on the floor, when I always have it carefully propped in the corner. When I go to lift it, the lid flaps open, revealing that it’s empty.
Trevor and Adrian wouldn’t have taken my guitar out, would they? I twist around scanning the room, but I don’t see it anywhere. They’re decent guys; they don’t seem like the type to mess around with my things without asking.
The men’s Speedos were full of bills last night; with all of the money they earn, I can’t imagine that they’d want or need to steal my guitar. And if they were to steal it, surely they’d take it case and all. It doesn’t make any sense.
A ragged scrap of shimmery white fabric on the floor draws my eye. When I pick it up, I recognize it immediately. It’s from the new blouse I bought for my show tomorrow. The outfit is still hanging on the closet door, but there’s a big slash running from the neckline halfway down the front and two more cuts across the skirt, as if someone hacked at it with scissors.
I’m more certain than ever that Trevor and Adrian aren’t responsible for this. What was done to my clothing was an act of anger, not basic theft.
I turn and start for the door, about to go in search of my roommates — because who else could be responsible? — when I see the handle of my guitar sticking out from under a big, rumpled pile of blankets on my bed. I fling the covers off of it and let out a strangled cry.
It’s smashed. Its body has been bashed in with something. The wood is shattered. The strings are broken. The neck is cracked, with just a few splinters of wood keeping it from being completely detached.
No, no, no, no, no.
It’s utterly beyond repair. I’ve had the guitar since I was eighteen. It was a graduation gift and my most prized possession. I just had it restrung, and without it, my gig at Rusty’s won’t be happening.