Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 74487 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74487 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
* * *
I yank a bright blue minidress off a hanger and turn to the petite redhead, who grips an open SlimFast can and a half-eaten Milky Way bar.
* * *
“Leaving early.” I work my arms into the dress and pull it over my head.
* * *
“With that guy?” Jealousy is never pretty, but on Nikki, it comes dipped in kerosene, with a blowtorch in hand. I won't be surprised, if the moment I turn my back, she dials the cops and turns me in for prostitution.
* * *
“He’s an ex-boyfriend,” I lie, and it’s a moment of pure brilliance, her features falling in disappointment before her glittery lips slide back into a smile.
* * *
“Oh.” She straightens. “He broke up with you?”
* * *
I sling my bag over one shoulder and slam the locker. “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you later.”
* * *
I push past her before she can argue the lie.
* * *
My hand tightens on the strap of my purse as I come to a stop. The man turns away from the group and lifts a chin to me, his eyes flitting down my dress and then back to my face.
* * *
“You ready?”
* * *
“I’d like to take a photo of your driver’s license.” I practiced the words in my mind before I spoke, yet they still come out stiff and unsure, as if I am asking for something that is negotiable.
* * *
Even in the dim light, I can see the flicker in his eyes, the tightening of his chin, a subtle shift of his shoulders.
* * *
“That’s not really—” The words, spoken by a beefy suit to our left, are cut off by just a glance from the stranger.
* * *
His eyes return to me, and a knot of tension in my chest relaxes a little when he reaches into his back pocket. “Smart girl,” he says quietly.
* * *
Smart girl? I haven’t been a smart girl for a very, very long time. A smart girl would run away from his delicious mouth and intoxicating scent. A smart girl wouldn’t be trading cash for her safety and respectability. Still, a part of me preens at the empty compliment. It’s been so long since a man has admired anything but my looks.
* * *
I reach out and take the driver’s license he offers, examining it briefly before digging into my purse for my phone.
* * *
Nathan Dumont. An unsmiling photo that matches his handsome face. Born eight years before me, which puts him at 35 years old. An address in Nashville. A Tennessee man in our little beach town? Random.
* * *
I take a photo of the license, and text it to Jez, briefly depressed by the fact that my life has degraded to the point where my only friends are strippers. I add a quick message. In case I die, call the cops on this asshole. Sending the message, I pass the card back to the stranger, one now with a name—Nathan—and a location. I tuck my phone back in my purse. Smart girl. Maybe I am. Maybe somewhere, underneath the glitter and the desperation, there was still a little of the person I used to be.
CHAPTER 5
As a teen, I always pictured limos and strippers paired together—like peanut butter and jelly. Now, I step onto the parking lot in five-inch heels and try not to gawk at the stretch limo that idles, the door smoothly opened by his security detail. I stumble at the door’s opening, trying to figure out the most ladylike way to get in while wearing a mini-dress. I end up doing some sort of dippy crawl that is a disaster, my face flushing as I right myself on the leather seat. The door closes and I have a moment of silence.
* * *
It’s sad that I feel at home. The mirrored ceiling, with twinkling stars set into the headliner, is straight out of the low ceilings of Sammy’s. The black leather seats, ice chest of beer and wine, a velvet pillow lying against the front seat – it’s all Stripperville, USA. And for me, it’s all incredible. High-class, fancy living, incredible. I am in a limo, with a wealthy stranger, pulling away from Sammy’s. If I squint hard enough, this is just like Pretty Woman’s final scene. Maybe I can be Julia Roberts. Maybe I can have a fairytale ending, despite my poor planning.
* * *
I shut down my fantasy when the other door opens, his tall body making an easy transition into the car, nothing like the fumbling giraffe I had been. I fix my mouth into an easy smile, crossing my legs and leaning forward, assuming the pose that makes my breasts appear biggest and causes my cellulite to disappear. “Where are we going?”
* * *
He ignores my question, unzipping his pants and leaning back in the seat. “Come here.”