Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 129460 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 518(@250wpm)___ 432(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129460 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 647(@200wpm)___ 518(@250wpm)___ 432(@300wpm)
Perhaps I exhausted him as much as he has me the past month, and he needed a couple of days to recoup?
“Hey,” I greet when his fast strides down the alleyway slice in half when he spots me leaning on the hood of my car. “I left a message with Octavia that I’d meet you at the gym at seven.” I air quote the word ‘gym.’ “But when I didn’t hear from you, I thought I’d head down early.” As my eyes drop to his stripper bag, I murmur, “Lucky, or you might have left without me.”
Frustrated by the angst in my last sentence, I roll my eyes at him before skirting around my car and heading for the driver’s side door. “By the way, I found my keys.” My eyes stray to the dumpster at Caleb’s left. “Somehow they ended up in the bin.” I shake my head in disbelief. “I could have sworn I had left them in the ceramic dish in my room.”
My quick entrance into my car saves Caleb from being subjected to my second eye roll of the night, although it doesn’t get his legs moving. He remains standing at the foot of my car, unsure if he is coming or going.
What is his problem today?
After winding down my window, I say, “If this is about Maui skimming the tips last week, you don’t need to worry. I won’t take my eyes off him tonight.”
“It isn’t, Maui. It’s just…”
“Just?” I ask when words elude him.
He kicks up the dirt slash gravel combination under his feet before breathing out with a sigh, “It’s nothing.” He stomps around my car with so much aggression, his brutality to my car door while opening it seems gentle. “Let’s just get this done with.”
Confused as to why his statement seemed more about us than his job title, I latch my belt before reversing out of the alleyway.
Our drive is made in silence, and Caleb doesn’t speak a word to me while waiting for the first bride-to-be to show up. Something is up with him, but I’m at a complete lost as to what.
“Did I do something wrong?” I ask from my station at the side of the dressing room. Don’t misconstrue. I’m not a girl who takes blame for matters out of her control, but Caleb’s dithering mood tonight has me so lost, I’m not sure which way is up.
Caleb is saved from an interrogation when Maui announced guest one’s arrival. “She’s loaded too. Already placed down a five-hundred bar tab for her guests.”
Even aware he knows the routine, I announce to Caleb that I will get everything set up before formally introducing him. “I’ll take my time. Hopefully, the extra minutes will give you time to remove your head from your ass and screw it back onto your shoulders.”
I dart out of the dressing room before Caleb can reply, but it is obvious he missed my mumbled comment. He walks onto the stage with arrogance before giving the bride-to-be nothing close to what she paid for.
His dance moves are off, his attitude is rife with pigheadedness, and even with a handful of them coming from me, he’s booed more than a dozen times.
“Come on, Caleb,” I murmur, hopeful my whispered pledge the first time he danced is as successful this time around as well.
When my cheers slacken the usually robust thrust of his hips, I sink into the curtains at the side of the stage to hide my embarrassed face.
Throughout the last ten minutes of his performance, I grimace, groan, and grunt. Then I detonate like a bomb when my return to the dressing room isn’t hindered by the collection of his tips since there are none to collect. “What the fuck, Caleb? What was that mess?” I thrust my hand at the door like the stage is right there. “If she wanted a dud, she would have rushed down the aisle to her husband-to-be instead of hiring a so-called professional for a halfhearted grind-up.”
Sweat drips down his cheek when he scoffs at my claims with a pfft. “I gave her what she paid for.”
“No, you didn’t,” I shout, stopping the drying of his head mid-wipe. “She ordered an overloaded wiener, but you gave her a little smokie.”
“My job isn’t to get her off, Jess.”
He wrings his towel as if it is someone’s neck when I reply, “Ah… yeah, it is!” When anger lines his face, I mutter, “Figuratively, dickhead. You’re a fantasy. A myth. You’re meant to make her feel desirable even when she is feeling anything but. It is all part of the package she purchased.”
“Well, maybe I don’t want to be her fantasy. Maybe I don’t want to be her myth. Maybe I just want to be myself and not need to fucking lie about who I am all the damn time.” He stuffs his towel into his stripper bag with so much force, the thread of the fastener pops open. “And maybe I don’t want to do this anymore.”