Total pages in book: 23
Estimated words: 21278 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 106(@200wpm)___ 85(@250wpm)___ 71(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 21278 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 106(@200wpm)___ 85(@250wpm)___ 71(@300wpm)
“What if tonight you were someone else?” Scarlett challenges after she’s taken three hundred selfies of us together.
I pause, the idea taking root. I could pretend to be sexy and confident and beautiful for the evening. Maybe I could step into that role. “Someone like you?”
“Why not?” She has that smile on her face she gets when she’s about to lead us both into trouble. “What’s wrong with pretending you’re carefree tonight?”
She’s the one who pushed me to apply for jobs out of state. I love living in Charleston. I love the salty sea air and the seagulls that cry out as they fly overhead. I love the smell of honeysuckle in late summer and the feeling of the hot, gritty sand against my toes. But she’s right. If I don’t get out now, I never will. I’ll be stuck in that tiny trailer, taking care of my mom forever. I wonder if she even noticed that I left today. The thought puts a pang in my heart, but I push it back. Tonight’s supposed to be my night, a fun night.
“OK, I’ll do it. I’ll be you for the night,” I tell her just as the drinks arrive. There’s nothing wrong with being Scarlett tonight. It’s not like anything life-changing is going to happen. “Who’s up next?”
She glances around the room then at the stage where Officer Hottie is finishing up his act. His abs are glistening under the stage lights from either too much body oil or sweat. Sadly, it’s not doing anything for me right now. “I didn’t see a roster. The sign said it’s amateur night. Some type of contest for a cash prize.”
The guy on the stage finally struts off and I take a small sip of the margarita that Scarlett pushes toward me. The sour, citrus taste isn’t horrible, but I still reach for my bottled water. Nothing tells people I’m qualified to watch their kids like showing up on the first day with a hangover.
The music changes to a slow, sensual beat. It’s not annoying and thumpy like the last act’s was. No, this song has the women and a few of the men in the audience swaying in their seats and watching the stage with breathless anticipation.
When the curtains part and reveal a man dressed in firefighter gear, my heart skips a beat. I haven’t even seen his face and yet there’s something about the way he moves his hips to the beat. He’s a man confident in his skin and even though firefighters don’t normally do anything for me, I feel a bolt between my legs. I shift in my seat and squeeze my thighs together, hoping that Scarlett won’t notice.
He reaches for his bright yellow jacket peeling it off in slow motion as the crowd screams their adoration. When he drops the jacket to the floor, he’s standing in a white muscle tank and with red suspenders holding up his bright yellow pants. He continues dancing across the stage, thrusting his hips as he goes.
He squats, giving the audience a show of his tight, toned ass and he’s only a few inches from me. If I wanted to, I could reach out to touch him. I ball my fingers into fists to resist the urge.
But it’s when our gazes connect that I can’t breathe. I’m staring into the darkest gaze I’ve ever seen and even though it doesn’t make sense, I feel like everything changed in this moment. My lungs don’t work right anymore, and I don’t even care.
Scarlett lets out a whoop and points to me. “She’s the birthday girl!”
He takes the fireman’s hat from his head and places it on mine. His fingers slide against the hot skin of my cheeks as he tips up the hat so I can see. The way he’s looking down at me makes me feel different. Devoured. Owned. Possessed.
I think it must all be part of the act, that he just happens to be really good at what he’s doing tonight. But then he holds out his hand and gives me a wicked grin, “Ma’am, for your safety, I have to ask you to come with me.”
2
LINCOLN
I peer from behind the curtain just long enough to get an eyeful of Officer Hottie gyrating on stage. The women in the crowd are chanting his name and eagerly stuffing dollars into his bouncing G-string as the stage lights reflect off his oil-slicked body.
“You don’t actually use a baton that way,” another competitor grumps. It’s amateur night here at Club Cocky, a bar in Asheville. The prize for the best act is a crisp thousand dollars. I don’t need the cash. I’ve only danced at Club Cocky a few times, but I’ve always taken home more than enough tips to make it worth my while.
But tonight, I wasn’t willing to pass up the chance to meet horny women. It’s been over three years since I’ve gotten more than my hand and I’m definitely ready to find a dirty hookup.