Talk about an uncomfortable situation. That poor woman who walked out of the bedroom looked like she’d been kicked in the gut and spit on when she saw me on her boyfriend’s lap.
I’m no stranger to asshole guys. I’m also not na?ve to think that every man I dance for is available, but a striptease is all about the unattainable fantasy—something to indulge in before going back to your woman who’ll bring the illusion to life. But planting an exotic dancer in your girlfriend’s living room to let her watch is a first-class dickhead move.
We step into the elevator. “Easiest gig we’ve ever worked.” Angel presses the button, which lights up to indicate we’re headed to the lobby. “Paid for two hours and only had to work for one.” She pulls an invisible slot machine handle. “Cha-ching.”
“I left them VIP passes to Zeus’s so they’ll get their money’s worth.” Santos leans back, his thick hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans. “Quick thinking with the rule about couples.”
“Yeah, well, there should be a rule about that. I felt so bad for that girl.” I pull a rubber band out of my clutch and have Santos hold my purse while I wrap my hair up in a messy bun. I’m off duty for the night, ready to wash my face, throw on some pj’s, and pass out. “You remember the last girlfriend who got pissed and filed a complaint saying we were hooking. Never trust a pissed-off girlfriend. Speaking of couples”—I stare at Santos and watch his big cheeks turn pink—“did Diane like her anniversary present?”
The blush on his cheeks intensifies and I grin. After shoving piles of lingerie catalogs in our faces one night, begging for us to let him in on what women think is sexy, we made a ton of recommendations. I guess he took our word for it.
“She did,” he says, “but probably not as much as I liked seeing her wear it.”
“Ha! I bet.” The elevator pings and we walk out and toward the valet through the casino. “You’re a good man, Santos.”
“Nope, I’m fuckin’ lucky is what I am.” He snags our tickets and goes to the valet stand to drop them off.
“Whoever those guys are, they must have serious cash. Did you see the shit they had lying around?” Angel pulls off one fake eyelash followed by the other and tucks them in her bag.
“I did.” Illegal shit, but yeah, there was a lot of it. All of it reminded me of my time with Hatch. It’s been a year since he took off and I’ve heard not a single word. The night he stopped in Vegas before he went on the run he’d told me he was headed to Mexico. I wonder if he ever made it or if the guys who were after him found him first.
If he’s dead, I’ll never get him to confess all he knows.
Sadness overwhelms me at the thought of going back to my parents’ home empty-handed. All I want to do is bring them the peace of mind they deserve. After all, they’ve given me everything, despite the shit I continue to put them through. They’ve given hope to kids who never had any. Made a family where there once was none.
“Trix, babe . . .” Santos dips his forehead toward my car, which the valet pulled up and is hopping out of.
“Right, I’m teaching tomorrow, so I’ll see you Monday.” I give Angel a hug, and Santos walks me to my car, tipping the valet and standing there until I get in, shut the door, and strap on my seatbelt. I mouth thank you and head home.
At a stoplight, I catch a reflection of my eyes and am reminded of the girl from the hotel room. Her eyes were sullen, almost haunted. It was obvious she and that Mason guy are old friends, and if her expression when she saw him was any indication, I’d say they were close at one time.
What surprised me was the sweet way he treated her, completely opposite of how he was with me. I mean, sure, I broke his phone, but even after that, he disregarded me like I was scum. Most likely, he takes some kind of moral offense to being in the presence of a woman like me.
He’s the type who needs a woman who sees her body as some kind of prize to be won. The way his hands ran over that girl’s arms like they were made of glass . . . He whispered soothingly into her hair, close enough that she could glean comfort from the heat of his breath. Yeah, he’s a woman-worshiper.
When he threw his arm over my shoulder and tucked me tightly into his side, I felt a sliver of what he’s capable of. Strong, deliberate, and aware, he’s probably a gentle lover, firm and deep, but slow and attentive. The kind that lasts all night and late into the day.
He’s the kind of man a girl like me doesn’t need.
Or maybe the kind I don’t deserve.
Not that it matters.
Four
Mason
“Mister”—Sylvia Thomas, the Community Youth Center Director, studies a slip of paper she has pinned to a clipboard—“Mahoney?” She squints up at me through magnified glasses that make her eyes look bulbous.
“Yeah, call me Mason.”