He squints one eye. “Really? You’d do that?”
I lean in, and he meets me halfway, the organic scent of his skin, like cedar and honey, swirls and scrambles my senses.
I take in a deep breath and whisper, “I’m an exotic dancer, not a monster.”
Mason
I put in my hours and am technically free to leave, but instead, I’m sitting in the grass under a tree with Denny and a couple of the older boys I was working with along with Trix and three teenage girls. A slight breeze takes the edge off the Vegas summer heat, and the ground beneath us is cool enough to make the temperature comfortable.
Trix sits with her back against the tree’s trunk, her toned legs stretched out in front of her, as she digs through an insulated lunch box. I’m close to her feet, legs out, palms to the grass behind me.
“Mr. Mason said I could fight for the UFL when I grow up, Miss Trixy.” Denny digs into a brown paper bag lunch the Community Youth Center provided.
Grinning, Trix tosses me a silver juice pouch. “I don’t doubt that, Den. You’re pretty spectacular.”
The kid pulls all the food from the bag while the older kids huddle on the opposite side of the tree. “Yeah.” He chews on a bite of peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich. “Mr. Mason said I’m a natural.”
Her eyes on the boy, her expression softens before she aims her smile at me. “I saw your moves,” she says, but doesn’t take her eyes from mine. “I think Mr. Mason’s right.” She hands me a little bag filled with carrots and rips a sandwich in half. “Here. It’s just turkey and mustard. I hope that’s okay.”
I take her proffered food, feeling like a total dick, but also not wanting to offend her by rejecting it. “Are you sure? I can wait until I leave to eat.”
“I always bring extra. The Center gives them lunch, but the older kids need more food than they provide so . . .” She pulls out three more bags of carrots and tosses them to the teenagers, who thank her. She takes a bite of her sandwich and nods. “Go ahead.”
I pop the slim yellow straw into the juice pouch and take a sip. I can’t explain what it is about these kids. I can tell just by lookin’ in their eyes that they’ve lived more life than those twice their age and most of it probably not good. Working with them for only a few hours has me feeling like absolute dog shit about my earlier attitude. Our boss is a demanding ass and forces us. God, Trix must think I’m a shallow idiot.
“Wait!” Denny holds up his hand. “We forgot to pray!”
Trix smiles and puts down her sandwich. “Right, good thinking, Den.”
Denny snags my hand and Trix’s then waits impatiently, staring between my other hand and hers. “Mr. Mason, we need to make a circle.”
Trix and I link hands, and her tiny fingers feel so soft and warm against my palm. I try not to imagine what those hands would feel like against my bare chest or wrapped around my—no, sick bastard! We’re about to pray for shit’s sake!
“Close your eyes and bow your head,” Denny commands.
I dip my chin and peek over at Trix, who is doing the same with a huge smile on her face. She pops one eye open and then rolls her lips between her teeth to keep from laughing. I squeeze her hand and fight the urge to follow suit.
“Ahem . . . Dear God, thank you for the sun and for our food. Thank you for bringing us Mr. Mason so he can teach me how to fight. And thank you for Miss Trixy, who teaches us how to pray. Amen.” Denny drops our hands and dives back into his lunch in a way that makes me wonder when the last time he ate was.
“That was a kick-butt prayer, Den.” Trix throws back a gulp of her water.
She teaches them how to pray. I study the woman at my side and mull over all I know about her.
She strips in a titty bar and doesn’t bat an eyelash at illegal drugs. She volunteers with at-risk kids and teaches them to pray.
Something doesn’t add up.
Five
Mason
It’s Tuesday morning, and I’m stuck in the conference room with the rest of my camp while Cameron lectures us on shit I’m sure I already know.
After my volunteer day at the Community Youth Center, I couldn’t stop thinking about Trix. As incredible as she is dancing near naked, she’s just as amazing with her clothes on. Her moves weren’t nearly as provocative, but she’s clearly a gifted dancer. So why strip? Here in Vegas, a thousand different venues would pay well for a dancer with her skill, and she could keep her damn clothes on.
It doesn’t make any sense.
What doesn’t make even more sense is why the hell I can’t stop trying to figure her out. She’s like a Rubik’s Cube; the more I twist her around in my head, the less she makes sense.
My phone rattles against the conference table with an incoming text. I reach for it and check to see it’s from Drake. Shit.