My studio perched above a Mexican bakery, and I breathed in the delicious air as I stretched in the narrow alley between my building and the next. I had my earphones in, with music from my dad blasting in my ears. Some rockabilly Texas band that represented the latest in his kick to be a naturalized Texan now that he’d moved to the Lone Star State.
I liked the beat—it was fast and rhythmic and easy to run to, and I let my mind get lost in the music and the scenery. In the passing restaurants and bakeries, apartments and markets. I’d already found a circuit, and I went slow until I reached the shopping area on Eighteenth Street, then made my way back at a quicker pace, taking a few twists and turns so that I could pass by some of the neighborhood’s murals.
I saw it all, the way cops do. But I wasn’t looking. I was in my head. In my music. Focusing only on the rhythm of my feet and the feel of the pavement beneath my soles until it was just me and the motion. Me and the wonderful sensation of being alive, of breathing, of working muscles and knowing that I was strong. Dammit, I was strong. Strong enough not give a shit about Tyler Sharp. Strong enough to block out the pain.
Strong enough, maybe, to believe that lie.
I rounded the corner to return to my apartment, not sure if I’d accomplished anything on my run other than tiring myself out. What I needed was to convince Tyler to let me into Destiny. But damned if I could think of a way. Maybe if I was as adept as pulling a con as he was I could figure out how to beg, borrow, bribe, or steal, but as it stood, I had nothing to bargain with, no one to help me, and no way in to that club.
Or did I?
I stopped dead in front of my building, forgetting all about cooling down with a slow jog. Hell, forgetting about everything except this one, slim possibility.
It just might work.
A long shot, but it was all I had at the moment—and with a fresh burst of excitement I sprinted up the stairs to my door and hoped like hell that all the pieces I needed would fall into place.
Chapter Fifteen
Rihanna’s “S&M” blared out of the speakers, all confidence and fire, singing about how good she was at being bad. About sex. Attraction. Excitement and heat.
And there I was, my white-gloved hands sliding provocatively up and down the steel pole, my stocking clad leg hooked as high as I dared for fear of losing my balance, and at least high enough to show off the garter that held the stocking in place.
I’d come to Destiny armed with a plan, and now I was one of six other women who’d taken the stage during the club’s Saturday night Amateur Hour. Initially, I’d been nervous that the girl at the front desk would recognize me, or that Tyler would be monitoring the feed and wouldn’t let me on the stage.
Now I was nervous that he wasn’t even there, and that all this would be for nothing.
When the lights had first gone up—when the first strains of music had pulsed out—my blood had beat so loudly in my ears I was certain that all the men around my stage could hear it. I’d moved slowly at first. Tentative, maybe even a little fearful. Now, I had to admit I was getting into it.
I’d been in and out of enough strip joints to know that as gentleman’s clubs go, Destiny was pretty damn upscale. It had a casino-style feel, with a huge main room, a long bar, and comfy tables surrounding a number of performance stages, each with their very own pole.
There were also darker areas, where a customer could take a dancer to a comfortable chair for a lap dance or, if he was really unusual, a bit of conversation.
The overall look was classy, but at the end of the day, Destiny was like any other gentleman’s club. The dancers ended up completely bare. Well, completely with the exception of a tiny G-string that served only as a repository for tips, not as any sort of attempt at modesty.
Still, unlike some clubs, the dancers didn’t start out that way. At Destiny, it really was a tease. A process. A seduction.