She let out a heavy sigh and shoved a hand into the mass of honey blonde curls tumbling down her shoulders. “You’re incredibly annoying.”
“Just a couple of minutes. You don't even have to actually do the dance.” My cock begged me to reconsider, but I firmly told it to shut up. I was trying to strike a bargain here. Helping Finley was more important than feeling her delicious ass grinding into my groin...dammit, the things I do for friendship. “Consider the eighty bucks a fair trade for putting up with my questions.”
“But my boss will—”
“Your boss can't bitch if you’re getting paid. If you need an excuse, tell him I wanted to buy you a drink and complain about my day.” That wasn't totally out of the ordinary—I knew at least one coworker who treated strippers like therapists. I motioned to the plush velvet lounge chairs across from us. “Come on. Those shoes have got to be killing your feet.”
Her eyes cut over to the seating area with longing. “Fine. Two minutes...and I'm starting the clock now.”
Once we were seated, it was nearly impossible to keep my eyes up on hers. It was like they were being pulled by a magnet down to her beautiful naked chest. Maybe forgoing the lap dance was the best move after all—I was already struggling to keep my blood in my brain, just from the sight of her. I probably couldn't string two sentences together if that incredible body was writhing against me. And something told me she knew how to move, and grind, and thrust ...
Fuck.
Finley was clearly just as uncomfortable, but in a much less enjoyable way, fidgeting on her seat and barely resisting the urge to cross her arms over her breasts. Not that she had anything to hide – she was perfection. But she'd been so bold just a few minutes ago, arguing with me by the stage. I didn't like the idea that merely being alone with me was enough to rattle her nerves. I wanted her to trust me, or at least get back on speaking terms.
She was watching me expectantly. Shit, I forgot to actually start talking. Fucking hell. If I had any hope of surviving this conversation, she needed to cover up her chest. Immediately.
“Here, take my shirt,” I said, unbuttoning the top few buttons on my dress shirt.
Finley rolled her eyes. “I can’t wear clothes out on the floor. That’s not how this works, you ass. I’m sure you’re smart enough to know that much at least.”
Last I knew, Finley had been widowed after I fucked up the mission Marcus and I were on – our last as Navy SEALs. She should be home raising her infant daughter and baking cookies, not tucking singles into her G-string and giving lap dances. It made me want to punch something.
Forcing oxygen into my lungs, I fought to clear my head. “Fine. Please just tell me what in the fuck you’re doing working here?” It wasn’t even a nice place. It was a fucking truck-stop strip club off the highway. Had it been a low-key gentleman’s club where she served cocktails in a skimpy outfit, I might have let it slide. No, fuck that, not even then. I didn’t enjoy the thought of another man’s eyes on her.
Her gorgeous green eyes narrowed. “You’re the last person who should be judging me.”
I nodded once. “Fair enough. I’ve fucked up plenty, and I’m not trying to judge you, I’m just … a little thrown off here.”
She swallowed and looked down at her hands. I noticed the simple gold wedding band had been moved from her left hand to her right, like she couldn’t quite part with it, but couldn’t keep on like everything was normal either.
“Since …” She took a deep breath and started again. “It’s just a job, I needed the money, and …” She stopped herself.
“If things were this bad, if you needed money …” Now I was the one trailing off.
Dammit. Why was one simple conversation so impossible?
"I'm doing fine. We're managing," she added.
I was pretty sure managing was code for barely scraping by. Fuck that. I'd fucked up her life once, if I could help her out now, I would. Whether she wanted that help or not. I'd like to see her try and stop me.
"That's too damn bad," I barked. "I have a responsibility to you, and Marcus wouldn’t like this." My chin cut toward the action on the stage, where two girls were now performing an erotic dance together.
She closed her eyes briefly, before opening them again. Hardened green determination cut straight through me. "Marcus isn’t here," she pointed out.
As if I could ever forget that fact. It still haunted me every day.
I shoved my business card at her.
"Redstone," she repeated, looking down at it.
"That has my private cell number on it."
"I don't want this. I don't want your help." She handed the card back, setting it on the small table between us.
"Please, reconsider, if things are that bad, I’ll come by. Bring by groceries and dinner.”
She shook her head. “It’s too late for that.”