“And you’ve been working at the club all that time?” he asked.
“Yes.” What led him in last night, I had no idea. He obviously wasn’t a regular customer.
He made a grunted sound of disapproval, but didn’t push it further. Which was good, because I still had half a mind to throw him out of my apartment.
I scooped some macaroni and cheese onto Maple’s plastic princess plate while Greyson served us roasted chicken and rosemary potatoes.
The food looked great and smelled incredible, so at least there was that.
“I really don’t like you working there,” he said after several moments of silence.
“I really don’t care what you like or don’t like. It’s not your choice where I work.” I shoveled a bite of food into my mouth.
He inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring, and obviously swallowing down whatever else he was about to say.
It wasn’t the worst place in the world to work. The money was decent, and like many of the women here, where else would I go? If I had employable skills, I wouldn’t be making my living grinding against a pole four nights a week.
But honestly, I liked the camaraderie. Backstage with the girls in our dressing room – it could be a hit reality show. Some of the comments and stories I overheard were hilarious. Since I was always either working or caring for Maple, the club was pretty much my only social life, and I'd developed some great unexpected friendships. But then there was the ugly stuff, too. Things I’d rather not see. Like when Bree, who said she’d been clean for three years dropped a little bag of white powder on the floor from her purse. Some of the girls working here had issues, and that was hard. But most were just regular women trying to make a living the best way they knew how. And for the most part, the customers were decent to deal with, too.
The one creepy exception to that rule was this guy named Brant. Middle-aged, balding, sad beady eyes. He’d started showing up at about the same time I began working there. Now he rarely missed a shift that I worked. It was getting ridiculous. No one should go to a strip club that often. Even if he had no life at all, there had to be better ways to spend his time. He should go learn to paint or something, for Christ's sake. Not sit in his favorite seat and stare at me, day after week after month. Not try to monopolize my lap dances or buy me cocktails as an opening for his awkward brand of flirting. He always tipped extremely well, so putting up with him was in my best interests, but his puppy-dog gaze made my skin crawl. One night, he had actually brought me a long-stemmed red rose. As if that would flatter me. Did he not realize that being nice to men—literally any man in the room—was part of my job description?
At the thought of Brant's tainted generosity, my bite of mac 'n cheese stuck in my throat. Suddenly I couldn't take the strained silence anymore. I'd had enough of men who didn't understand boundaries. Men who thought they knew what I needed better than I did. Neither Brant nor Grey cared about my actual opinions. I wasn't a real person to them, only a stage prop. They just wanted to live out their own fantasies of saving the damsel in distress: Poor single mom. Poor stripper. Oh, you poor, poor thing.
Some tiny part of me knew I was blowing this way out of proportion, but that whisper of calm rationality came too late. Fueled by wounded pride, my anger churned harder and harder like a runaway train, too fast for my better judgment to catch up. Why had I acted even the least bit polite, accepting Greyson's intrusive questions and condescending gestures? I needed to know what this charade was all about. Right fucking now. And if I didn't like what I heard, I'd put my foot down, no matter how delicious this dinner was.
I watched his face carefully as I asked, “Why are you here, Greyson? Trying to play knight in shining armor?”
His fork paused halfway to his mouth. He sighed through his nose, lips pressed in a tight line, then replied evenly, “No, Finley. I’m trying to help. That’s it.”
My heart pounded even faster. But as hard as I searched his dark eyes, I found no trace of dishonesty. He truly didn't want anything other than to give us what we needed—what we really needed, not just what felt good to give. He wasn't a false savior who would swoop in later and demand a return on his investment. And even if he did want that self-congratulatory high of being a good Samaritan...as long as he kept it to himself and didn't expect me to fawn over him, then maybe that wasn't so bad.
Wait, what was I thinking? This wasn't just any man sitting in front of me. No matter his good intentions, he couldn't bring Marcus back from the dead.
Maple’s squeals of delight interrupted my sour thoughts. I added a little more food to her plate.
Blinking back to reality, I noticed that Greyson still hadn't moved his fork. He was waiting to hear my response.