Текст книги "Four Seconds to Lose"
Автор книги: K. A. Tucker
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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 25 страниц)
chapter two
■ ■ ■
CHARLIE
Plan A—Turn myself in and beg for immunity in exchange for information.
I don’t have enough concrete information to nail him. I’ll probably end up in jail for the next twenty-five years. If I even make it there, alive.
Plan A – Turn myself in and beg for immunity in exchange for information.
Plan B—Lose all my identification and fake amnesia so the government will be forced to create new documentation for me . . . eventually.
What if they put my picture up on the news? He’ll find me. Plus, I could end up locked in a psych ward for an indefinite length of time. And I don’t know that my acting abilities are quite that convincing.
Plan B—Lose all my identification and fake amnesia so the government will be forced to create new documentation for me . . . eventually.
Plan C—Buy a new identity and make Charlie Rourke disappear.
He’s just standing there, boring holes into my face.
Given that I’ve never laid eyes on him before, I don’t know what his normal complexion looks like, but I’ll bet it’s not the sickly white pallor that I see now.
As if he’s seen a ghost.
I try to catch Ginger’s eye, to see if she thinks his reaction is strange, but I can’t.
“Sorry. I knocked but you didn’t answer,” she offers in apology. It’s true, she did knock, and we waited for close to a minute before entering. I don’t know what he was doing in his office—behind the closed door with a sign that reads “boss man” and pair of lacy underwear pinned to it—but, by the stunned expression on his face, we’ve interrupted something. A glance down confirms that his belt is at least buckled.
“This is my friend, Charlie, who I told you about.” Ginger’s long, slender fingers point to me and I force a bright smile. “Friend” sounds a bit misleading, seeing as everything I’ve ever told Ginger about me is a deliberate lie.
I met her only three weeks ago. Her beginner pole-dancing class was just finishing up and she stayed on to watch the advanced class. I guess I impressed her, because she sat through the entire hour and then talked my ear off in the change room afterward about how good I am. I took her proffered number with no intentions to call. The next week, Ginger cornered me after class and wouldn’t leave until I went out to lunch with her. Last week, she coerced me into shopping. There’s nothing wrong with her. She’s twenty-six, but she doesn’t act like it most of the time. She has an easy, genuine laugh and a sarcastic sense of humor. She’s persistent, too. I just didn’t plan on getting to know people, seeing as I won’t be in Miami long. But I guess you could say that we’ve become friends—lies and all.
It’s ironic that we met when we did, actually. By my pole-dancing skills and looks, Ginger automatically assumed I was a stripper. There was no judgment in those bright green eyes when she asked which club I worked at. That’s why I admitted to the few unappealing adult clubs I had applied to and the appalling “interview” at one called Sin City. The one I had run out of. Her pixie-like face lit up, which was not the reaction I was expecting. Then she explained that she bartended at the best club in Miami and offered to get me a job. She asked about my experience and I, of course, lied. I told her that I had worked in Vegas.
I left Vegas when I was six. I have certainly never stripped there.
After my experience with Sin City, I wasn’t sure if I could go through with it. But when I saw the unusually elegant sign out front—void of any big-breasted caricatures or flashing lights, just the name, Penny’s Palace—I knew instantly that this was the place for me. And Ginger promised me that the owner, Cain, is like none other. The way she talks about him, I’d think he holds some sort of “boss of the millennium” award.
But he’s still staring me down.
He hasn’t blinked once.
I catch the almost indiscernible shake of his head before he offers in a clipped tone, “Charlie. Right. Hi.”
“Hi.” I was cool and confident coming in here, leveraging countless hours of acting classes to ready my wide, friendly smile. Now, though, under this man’s steely gaze, I hear the wobble with that one tiny word. I step forward and hold my hand out.
His coffee-colored eyes finally pry themselves from my face to glare down at my hand—without moving—and I fight the urge to retract it. Ginger swore that this guy was first class, but he still makes his money off the sex trade. A lot of things get shaken under this roof and hands are probably not one of them. I never did shake the hand of that slimeball at Sin City—Rick—before he instructed me to climb onto his lap two minutes into my interview. I shouldn’t be surprised by this guy’s reaction.
These owners are all the same.
I take a deep breath, reminding myself that I’ve handled my fair share of degenerates and can do this.
Hell, I’m a degenerate.
As if snapping out of a daze, Cain finally accepts my hand in his, his eyes locked on mine. “Hi, Charlie. I’m sorry. You just . . . startled me. You look a lot like someone I know.” There’s a pause. “Like someone I knew,” he corrects himself softly. His voice carries with it a smooth, educated sound, which surprises me, given our surroundings.
“Okay, well, I’ll just be at the bar, getting things set up.” Ginger scoots out of the office, closing the door behind her, leaving me alone with this man. I take a few calming breaths. I’m going to throttle her.
I don’t know what to expect now. Ginger didn’t tell me much about Cain, other than that he’s really nice and honest, he treats his employees very well, and if I’m going to dance in Miami, then Penny’s is the place to work. She did say that he sometimes comes off as intimidating but he’s just reserved. And he’s got a lot on his plate, running this club.
She certainly left out details about his physical appearance, I realize, as my gaze skates over his frame to see the well-defined curves beneath a fitted button-down black dress shirt and black dress pants. As if that body isn’t enough, his face is flawless—angular cheekbones and a sharp jaw combine to give him a masculine yet almost pretty look. He’s like a sculpture—and about as opposite to Sin City Rick as you can get.
Basically, Cain is panty-dropping hot.
That your boss is panty-dropping hot is an odd thing to leave out of the equation. Cain’s the type of guy that makes women lose their words and their train of thought when he walks by. Except Ginger, it would seem.
But attractive or not, I’m feeling all kinds of uncomfortable right now, as Cain’s hard, intelligent gaze slowly rolls over my body, appraising me. Taking a deep breath, I pull my shoulders back. I hold my chin up. I look him straight in the eye. I do all the things I know to do to appear confident. I will not cower under the intense scrutiny. If I’m going to be up on his stage, taking my clothes off for his customers, I can’t be unnerved by this.
And so I stand and let him pass silent judgment while I survey his office, taking in all the shelves, crammed with boxes. Aside from the large desk on one end and a black leather couch tucked into a corner, it seems like a storage room. By his appearance, I’d expect something sleek and tidy.
“Ginger said you have experience?” His tone is gentler than it was when we first stepped in.
I answer without hesitation. “Yes, one year in Vegas. At The Playhouse.” I fight the urge to start twirling one of my loose blond curls. I know my tells, and that’s one that says I’m lying. Ginger warned me, under no circumstances, to lie to Cain Ford, because he always finds out anyway and it pisses him off when he does. It’s kind of impossible to heed that warning, though, given my situation.
Plus, I am a very proficient liar.
And I’m banking on him not doing an in-depth reference check. Short of divine intervention, he won’t find a Charlie Rourke that worked at The Playhouse in Vegas.
Because Charlie Rourke doesn’t exist.
Cain leans back against his desk and folds his arms over his chest, only accentuating the defined muscles in his shoulders and biceps. “Do you have a preference?”
I keep my face composed—I’m an expert at stone cold—while I struggle to decipher his question. Preference with what exactly? The desk? The floor? That couch? Is he seconds away from undoing his zipper?
Either Cain interprets my long pause as confusion or he replayed the question in his head and realized how it could be taken because he adds very clearly, “On the stage. When you’re dancing.”
I exhale and silently admonish myself. “I’m pretty good on a pole.” That isn’t a lie. That’s actually a discredit to my talent. I’ve been in gymnastics since I was five, so my body is strong and limber. Then, two years ago, I needed an excuse to visit a specific dance studio in Queens once a week so I enrolled in a pole-dancing class. Not under my real name, of course.
It turns out I took to pole-dancing naturally. I just haven’t worked up to the move where I drop my clothes.
“Okay,” Cain says slowly, his jaw shifting, appearing as if in thought. He hesitates for a second. “Full nude or topless?”
“Topless.” I shouldn’t be so eager. I’ve heard what these girls wear as bottoms and they may as well be completely naked.
Cain’s eyes automatically drop to my chest when I say that, and they seem to settle there. His entire form is frozen in place.
As if he’s waiting.
Of course he is. He wants to know what he’s putting up on his stage.
A quiver runs through my stomach. I can do this. This will be way less mortifying than the last time. Trying to pace my breathing before my heart explodes out of my chest, I quickly slip my thumbs beneath the spaghetti straps of my lemon-yellow sundress and pull on them until they pass the balls of my shoulders. With a sharp inhale, I let my arms drop and the dress goes with it. I intentionally didn’t wear a bra today. I figured that would make this uncomfortable process quick and a tiny bit less embarrassing. The last thing I wanted to do was fumble with bra hooks . . .
Because that would make standing in this man’s storage-room office in my white thong that much more awkward than it is already.
Cain’s lips part but not a sound comes out of him as his eyes widen for one, two, three, four seconds. And then it’s as if he wakes up, because he’s suddenly moving. Standing, unfolding his arms, and taking steps forward to reach me quickly, I watch with my lungs constricting as he crouches down in front of me and grasps the straps of the dress pooled around my ankles. He pulls my dress back up, his fingertips leaving hot trails against my skin as he affixes the straps. If my body weren’t already as stiff as a corpse, his touch probably would have made me shudder.
Locking eyes that look wise beyond his years on me, he says in a strained voice, as if he’s holding his breath, “You don’t have to do that for me. In fact, I ask that you please don’t do that for me again. Ever.”
I swallow and nod, my cheeks flaming, somehow more humiliated by his reaction than had he groped my breasts like that other pig. Spinning on his heels, he marches over behind his desk, a grimace on his handsome features. I don’t know if I’ve done something wrong or if I have the job.
I need this job.
Cain speaks up again. “Just stage dancing? What about private dances?” I see his gaze on me from beneath a fringe of thick lashes. “I don’t charge any stage fees, so what you earn up there, you take home.”
The small exhale escapes my lips before I can stop it. When I came up with this plan two weeks ago, I wasn’t fully aware of the inner workings at these clubs. But you can find anything on the internet. I found out that many owners charge a high stage fee, so the girls actually earn their money working hard on the floor and in the private rooms. Rumor has it that, though illegal, many of them do “extras,” on top of the lap dances. The idea of stripping on a stage in front of people is a giant pill to swallow for me. But lap dances . . .
I’ll do it.
I have to do it, I remind myself.
When I ran out of Sin City that day, I was sure that my plan was dead in the water. I mean, how was I going to perform daily lap dances when I couldn’t even get through my interview!
But Ginger told me that Penny’s is different. That Cain is different. That no one in the private rooms will be taking their pants off, and that doing “extras” is one of the only ways that you get fired at Penny’s.
Cain sounded too good to be true.
Setting my chin with steely determination, I say, “Both, please.” Swallowing the revulsion bubbling up in my throat, I clarify with a struggle, “I want to work the private rooms as well as the stage.”
Cain blows air out of his mouth, one hand on his hip while the other pushes through perfectly styled, slightly wavy dark hair as he stares hard at me. There’s an inexplicable look in his eyes, but I know he’s trying to read me. I wonder if he’s deciding whether to ask me for a demonstration. My gaze drifts to the couch again and my stomach tightens. Somehow I think giving this guy an interview lap dance might be harder than doing one for a sleazeball.
Because if I could get past the embarrassment and nerves, I might enjoy it.
But he doesn’t ask me to demonstrate. Instead, he asks me, “Have you ever bartended before?”
I shake my head, frowning.
“I have too many girls working the private rooms right now. But working behind the bar would bring your earnings up significantly. It’s what another stage dancer of mine used to do.” He continues, more to himself, “Maybe we see how that works out first.”
I came in here expecting the worst—that I’d be grinding on guys’ laps by the weekend because I have to. And yet, now, the relief is pouring out of me.
“Why are you in this profession?” he suddenly asks, lifting his eyes to bore into me once again.
One question I did expect. I meet his stare and hold it as I explain, “Because I’m good at it, I’ve got a decent body, and have no interest in serving French fries for minimum wage while I figure out what I want to do with the rest of my life.” I deliver that as I practiced it—calmly, clearly, convincingly. It’s a good answer. One that creates no doubt. And so far from the truth. I know exactly what I want to do with my life.
End it and begin a new one.
He nods slowly, his lip pressed together in a grimace. I don’t know if that means I’m hired or not, so I bite my tongue and wait for a concrete verdict. I’m still waiting for Cain’s decision when his cell phone rings. I watch with fingers laced together in front of me while he answers with a gruff, “Yup.” He listens, his free hand absently rubbing a small tattoo behind his ear. A second later he barks, “No! I’m on my way.” Hanging up, he digs into a drawer and comes out with a handful of papers. “Fill these out, please. Bring a copy of your driver’s license tomorrow night with you.” Whatever gentleness crept into his voice before has vanished. It’s all business now, as he slides the sheets across his desk with hands that look strong and muscular but incapable to soothe. “If the crowd likes you, you’ve got a job.” Turning those eyes my way once more and pausing for a moment, he adds, “Fair?”
“Absolutely. Thank you,” I say with a nod and what I hope is a courteous smile as I collect the forms.
With that, he turns and crouches down behind his desk. I hear something metal slam that reminds me of my stepdad’s safe door. When Cain stands again, it’s to fit a holster and gun on him, startling me. It’s not the first time I’ve seen a gun. I have a gun. I’ve used a gun. But seeing Cain with one right here, right now, was unexpected. Why does he even need one?
Throwing a light jacket over himself to conceal it—he’ll die wearing that in the summer heat, but concealing your weapon is a law in Florida and I guess Cain is a law-abiding citizen—he walks over and, with one hand on the small of my back, ushers me toward the door. It’s not exactly rude, but it’s also far from polite. With me in the hall, he pulls his office door shut and marches out the back exit, not turning once.
I’m left standing alone, inhaling the faint scent of beer, my ears catching someone testing the sound system. The one that will play music that I strip to tomorrow night.
I take a deep breath as a rash of butterflies swirl through my stomach, the sudden urge to let loose my bladder overwhelming.
It’s not a big deal.
Mom did this.
I can do this.
After everything I’ve done, that I’ve been accomplice to, taking my top off in front of a bunch of drunks is nothing. I deserve to suffer a bit.
I glance down at the paperwork in my hand. He said he wants a copy of my license. That’s fine. The only accurate thing on it is my picture.
chapter three
■ ■ ■
CAIN
“Hi, Cain.”
She pushes one of those big, blond curls back over her bare shoulder, drawing my attention to her neck. It’s such a flirtatious move but, with Penny, I don’t believe she does it intentionally. “How are you, tonight?” She closes the distance and a delicate hand skates over my arm, as it does every time she greets me before her shift. Shivers run along my skin, as they do every time she touches me.
“I’m good, Penny.” I’m so much taller than her that, when she stands directly in front of me, she needs to dip her head back to peer at me. It gives me the best view of that wide mouth that I came so close to kissing last night. So close to giving in to a selfish urge.
I wish things could be different between us, but they can’t.
She deserves so much better than me.
Knowing that is what stopped me from kissing her last night, though she was obviously hoping for it.
I force myself to sound like I care when I ask, “How is Roger doing? I hope you two have plans for the holidays?” He’ll give her a good life. He’s a quiet plumber in his thirties who follows her around the club and desperately wants her to quit. They could have a nice life together. She’d be away from this world.
I can’t give her any of that. This is where I belong.
I catch the slightest furrow cross her brow before it’s gone. She tucks her hair behind her ear and steps back, swallowing before she speaks. “Oh . . . good. He’s good. Yes, we’re going to meet his mother.” Nodding her head as if to confirm her words, she tucks the same strand in a second time. “I should go and get dressed.”
I watch her walk away, drowning in my disappointment.
■ ■ ■
I know she’s not Penny.
And yet, as I race my black Navigator down the street—with the air-conditioning cranked to max—toward Cherry’s apartment, to deal with impending disaster, the name Penny plays over and over inside my head. Those blond curls, those full red lips, the eyes outlined in heavy black kohl that make me wonder what she looks like without makeup. Decent body, my ass! People pay thousands to have that beautiful hourglass figure. And those tits are fucking perfect. Plastic surgeons would use her as a design model. She doesn’t even need a bra to keep them up. She obviously wasn’t wearing one today when she slid her dress off.
Just like Penny that first day she walked into my dive of a club, asking for a job.
I don’t fuck my staff. Ever. I’m here to help them get on their feet and away from the sex trade, not drag them down further by being the sleazy boss who treats them like whores. From that day almost nine years ago, when I laid down the payment for The Bank—the club I owned before opening up Penny’s—I’ve maintained that code with stoic resolve. Of course, a young guy surrounded by strippers throwing themselves at him daily was a true test of willpower.
I had a lot of cold showers those first few months.
I figured I’d be fine. Then Penny walked in and, well, she was impossible to ignore.
Impossible not to love within seconds.
And if I had just stuck to my policy and stayed away from her in the first place, she wouldn’t have ended up with her head bashed in just steps away from my office.
If Penny’s death did anything, it stopped me from ever getting distracted from my purpose in this business. It sure as hell isn’t love.
Here I was, thinking I had put that tragedy behind me and moved on. Until tonight, a Penny lookalike walks in and blows my recovery to smithereens.
What did I do? I gawked at her like a fucking pervert. I stared at her body, I avoided her polite handshake, I made her squirm under my gaze.
And then she dropped her dress and that spark—the strange concoction of intrigue, hope, and lust that’s so much stronger than just a waiting naked body should provoke—hit me. The one I have felt only once before. When Penny walked into my office.
I went hard as a rock in an instant.
Ginger was right, though. She’s different. Unreadable, for the most part. Not cold, but she’s either very skilled at controlling her expressions or she’s not expressive at all. Aside from that blush when I pulled her dress up, she seemed unfazed through the entire ordeal. And that’s not normal. In all the years, in all the interviews, I’ve never seen a woman so calm as she asks for a job in my club. The women are always nervous. They’re usually flirting heavily. Once in a while, I’ll turn my back for a second and find them spread-eagled on my desk.
Not this woman, though . . .
She has never worked a private room. I caught that hard swallow when she stated that she’d like to work both. Either that or . . . she has worked a private room before and something bad happened. I’m keeping her out until I find out which it is.
I’ll certainly be passing her paperwork on to my private investigator. The one who does the kind of in-depth background checks average employers don’t bother with. I know it’s not normal, but I’m not normal and I won’t let any illicit shit get dragged into my place, derailing everything I’ve worked so hard to build.
Speaking of illicit . . . I pull into the parking lot outside Cherry’s apartment complex, wondering how long before this goes sideways.
■ ■ ■
“You sure you’re fine?” Nate’s booming voice thunders over the Bluetooth speaker in my Nav.
“Yeah,” I mutter. The passing streetlights cast enough light to reveal my swollen knuckles. I can’t believe I injured my hand, but I guess it has been a while since I’ve cracked a jaw with my punch. Years, actually. Despite the multitude of close encounters in this business, I’ve rarely had to lay a finger on the lowlifes that my employees naturally draw to themselves. Nate’s shadow passing over them typically has them running before there’s a need.
But Cherry’s ex is a special kind of scumbag—a small-time coke dealer with a penchant for slapping around pretty strippers. I guess he thought the “never so much as bat an eye at Cherry again” warning had a one-year expiration date. A more permanent removal from Cherry’s life was necessary.
And I think we made sure of that tonight.
While waiting for me outside Cherry’s apartment, Nate saw her son playing at the neighbor’s place, so we knew he wasn’t in imminent danger. A quick walk by Cherry’s window found her bent over the couch, clearly not fighting him off, while the jerk-off plowed into her from behind, in prime view of anyone passing by.
It took everything in me not to kick the door in. I was livid. Livid with her for letting the guy in.
Livid with her for allowing him to use her like that.
Livid that he’s still breathing.
As much as the idea of pummeling him into the ground appealed to me, there are better ways of getting rid of this cockroach. Nate stood guard while I ran back down to the parking lot. I popped the locks on the guy’s truck—some talents you just never unlearn—and, once inside, planted a sizeable bag of coke in the glove compartment.
I may avoid the drug scene at all costs, but I have connections wherever I need them. Tonight, on my way out to Cherry’s apartment, I needed them. For her and her son.
We waited for him to leave Cherry’s. As I suspected, he was carrying, but it took nothing to disarm him and throw him up against the wall. I didn’t even have to pull my own gun.
I had no intention of laying a hand on him. But then the stupid fuck went and called me a pimp. I shouldn’t care what a degenerate like him says, but I do—because I know that, to anyone outside, it’s exactly what I look like. I got a couple of good shots in on Cherry’s “boyfriend” before Nate pulled me off. We let the jerk stumble away to his truck. I even gave him his gun back—unloaded and wiped clean of my fingerprints—and then we tailed him until the cops I’d notified of an intoxicated driver pulled him over.
He has a record, so I know they’ll do a full search. When they do, they’ll find the drugs and the gun.
He’s as good as dead for the next twenty-five years.
I know it was a dirty thing to do. And I know I’d do it all over again if I had to. Still, dipping my hands back into that world leaves me cold.
“I’ll be fine. You sure you can keep the bar up and running on your own?” I ask Nate as I turn onto the street leading up to my condo.
“Piece of cake. A chimp could run that place. Actually, a chimp does run that place,” Nate jokes, earning my chuckle. “Take a break. You need it.” It’s funny that Nate—who is at Penny’s almost as much as I am—would tell me that I need a break. Then again, Nate’s not the one losing his cool lately.
“Yeah, okay. Check up on Cherry later, will you?”
“Already swung by. Had to get fresh food. The other stuff went cold. She’s good. Clear-eyed. Looks like it was a straight booty call.”
I roll my eyes but let the smallest breath escape me. One of small relief that she’s not back into the blow and, that with that guy behind bars, his “booty calls” won’t involve pretty girls like Cherry for a long time.
“See you tomorrow, Nate.” After a long pause. “Thanks for your help.”
“Yeah, boss. Try to keep out of trouble.”
The second I hang up with him, I hit my speed dial.
■ ■ ■
“Unusually hot, even for July,” Vicki croons, her four-inch heels clicking against the marble. My eyes follow her swaying hips as she struts through the foyer and into my spacious kitchen. She’s a thirty-year-old platinum-blond stockbroker who thinks I’m a twenty-nine-year-old investment banker. Because that’s what I told her. Women of her caliber want socially acceptable men.
Strip club owners are not socially acceptable men.
And I’m clearly successful in the field of investment banking—based on my spacious two-floor corner condo overlooking the Miami waterfront, in one of the most sought-after buildings by the bay. Really, it’s because of a great investment banker that I have all that I have. Aside from that lie and my address, she knows nothing about me.
Well, she also knows my favorite positions.
There can be no doubt about what I want when my number shows up on her call display. There’s never any guilt. Not on my part, anyway. Vicki is a smart, successful businesswoman who knows—and gets—what she wants. She probably devours male egos for breakfast. She made it clear from day one that she doesn’t have time for a boyfriend or a husband; she’s more focused on being the first female VP at her company. That’s fine with me because I don’t do relationships. In truth, I don’t know how to do a relationship.
But I do know how to fuck.
And with Vicki, that’s exactly what we do.
“Yeah . . .” I push a hand through my damp hair—fresh from a shower—as Vicki turns to settle green eyes on my bare chest. I didn’t bother putting on a shirt. She likes to shamelessly stare at my body and the various tats that adorn my skin. I had them done years ago, in the thick of my other life. I’m just relieved that I opted for tribal designs rather than skulls and rabid animals.
“How was your day?” she asks with a coy smile. We both know that neither of us really cares how the other’s day went. Her attention flitters over my injured hand for a brief moment, which is now wrapped within a bag of peas.
I hand her a glass of Chianti. “Been better.” I’m not much of a talker. I think she likes that about me. She once made an offhand comment about wanting to gag her male co-workers because they loved to listen to their own voices.
Vicki doesn’t ask me what happened. She makes a cute tsking sound and then offers, “Well, then . . . how about you relax and let me take care of you,” as she leads the way out of the kitchen. I pick up my habitual glass of cognac and follow her to my sparse cream-and-gray-themed living room that overlooks the bay through a double-story window.
Taking a seat in my leather chair, I quietly examine her tall, fit body as she draws a long sip of her wine. She told me once that she’s at the gym by five a.m. every day. Judging by those shapely mile-long legs that disappear into her dress and everything rock hard that I know is beneath it, I don’t doubt her.
Setting her purse and wineglass down on the end table, she methodically pulls a strip of condoms from her purse and lays them out. She likes bringing her own. It’s a control thing. I can’t help but chuckle. “A little ambitious?”
“A girl can hope,” she purrs as she reaches up to unfasten the strap around her neck. Her dress slides down, revealing small, firm breasts and the flawless dip of her tight stomach. I was already hard, in anticipation, but a new surge of blood rushes to my groin. With the windows uncovered and the lamp next to me on, I wouldn’t doubt that anyone with binoculars in a nearby building is getting a good show. I’m sure Vicki has thought of that too, and she doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, I think she enjoys the idea. She oozes confidence. Given how hard she works at it, she deserves to feel good about her body. I’m not sure how confident she’d be if she knew I was surrounded by naked mind-blowing twenty-something-year-old bodies every day, with the ability to have any and all of them if I wanted. That kind of knowledge knocks even the most assured women down a notch. But I have no reason to ever tell her that, so I don’t. I just sit quietly and enjoy the view without a shred of guilt as she kicks off her heels. The dress follows closely.
And I’m hit with a flash of a yellow dress hitting my office floor and the perkiest round breasts in front of me.
