Ripped (23 page)

Commando was decked out in military combat gear, including a peak cap and rifle. My heart raced even though he hadn’t moved yet, and I couldn’t comprehend why. There was something familiar about the stature of the guy and my mind, in its champagne-soaked state, struggled to pull the thoughts together.

He rolled his body in time with the music, and my stomach lurched. I felt around behind me to find the couch so I could sit before I fell down. Even though he was still only a black figure with the lights shining through the smoke behind him, there was no mistaking that body and that movement as he broke into dance. He was a superb dancer—the best I’d ever seen and ever danced with.

My Bax, the one man in the world I believed would never do anything to hurt me, who would always put my happiness before his own, was standing on a stage about to bare his body and soul to a room full of drunken women who knew nothing about him. His struggles, his hopes and dreams meant nothing to them—all they cared about was seeing his naked body and, if they were lucky, getting to touch him.

The women in the front row of seats clamored to get up on stage, and two waiters had to intervene before a herd of drunken women charged. Instead, they planted their feet back on solid ground and stretched their arms out to touch my boyfriend, and he stepped forward and into the light so they could reach him. I didn’t want to watch, but I couldn’t tear my gaze away. I’d seen act after act already and they all followed the same formula of strip and grope, strip and grope.

Maybe he didn’t strip—maybe he only danced instead. As I watched full of hope that he would continue to dance, the first layer of clothing came off. I shook my head in disbelief as bile rose in my throat.

“He’s so hot,” Tiff yelled over the music. “I’d definitely do him.”

I couldn’t watch. I needed to run but my legs wouldn’t obey so I just sat there, my head in my hands, and prayed for it to be over.

“Hey.” She nudged me hard in the ribs. “What’s wrong? You’re not gonna vomit again, are you?”

It was so hot, the air around me closing in until I felt faint. “I can’t …” Finally managing to stand, I took one last look over my shoulder toward the stage. Bax took hold of the neck of his singlet and ripped it from his body, ripping my heart out in the process. He was going to strip—of course he was. To think he would only dance was naïve. To think he would care enough about me to only ever want my hands on him was foolish.

The girl up on stage looked so drunk she could hardly focus as the crowd cheered her on and Bax rubbed up against her. As he danced in front of her, showing off his glorious body to his adoring fans, her claw-like hands wrapped around him from behind and grabbed at his chest and abdomen. I’d seen more than enough.

“Holy fuck,” Tiff said, pulling on my hand. “Is that …” She leaned forward, squinting through the smoke and crowd to get a better look. “Holy fuck, Jaz, that guy looks like …”

I looked down at Tiff through tear-filled eyes and swallowed the lump in my throat, then hightailed it out of there as fast as my four-inch stilettos would carry me.

I
T WAS
break time before the main event—
me
.

This was what I lived for—this was what made me feel alive. Not the stripping. That was the worst type of dancing I could ever imagine. It was the spotlights, the music, even the stage makeup and the feeling of performing. Going into character and totally embracing that persona for ten minutes. The appreciation from the crowd was what got me through, knowing that with every body-roll and arm-raise, the women idolized me.

Dropping to the ground, I did my customary one hundred push-ups to pump up my arms and chest before rubbing a little baby oil over my body so it would glisten in the lights. The costume was next. I would be playing the role of a soldier, and it made me smile to think that soldiers were in Jaz’s show and it somehow connected us. Of course, her soldiers didn’t have carefully sewn seams so that pants could be ripped off in an instant, but it was still a costume, and this was still a part I was playing.

“You’re up, Commando,” Captain called from the doorway. “They’re wild tonight. Keep your wits about you.”

I grabbed my phone. If I was quick, I’d have a minute to send Jaz another message before I went on. It had become my ritual to send her something sweet, something that let her know I was thinking of her, and something that also reminded me of the other reason I was doing this.

Sure, I’d been working here for nearly two years, which was long before Jaz had come back into my life. It had started out as a waiter job. Just like the guys out there, I’d walked around shirtless, serving drinks and flirting for tips and I’m not gonna lie—it had been fun. The girls had always put so much effort into their appearance and were always looking for a good time, and for a single guy it was the best job in the world. But after serving drinks and watching the guys on stage get all the attention, I’d needed more. I’d given up on dance at that stage, but you didn’t have to be a professional to do what the dancers did—all you needed to be able to do was bump and grind and flex.

Captain was indeed the captain, of waiters and strippers alike, and one night when I’d overheard him talking about having to audition for another dancer I saw it as my chance. I’d never stripped, but I’d watched enough shows to see how it was done, and the routines were basic. He’d gathered the other guys around and I jumped up on stage, totally unprepared with just my instincts to guide me.

As soon as I’d started to move, I’d seen Captain sit up on the edge of his seat.

“That was amazing,” he’d said, clapping as he and the rest of the guys stood. It was my first standing ovation and although it had only been from a few guys in a seedy club, it had felt like all my dreams were coming to fruition.

This was what I was here for. The only thing I was good enough to do was dance and take my clothes off, but at least it was dancing.

But I was also here for Jaz. Even if I’d wanted to leave, I couldn’t afford it. Jaz was on minimum wage during the rehearsal phase of the show so it fell on my shoulders to support us. Not that I minded—I’d been raised to believe a man should do whatever was required to support his family, and Jaz was my family.

It was time to perform and as always the nervous butterflies had me on edge and ready to go.

I’d heard the crowd from the back room, but as I stepped out on stage amidst the smoke and swirling spotlights, the cheers escalated, vibrating through my chest like a drum. I loved this part—the excitement, the unpredictability of the crowd, the cheers and calls for more. It had my blood pumping and heart racing.

As always, I looked around the crowd as I danced, trying to make eye contact with as many girls as I could and occasionally giving them a sly smile or cheeky wink.

At the back of the venue, a flash of a figure dressed in a red dress raced for the exit, and I could have sworn by the body shape it looked like Jaz. For a split second, I froze to the spot as feelings of guilt, dread, and relief flooded over me. If that was her then she finally knew, and I could stop lying to her about the one thing I’d kept secret since we’d met up again. A few seconds later, the spotlight twirled into the crowd and I caught a glimpse of Tiffany leaving by the same exit.

So this was it. Jaz knew.

I hesitated. Every fiber of my being told me to jump off the stage and go after her. I needed to explain and to beg her to forgive the fact that I had kept this from her, but the crowd were screaming, the music blaring, and I knew I had to finish my performance. The show must go on, and this was my show and I was the star.

The girl on stage with me was so drunk she could hardly stand, so I followed rule number one in the stripper handbook, and got her a chair before she fell down. Her dress was hitched up and her stockings had a massive hole in them. Inside the hole was a cut on her leg where blood had congealed, and I guessed she’d fallen over at some stage and not even realized she was hurt. She looked up at me as I went through the motions of a lap dance without actually touching her. It wasn’t that difficult and was surprisingly similar to professional dancing when you played a romantic lead and had to pretend to touch your partner in an intimate embrace. From the audience it appeared that I was bumping and grinding against her, but in reality there was always air between us. She leered up at me, trying to focus her bleary eyes, and I diverted my gaze and concentrated on the choreographed routine of making her feel desirable. She was so not sexy but that was part of the act—to have every woman who left the stage think she was in with a chance.

The second girl was a little less drunk and looked to be only about twenty-one. She was apprehensive, and as I squeezed baby oil into her palm so she could rub it over my chest, she giggled nervously. I preferred these girls because they didn’t take liberties. You could control their involvement, and they were more than happy to get a few seconds of the spotlight and then get off the stage.