Surrender (10 page)

“I’m going over there.” She points at the treadmills. “You—you do something with yourself before the manager calls the police.”

“I think he’d buy front-row seats,” I call as she rushes away.

I hit the shower after my workout. Garrick is incorrigible—he almost made love to me in front of everyone. I can’t believe I’m dating a total jock. A quarterback. When I was in school those guys wouldn’t look at me twice. I attracted stoners and Goths. I marvel at this sudden twist of fate. I think he’s rich, too. That scares me. I grew up with money, but my parents were beyond frugal. I didn’t wear stylish clothes or drive a new car. If I complained, my mother took away anything I loved. My favorite sweater, books, my iPad, even my computer. I’d have to beg forgiveness to get them back.

Garrick was right—lifting weights
is
therapeutic. I dress, then meet him outside. “I think I’m going to work an extra shift tonight,” I say.

He’s quiet.

“I need the money.” I hope he understands.

He pulls out his wallet, then offers me a wad of cash. “Will this cover your bills?”

Is he serious or messing with me? I roll my eyes, then stare at his open billfold. Pictures. My eyes narrow—is that his mom and dad? I admire the well-dressed, smiling couple. “Your mother is so beautiful.”

His vibrant smile melts my heart. “Here.” He surrenders his wallet.

I thumb through the plastic photo insert. His parents’ wedding photo, Gretchen, Garrick wearing his football uniform . . . “I can’t believe how strong the family resemblance is.” I gaze up at him, then look at his parents again. They all have the same almond-shaped eyes and infectious smiles.

“Have any photos of your own to share?” He closes his wallet and shoves it in his back pocket again.

“No,” I answer flatly. Why would I? Although I love my family, why carry around painful reminders of what I can’t have? “Photo albums at home.”

“Perhaps we should spend the night looking at pictures of you.”

Hah!
“Aren’t you tired of staring at me so much already?” I ask.

He squeezes my shoulder. “Never,” he says much too earnestly. “I consider you a work of art, darlin’.”

If anyone else used that line I’d laugh. But there’s something so honest about Garrick when he compliments me that it goes straight to my heart. “Another time,” I offer. “I’ve been distracted for days and really need a break. Work is the perfect solution. Can you drive me home?”

“Sure.” He shrugs noncommittally.

We arrive at the apartment and he follows me inside. I make coffee. We have a few hours to relax before I need to get ready. When I join him in the living room, he’s sprawled on the floor with a pile of photo albums he obviously found in the coffee-table cabinet. I sigh and place his cup on a coaster. “You’re a snooper?” If I leave him alone for too long will he rifle through my lingerie drawer? I giggle at the mental imagery.

“If it takes labeling me as a snoop to get you to open up a little, then I’m guilty as charged.”

Unfortunately, he’s chosen my high school album first. I smirk when he taps a photograph of me with my drama club. I’m dressed as an Irish cop. “Good grief . . . turn the page,
please.
”

“Not so fast.” He blocks my hand. “You’re a hot cross-dresser.”

“Cross-dresser?” I slap his arm. “That’s a costume.”

“Sure,” he teases, finding another awkward moment. “Why are you standing onstage with a gaggle of teachers?”

Heat floods my cheeks. “I can’t believe I kept that photo,” I confess. “Freshman-year assembly, I volunteered to give the commencement speech.” I cover my face with both hands.

Garrick chuckles. “What’s with the goofy knee socks, loafers, and checkered miniskirt?”

“Doc Martens,” I’m quick to correct.

“All right,” he concedes. “Stylish loafers—but it still looks like Marcia Brady threw up all over you.”

“That’s the meanest thing I’ve ever heard.” I cross my hands over my chest.

“If you keep pouting,” he says tracing my bottom lip with his thumb, “I’ll rip your clothes off and give you something to smile about.”

“I’ll quit pouting if you choose another album.”

He closes it and grabs the second in the pile. Of course the photographs are no less embarrassing than the first batch. “Preteen,” he comments, pointing at a photo of me and my sisters. “Matching sweaters now.”

I shrug innocently. “That’s all on my mom.”

“Want to know a secret?” He leans in. “You’re adorable.” He flips through a few more pages. “I love this one . . .” He points to a black-and-white of me feeding the gulls on Padre Island. “Can I have it?”

I laugh. “How can I deny you?” I say, not sure why he wants a silly picture of me when I was twelve. I peel the plastic back and gently remove the photo. “On one condition,” I offer.

His eyebrows rise. “I’m listening.”

“Trade me. I get the football shot from your wallet, you get this.” I dangle my picture in front of his face.

“Fair enough.” He produces his wallet and then the photo.

I grab it and then stare at it. Was he ever
not
perfect? I gaze at him and surrender mine. “What’s next?” I ask facetiously. “Starting our own photo album?”

“Why not?”

Not the answer I expected. I inhale slowly. Garrick is no-nonsense when it comes to our relationship. I am too, but not so quick to reveal my feelings. “Smart-ass.” I gather the albums and then stack them inside the cabinet. “Our coffee is getting cold.”

We cuddle on the couch and watch the early edition of the local news. I look at him. I could get used to this spend-quality-time-together thing.

Chapter Eight

Idiot
doesn’t begin to describe what I am for showing up on a Monday. The manager is thrilled and sends me to the dressing room to get ready. There are strict division lines in this business. Day-shift girls versus night-shift girls and Monday/Tuesday girls versus the-rest-of-the-week girls. I qualify for the latter category in both cases.

I’ve never socialized with the women in the dressing room. I catch a string of
fuck you
looks as I undress and choose a costume for my first set. I sneak peeks at them. There are two pregnant girls (showing) and a dancer who I swear qualifies for Social Security benefits. I don’t judge, but I wonder. Seriously wonder
why
the owner isn’t more tasteful about the women he hires. I remember hearing about a hot club in Houston. The kind of place where girls dance on top of baby grand pianos, not Chevys. Coming up with a unique marketing scheme is hard in a business that showcases flesh, but this club did. Their billboards around town read
One hundred hot women and one ugly one.
It worked. That ugly woman made thousands of dollars a week because she was a great conversationalist.
Brilliant.

I average between $500 and $1,000 a shift. Corpus is a small town. Sometimes a group of us will drive to San Antonio or McAllen and spend a week as guest dancers in different clubs. It’s lucrative.

I choose my favorite dress: royal blue with a splash of silver rhinestones down the front. Leg-length slits are cut on both sides, showing off my runner’s legs. I slip into a pair of six-inch white heels, grab my backpack, and leave. As I close the door, I hear
bitch
. I laugh—welcome to Monday night at the Devil’s Den.

Angelo is the DJ tonight. He’s great. I make my music selection and head to the end of the bar to wait for my first set. Craig creeps up on me.

“I texted you yesterday.”

“I left my phone at home,” I say.

“Where were you?”

“The library,” I fib. “I have a test next week.” I think about what Garrick said—he won’t lie if someone asks who I am. I’m off to a bad start.

“Let’s have breakfast after work.” He looks toward the back of the club.

A customer is climbing the steps to the truck. “Can you believe these fools?” I ask.

“Stay here.” Craig pulls out his baton and dashes to the back.

I watch Craig try to reason with the drunk. The guy doesn’t budge. I count to ten. Like clockwork, Craig grabs the man’s collar and yanks him off the steps. The drunk falls on his ass. I hear him yell. Another doorman flies out of the small office near the dressing room and joins Craig. They peel the guy off the floor and drag him outside.
Wow.
Monday nights are exciting.

Unlike Dave, Angelo doesn’t say crazy things over the mic . . . he calls me beautiful and I get onstage. There’s a handful of guys sitting on pervert row (the seats around the stage). I walk the perimeter at first, teasing them. I’m dancing to “Out of Time” by Stone Temple Pilots. A cowboy wearing a Stetson hat stands up and lines up a dozen one-dollar bills. I smile sweetly. I’m off to a good start.

By twelve I’m bored. I’ve done eight table dances, sold ten nonalcoholic ladies’ drinks (I get a commission off each one), and exhausted myself talking about penile implants with a freshly divorced sixty-year-old. I’m a psychologist, not a stripper. Now I’m hiding in the corner, near the catwalk. I check my watch again . . . it’s two after twelve. I don’t care if I’m starving, I’m
never
working a Monday again. I count my tips. Three hundred dollars. Include another forty for the drinks, and I’m not happy.

“Robyn.”

I look up. It’s Garrick, Wesley, and another Wesley.

“Hard night?” Garrick asks.

All three join me at the four-seat table. Garrick sits to my left, one of the Wesleys to my right. “Really slow,” I say.

“You remember Wesley,” Garrick says, pointing to the man on my right. “That’s Winston, his twin.”

I smile. I dig twins. I extend my hand, and Winston turns it over and kisses my palm.

“Glad to meet you, little lady.”

These guys kill me—they’re straight out of a John Wayne flick. I don’t mind meeting Garrick’s friends, but I’m not sure how I feel about entertaining them half-naked. Texas is part of the Bible Belt. Although Corpus is a bar town, there’s a strict social stratum, and Wesley and Winston strike me as coming from the top. Just like Garrick. The waitress greets us.

“A pitcher of Budweiser and three margaritas,” Winston orders.

“Want anything?” Garrick asks.

“A Shirley Temple.” I smile at Glenda, the waitress.

“Sure thing.” She places four cardboard coasters on the table.

“Robyn, stand by . . .” Angelo calls over the microphone.

I stand. “Sorry, guys—I’ll be back.” My heart races as I walk away. I can feel them staring at me. How can I handle working with Garrick? Three days . . . three days. That’s all I have until Garrick gets here. I’m a nervous wreck. I open the DJ booth door.

“Have a request, darling?” Angelo asks.

I usually let him pick my music, but I’m suddenly in the mood for something specific. I let music speak for me sometimes. It’s such an integral part of my life. I’m even a closet piano player. “Let’s pull out the classics.” I grin. “Queensryche, ‘Gonna Get Close to You’ and ‘The Lady Wore Black.
’”
I was born in the wrong decade.

I get onstage. There are only three men sitting close. The rest of the customers occupy the tables between the main stage and catwalk. I don’t care; I love this song, and it has an intended target. I’m testing Garrick. Will he pick up on it? Does he only listen to the beat or appreciate the lyrics, too? Memories from last night’s lovemaking session flood my mind. Hell, it’s a tsunami. I swing around the pole a couple of times. When I look toward the side of the stage, Garrick’s waiting for me.

I slink closer, mouthing the words of the song to him. I wish he were inside me. I squat in front of him.

“Trying to tell me something?” he queries.

Heat rises in my cheeks. I smile way too big and nod. “I’m glad you’re paying attention.”

“Darlin’, I never stopped.” His speech is slightly slurred and his southern drawl more pronounced.

“You’ve been drinking.”

“Yeah.” He doesn’t deny it. “How else can I stand being away from you?” He gives me a shit-eating grin.

The next song starts and I stand up. I undo the Velcro strap behind my neck and wiggle out of my dress. I fling it aside with the toe of my shoe. I face him again, only this time my smile is gone. I’m suddenly immersed in the music. His dark gaze slides up my body. Butterflies fill my stomach. I squeeze my breasts together, throwing him my best fuck-me look. Then I arch backward, going into a full bridge. I’m very flexible. I hear him groan. My crotch is six inches from his face and I can feel his hot breath between my legs. I return to a standing position. There are three fifties on the edge of the stage. Our gazes lock.

I get on all fours and slide away, then pull myself forward so my lips are less than two inches from his face. It’s incredibly erotic. I’ve never had the pleasure of teasing a man I’ve slept with.

“I smell your sex, Robyn.”

I’m like a moth to flame. I want to wrap my arms and legs around him, and my gaze is immediately drawn to his full lips. A few hours ago those lips and his tongue were making me writhe with pleasure. He knows what I’m thinking.

“You’re beautiful,” he says hoarsely. “Everything about you screams ‘Fuck me.’ The sway of your hips, the look in your eyes. Meet me in VIP when you’re done onstage.”

I watch him return to the table. The twins wave at me, breaking the spell. I wave back. This is getting dangerous.

“What are you doing with that little girl?” Winston asks me as I get back to the table.

I raise an eyebrow. Does the silly fucker need to ask? “Anything I can.”

“Is she legal?” Wesley chimes in. He gazes at the stage and back at me. “That’s the finest filly I’ve seen in a long time.”

“If you’re going to stare, go tip her.”

Wesley staggers to his feet and reaches in his pocket. He digs out a twenty and tries to give it to me. I shake my head. “Do it yourself.”

I watch him closely. Not because I don’t trust him; I want to see how he reacts to her. I want to see how she dances for him. As chaste as I suspected she would be, she wiggles her hips a little, twirls around, smiles, and kneels in front of him. Wesley hands her the money. She kisses his cheek.

“Damn . . .” he says, climbing back in his chair. “Does the carpet match the drapes?”