Wrong then Right (A Love Happens Novel Book 2) (21 page)

Stride for stride with Ash, he did his level best to wipe the stupid grin off his face. Based on the look Ash was throwing him, he failed.

God help him, he was in deep shit with this girl. And truth be told, Beck hadn’t looked to God for anything in several years. Religion might be the cause for many wars, but once blood was shed, it no longer had any damn place in it. When you had a proverbial army of enemies, he was convinced God had jack shit to do with keeping you alive, anyway. It was his brain, his body, and his brothers, along with sheer fucking luck, that had kept Beck alive. And now he was about to tread all over one of them. Worse than the threat of any hell bent enemy, the woman living in his house right now had a brother who just might murder him in his sleep. And he wouldn’t make it a swift and merciful death, either. Ash would have his crudely severed head on a hunting spear, propped in front of a raging bonfire that used to be his home, once this was all said and done.

Because Hope had a twinkle in her blue eyes that said she was looking to do some serious sinning. And the wrath of Asher Coleson be damned, because Beck was done pretending to be a saint.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“Oh, snap! Somebody’s got her party boobs out.” There was a compliment somewhere in Bridget’s joyful statement, but Hope heard only the words
boobs
and
out
.

“Well, they’re not much, but when I face plant because of these shoes,” she replied, lifting her foot to give the five inch heels a dirty look, “they’ll cushion my fall.”

Hope stood backstage, staring at her reflection in the full length dressing room mirror, her ribs tight and her breathing erratic. Her mind was focused on their carefully choreographed dance, determined to nail the fast paced routine, barely keeping the sheer terror at bay. Not because she was about to expose her body to a bar full of strangers, but because of the high likelihood she would trip and fall on her sexy black, patent leather platforms.

Who knew stripper shoes were a real thing?

Bridget stood next to her wearing a matching costume, looking like a million damn dollars compared to Hope, who might ring up at a measly hundred bucks or so. Not including a coupon.

Taking as deep a breath as her tightly laced, cupless satin corset would allow, she did a slow, assessing turn, grudgingly admitting, if only to herself, that she didn’t look half bad.

Decked out in several pieces of expensive black lingerie, it had taken Hope nearly a half hour and Marcia’s help to get dressed. Intentionally sized one cup too small, the black lace demi-bra was trimmed in silk ribbons and tiny feathers, with a front clasp for easy release. Her minuscule black lace panties covered her front nicely, but had an open, cage style back, the thin crisscrossing straps meeting at the top of her exposed ass in a sinfully sweet satin bow. According to Kiki, they were the new
it thing
in underwear and when she’d put the crotchless version to a vote, she’d been outnumbered two to one. But only because Hope had the good sense and quick thinking to bribe Bridget with a gallon of banana berry frozen yogurt. How the woman ate that stuff by the case without looking bloated and pimply was a cruel trick of the universe.

Sucking in a deep breath so she could bend at the waist, Hope smoothed a hand over her satin garters. Clipped to sheer, thigh high black stockings topped with a band of lace, she ensured they were pulled tight. Five inch stiletto’s finished the look, complete with a cute ankle strap, in case she got a little overzealous with her kicks and sent an errant shoe flying into the crowd.

At least she didn’t have to worry about beaning some poor guy in the head.

Just the prep work alone, a tedious mix of waxing, exfoliating, and moisturizing, had been exhausting. Add in the heavy layer of make up and hot rollered hair, and Hope was seriously over it. Gorgeous smoky eyes and red stained lips aside, pulling this together was hard work. At least she had a consolation prize. Bubba had shelled out an asinine amount of money for their sexy getup’s and while tonight would be the only night she wore it in public, it might be fun to crack it out once or twice for a special man. Like the one who’d left her hanging earlier in the day, with his shockingly explicit text message.

You should know, I’m gonna fuck you in that tub. And everywhere else, too. I’m headed home.

The visual of him doing exactly that had her tingling in her itsy-bitsy panties. And wishing Kiki had won the popular vote for crotchless.

“Are you ready?” Bridget asked, meeting her eyes in the mirror as she dotted her face with powder. “This is gonna pad our pockets, Hope. And I might be able to waitress full time after this. Leave the stage for good.”

Snapping the compact shut, she frowned at Hope’s lack of shared enthusiasm, her optimism usually contagious. Gripping her bare shoulders, she turned Hope so they were face to face, her megawatt smile reassuring. “Breathe for me, okay? Do you still want to do this? Because you can back out and nobody will be mad. Kiki and I can go it alone and it’ll take a load off Bubba’s mind. You’re like a daughter to him. It’s kinda sweet.”

Shaking her head, Hope choked out an embarrassed laugh and gestured to herself. “After everybody worked so hard to make this happen? Marcia threw her back out.”

It was only nerves making her hands shake. And Beck’s return, and that sexy text, making her heart pound like a jackhammer gone rogue.

“Listen, I want to tell you something.” She’d never heard Bridget speak so gravely, the haunted look of a tragic life no longer banked in her heavily lined eyes. “You’re a complete knockout, Hope. You don’t see what I see. What others see. But that’s just on the outside. This job should come with a warning label. A disclaimer that reminds you not to get caught up in your own hype, because even though you’re scared out of your mind right now, you’re gonna be good at this. Probably too good. You’re gonna get up on that stage and feel powerful. Worthy. Alive. You might even want to do it again, just for the thrill, if not the extra cash. But no amount of finely made lingerie, or vanilla scented body glitter, or beautifully bare skin, can define you. It can’t place a monetary value on you. No matter how much Bubba dotes on us, or how much Marcia hugs us and makes us remember how good it felt to have a mom, this club isn’t who you are. It needs to be temporary. A means to an end. No matter how striking those sapphire blue eyes are, or how flawless your naturally tanned skin is, you’re bound for better things than this place. Your inside is prettier than your outside, Hope.” A hint of sadness marred her smile. “And it’s my wish that you always know that.”

“Jesus, Bridge.” Hope dabbed the corners of her teary eyes with a knuckle, trying to hold back a sob. “Thank you,” she added sincerely, deeply touched by the words. “Damn it, now you’re gonna have to touch up my smoky eye.”

Turning toward the mirror again, they stared at their reflections in the bright light of the dressing room, maintaining eye contact and smiling wordlessly in their shared experience. Two decidedly different women, from different backgrounds with different stories, both working toward the same goal. A better life.

In that moment, Hope knew Bridget had just repeated a solemn, heartfelt speech that had once been given to her by a jaded veteran dancer on the night of her first appearance, too. And she made a silent promise to be a better friend to this sweet, selfless woman who somehow found herself stripping in an unknown club in downtown San Diego, despite her homecoming queen looks and sunny personality. Bridget didn’t belong here, either. She belonged on the catwalk, not the stripper stage. She belonged on the nightly news, delivering the day’s events with poise and personality. She belonged in the suburbs, with a loyal husband and two point five kids, the envy of every woman on the PTA.

Reading her mind, but unwilling to open that door, Bridget’s face broke into an easy smile, not a smudge on her perfectly applied red lipstick. “Are you good?” When Hope nodded, still too emotional to speak, Bridget nodded back. “Then I’m good, too. Now the most important thing to remember, is don’t stop smiling. It doesn’t matter how many moves you hit or miss, as long as you’re smiling big and shaking your body, nobody’s gonna know the difference. The audience will be hypnotized. And so will your man.”

Her man, which was a real stretch of the truth, was MIA. She’d done a quick once over of the audience prior to heading to the dressing room and the only familiar face she saw belonged to Val, who was more than happy to cheer her on while sitting amidst a crowd of randy men, his heterosexual catcall—the one he’d been practicing—at the ready. The angel on one shoulder had sighed in relief at Beck’s absence, finding a secret sexual freedom in anonymity, while the devil on the other had stomped her foot in a horny hissy fit, remembering the benefits of a naked and aroused Beckett Smith.

Hope let out a surprised squeal when Bridget reached over and stuck her hand down the front of her barely there bra, clinically feeling her up. As if Hope’s ample breasts were flattened feather pillows, she adjusted them with bold precision, plumping her so all but her nipples showed, the areola’s barely covered by black lace.

“No need to leave anything to the imagination,” Bridget said pointedly. Then she swatted Hope on her bare butt playfully. “Grab your silk gloves, little girl. Let’s go rock their worlds and empty their pockets. Mama needs to pay her rent.”

Hope had made plenty of bad decisions in twenty-five years of living. Like when she was eight and decided to run away from the vineyard with nothing more than the clothes on her back and her pink Huffy, the back tire flat. And the time she was fourteen and thought it was a good idea to get her belly button pierced during an outdoor Nine Inch Nails concert. Or when she was nineteen and decided she could make it to Palm Springs on a quarter tank of gas, as long as she kept the air conditioner off and the cruise control on.

There were other examples, too, but she didn’t have time to review them all. Not when a blue velvet curtain was about to open on another one.

Telling herself this was no different than when she’d played an extra in her high school’s musical version of Footloose, she took her place on the stage next to Bridget, her hand on the back of a black Windsor chair—standard strip club issue. Kiki was on Bridget’s other side, hopping in place and shaking her arms out like a boxer anticipating the bell. Waiting with feverish anxiety, Hope felt genuine regret that she hadn’t listened to Rosa years ago and gone to beauty school. Risking asphyxiation and extreme boredom to give cotton topped old ladies cuts, colors, and perms six days a week had to be easier on the blood pressure.

The curtain opened with a clicking swoosh, and even with her head down and her back to the hushed crowd, she knew the lights were dimmed, soft streaks of smoky blue neon catching random fragments floating in the air. On the third snap of Bridget’s fingers, a brassy jazz beat began, along with the thump of full percussion, and Hope’s hips moved in time. Christina Aguilera and a top of the line audio system provided the suggestive music, setting a sultry mood for the three song burlesque show, while a redhead, a blonde, and a brunette provided the erotic visual feast, the variety sure to suit any gentleman’s taste for the evening. Standing nearly shoulder to shoulder, their choreography was professional quality, thanks to Marcia’s unverified and highly disputed go-round as a Rockette back in the day, and all of their practiced moves were perfectly synchronized.

The first song,
I’m a Good Girl,
was distinctly feminine but flirty, and the medium tempo and cheeky lyrics made hitting every sexually seductive move easy. Methodically counting the steps in her mind, the buzzing energy of the crowd pumped through her, and Hope found herself in some kind of altered state. The booming thump of the music overwhelmed her senses. The zinging heat from the spotlights baked her skin. The rapt attention of every person in the club made her feel like a lone goldfish swimming tricks in a big, clear bowl.

And then she saw a certain shark, standing at the bar with a drink in his hand and a scowl on his face, capable of swallowing her whole. Holy stripper pole, Beck was here.

Narrowly avoiding a face plant, she focused on the portly man with a bad comb-over and pasty complexion sitting in the front row, smiling big as she shimmied and shook her ass off.
When was this freaking song going to end?
Maybe someone in the audience would have mercy on her soul and toss her a hundred bucks to get off the stage. Or at least ping her in the eye with a quarter and allow her to bow out gracefully, citing injury. After several more exaggerated hip swings and leg kicks, three sets of black silk gloves came off, flying through the strobe lit air as dozens of random hands vied for the souvenirs. The song finally ended, after the three longest minutes of Hope’s life, with each of them sitting spread eagle on their chair, hands near the cleft of their widely parted thighs, low lighting and clever shadow play hiding anything the skimpy panties didn’t.

The curtain closed to whistling and rousing applause and Hope was surprised by it. Turned out, Bridget was right and she’d had no reason to be nervous. Apparently, there was a Las Vegas showgirl living inside her and years spent watching Madonna videos was finally paying off.

Bridget’s twinkling laughter was encouraging. “Fun, right? You’re a natural, Hope.”

It wasn’t just fun. It was freaking exhilarating. Like—I am woman, hear me roar—freaking exhilarating. Hope quickly looked down at her chest, knowing she had ten seconds to strike a pose before the curtain opened on their raunchy, fast-pasted routine to
Candyman,
taking the show to another level of nakedness. The laws of physics weren’t on her side and a good portion of her boobs overflowed the cups of her lace bra.

“Leave it,” Bridge whispered, when Hope tried to push them back in. “The crowd is worked up and it’s coming off this set, anyway.”

Hope gulped. Yep. Two-thirds of the way through the song, right after the upbeat trumpet solo and just when Christina belted out appreciation that her candyman was a one stop shop with a real big
you-know-what
, three bra’s were getting popped. Thinking of her own Mr. Man Candy, Hope fanned her sweat dotted forehead and when the curtain opened this time, she looked right at him. Dancing to the uptempo, bawdy lyrics without missing a beat, she alternated her gaze between Beck and the comb-over in the front row, and her attention had the balding man puffed up like a peacock.