I rode along the coastal highway to clear my head. A visit with my dad always fucked up my day, and this afternoon had been no exception. In the past few years, I'd managed to keep my childhood memories tamped down. Otherwise, they could overwhelm me and darken my mood, bringing me to a place that I worried I couldn't crawl back from. That night when my dad forced me to ruin my hand, a self-inflicted injury that eventually required stitches and pins to straighten out the fingers and a fabricated story for the doctor, was the night when I realized I would never be normal. My dad's insane parenting methods had left deep and lasting scars. And as hard as I tried to free myself from those scars, they stayed there, crisscrossing my soul like belt lashes on my back.

For awhile, my extreme success had made me accept my human flaws. I was making boatloads of money. Growing up, I'd been brainwashed into thinking that was the only sign of success. Human relationships were bad. Bank accounts bursting with cash were good. Those were the two simple concepts that made up the golden rule in my dad's house.

The sun was just starting to drop down over the horizon, and a chill rushed up from the coast. I pulled my bike off the highway and headed along the mostly deserted street leading to the Fantasm Strip Club. It was the place Jack and I went when we just wanted to drink a beer without having to be social or glaze over listening to chatter about real estate, stocks and the latest hot vacation spot for people with too much time and money.

It was still early. There wouldn't be any dancers or music or loud, annoying customers until nightfall, which was perfect. I just needed a beer and a place to sit and not think about anything.

The parking lot was nearly empty. The owner, Rocky, had parked his truck at the side door. He was rolling a handcart filled with wine crates into the storeroom. A beat up small car that was more dents than fenders was sitting near the front door. I pulled my bike up next to it and climbed off. I yanked off my helmet and sunglasses and headed to the entrance. My gaze swept past the shabby little car. Laundry and boxes were piled in the backseat. Two college textbooks and a notebook and pen were sitting on the passenger seat. A toothbrush and rolled up tube of paste were sitting in the cup holder between the seats. It seemed someone was living out of their car.

Rocky heard the front door open and shut. He poked his head out from the back room. "Hey, Nash, we'll be right with you. I'm just stocking some inventory."

"No problem." The beer counter was empty. I'd never been in the club during the day. With the natural sunlight streaming in through the tinted windows and the open back door, the place looked more inviting. The neon lights weren't flashing from every corner, and the counter was still clean and free of sticky smudges, dirty glasses and broken peanut shells.

Footsteps pattered across the barroom floor. They sounded too light for a beast of a man like Rocky. I glanced back over my shoulder. It was Rocky's newest dancer, Shay. She looked considerably less like a stripper and more like a college coed with her silky, white-blonde hair pushed back off her face by a blue headband. She was wearing a light purple sweatshirt and a pair of jeans that had holes at both knees. Her face was scrubbed clean of makeup. Her skin was flawless. Her almost too wide lips looked just as luscious without lipstick. She offered me a quick, half-smile as she circled around to the back of the bar.

Shay had been dancing the night I sat in Fantasm with Jack drowning my sorrows after getting the boot from MG Enterprises. She'd had a profound effect on every man in the audience, Jack and me included. After watching her dance, I'd come up with the crazy idea to hire Shay to help me cool my heels when it came to my out of control sex life. Jack had suggested I use my dad's draconian, self-denial style punishment on myself. At the time, it seemed like a plausible plan. Hire an incredibly irresistible woman to hang around the house for a few weeks, all the while denying myself any physical contact. It was the smoker's equivalent to 'cold turkey'. Only it was more hard core because people trying to quit smoking didn't keep cigarettes around the house to tempt them to light up. But by the time I sobered up, I'd talked myself out of the stupid plan. I was sure any woman I offered the proposal to would laugh in my face or call the cops. Or both.

So I brushed off the idea, and I went right back to fucking like a madman. But the short, grim visit to my childhood home made me realize that I needed to do something. Dad was sure I didn't have the stamina to stay relevant in the world of high finance, and it seemed I was proving him right. I’d had huge success so far, but I was slowly losing control of things and myself. The last thing I wanted was for Dad to go to his grave satisfied with himself for being right.

"What can I get you?" Shay asked as she reached for a glass. Her sweatshirt rose up as she stretched her arm forward, giving me a glimpse of the curve of her waist. Jack and I had been drunk as hell that night, but I remembered us trying to pinpoint exactly why she was so damn sexy. Only there wasn't one thing. Even in a sweatshirt and jeans, she was a picture from head to toe, a vision that sucked in your attention and held it. She wasn't without flaws, too wide a mouth and a nose that was slightly crooked, but it seemed it was those imperfections that made her that much more fun to look at. And then, of course, she had a body that made a man's mind go straight to mind-blowing sex.

"Uh, just a beer, thanks."

She walked to the tap and pulled the lever. I caught myself staring at her bottom, which curved out from her slim waist with just the right amount of subtlety. I pulled my eyes away before she turned back around.

"So, when you're not dancing, you're stocking shelves?" I asked as she headed toward me.

"Yes." She placed the beer on the counter. "My prim and proper ballet teacher, Miss Katherine, would spin in her grave like a top if she knew where these dancing feet had landed me."

"Ballet teacher? So you're classically trained."

A laugh shot from her mouth. "If I was, I wouldn't be standing here behind this bar counter filling a glass for a dark, handsome stranger who has seen me stripped down to a g-string. Miss Katherine was the sister of my fifth grade teacher, Miss Lightman. Miss Lightman always saw me dancing around the playground, pretending to be a ballerina." She shrugged. "Yes, I truly was a dork. But a graceful one, apparently, because she told her sister, who was the real thing, a ballerina, that is, but retired. Miss Katherine ran a dance studio near the school and was generous enough to let me join her classes for free. She even bought me my first real ballet slippers. But that dream came to an end almost as quickly as it started."

I pulled the bowl of peanuts closer. "That's too bad. What happened? An injury?"

Even without mascara, her long lashes were a rich deep black. She gazed down and pretended to scratch a spot off the counter, but I saw nothing. "No injury. I moved schools, so I was too far away from the dance school." It was obvious from her tone that there was more to the story than just a simple move to another school.

She looked up with a smile. "Anything else?" Her voice had that slightly husky grind, like Stevie Nicks on the concert finale. It was the kind of voice you'd want calling out your name in the middle of a good, long fuck.

"No." I picked up the beer. "This is perfect. And I'm sorry if I pulled you off your work in the storeroom."

"That's all right. My back needed a break." She reached behind to rub her back and innocently sent a wave of pressure to my cock as her breasts pushed against her sweatshirt. "Liquor bottles are heavy." She tapped the counter. "Just whistle if you need a refill."

"Thanks."

She headed across the bar to the back room, and I found myself peeking over my shoulder to watch her leave. She moved quickly and gracefully, as if she had ice skates on her feet instead of sneakers. It was one heck of a package, seductive curves contradicted by a sweetly innocent smile. A cheery demeanor dropped over a husky, sultry voice, and she moved like a ballerina. Maybe I gave up on my plan too soon. But why the hell would a woman like that, a woman who was being showered with money on stage every night, bother with a warped asshole like me?

Rocky's heavy, plodding footsteps sounded behind me. He walked behind the bar with a bottle of window cleaner and a rag draped over his shoulder. "You're in here early," he noted as he sprayed the cleaner on the mirrors lining the back of the bar.

"Yeah, I found myself with nothing better to do than have a beer."

His thick arm rubbed circles in the cleaner, making more streaks with each wipe. "These mirrors get so damn sticky."

"Ah, those are supposed to be mirrors," I quipped.

"Funny." He continued with his task.

A box slid across the floor in the back room.

"You have the dancers stocking shelves for you, eh?"

Rocky turned around with his cleaning tools. He glanced toward the back room and moved closer to me so he could lower his voice. "I felt bad for the kid. She needed some extra hours, so I told her she could come in early and help me with the stockroom." He leaned closer. "She was living with a real asshole, and she couldn't take him anymore. The girls aren't allowed to bring boyfriends into the club when they're performing." He tilted his head back and forth. "Boyfriends tend to get dangerously jealous when their sweetie is up on stage getting howled at by other men."

"Yep, that makes sense."

"The guy Shay was seeing showed up a few times in the parking lot. I keep a close eye on my dancers, and I can tell you, I came damn close to walking out there and laying the guy flat. He was always grabbing her and being rude and rough. I'm glad she's free of him. I think she's living in her car while she’s saving up enough to get a place. Everything is so damn expensive around here. I'm hoping she'll stay in the area. She packs this place every night."

"Seems like she'd earn enough in tips to have a place by now."

"I think she's got someone else to support. She doesn't say much. She mostly keeps to herself. Most of the other girls like to make extra money giving out favors to the customers, but she sticks to her dance routine. Frankly, that's all she needs to do. I think she's raking in as much as the other girls without offering any extras."

"Good for her. It's good of you to give her some more hours." I drank back the rest of my beer and paid Rocky. "Guess I'll call it quits for now. I'm on my motorcycle."

"See you around," Rocky said as I headed out.

Shay was leaning into her car rummaging for something in the backseat. The car was small and cramped with her things. It didn't seem like there was even room enough for her to push the seat back and rest, let alone get a night's sleep.

"Bingo," she cheered as she emerged triumphantly with a Chapstick. She stretched her mouth into an O and spread the salve over her lips. I'd never been so fucking turned on watching someone smear on lip balm.

She waved. "Have a nice day." Her deep, honeyed voice made me climb back off the bike. I had no real clue what the hell I was doing, but I walked over to her. A breeze pushed her bangs into a flutter over her dark brown eyes.

"I can't help but notice that you seem to be living in your car."

Her cheeks darkened. "Yes, car bunking. It's all the new rage. I've temporarily lost my housing. You don't happen to know of a cheap room for rent? Cheap being the key word."

"I wish I did, but yeah, cheap isn't easy around here. Southern California, the land of perpetual sunshine and costly living expenses."

"I'd settle for more clouds if it meant paying less for rent." She slammed shut the car door. "Guess I better get back to the stockroom." She sidled past me and looked admiringly at my bike as she headed back to the bar. "This looks fun. Be careful out there. Those California drivers are lunatics."

"Thanks, I will." I watched her disappear around the corner to the side door. I stared into the chaos of clutter in her car. She was living out of the backseat, but she was still smiling.

I headed back to my bike and picked the helmet up off the seat. I lifted it to pull on over my head, but then stopped. It was crazy. The whole idea was fucking nuts but then nuts ran in the family. I set the helmet back on the seat and headed to the side door of the bar.

I still hadn't formulated what my proposal would be as I reached the open door. I stopped at the doorway and looked inside. I couldn't see Shay. Finding the stockroom vacant felt a bit like a warning. Turn back around and head home, Archer. This was a stupid idea.

But before I could talk myself into turning away, Shay stepped out from behind a stack of wine crates. Her eyes rounded with surprise when she realized someone was standing in the doorway.

"Oh, it's you," she said with some relief. I instantly wondered if she was worried about her ex showing up to hassle her. "Did you need to talk to Rocky?"

"Actually no, I wanted to talk to you." I wasn't thrilled by her reaction but then I couldn't blame her for being hesitant. I was, after all, standing like a creepy stalker in the doorway. It seemed not all women were ready to throw themselves into my arms, I thought wryly.

She wiped her hands off on her jeans. "Did you think of a room for rent?"

"No." I decided not to step inside and lingered in the doorway. "Well yes, sort of. I know a place you can stay for free. At least temporarily until you find a place of your own." And until I've finished my insane withdrawal from women plan, I added inside my head. "I've got a proposal for you which I think will benefit both of us. I want you to stay at my beach house in Malibu."

Her face lit up. "Do you need me to house sit? I'll do it for free because as you saw, I'm living in my car. I'm very good at house sitting. I promise all of your plants will still be alive when you get back. Especially if they are succulents or cacti, I'm exceptionally good at not killing plants that prefer to be ignored."

"Actually, you won't need to worry about plants or taking care of the house because I'll be there."

Her smooth dark brow disappeared under the curtain of white bangs. "I don't understand." Something seemed to dawn on her, and she took a step back.

"You're safe. I'm not going to touch you, now, or when you move into my house. In fact, that's the whole point. It's far too complicated to tell you in a quick chat, but here's the deal. You need a place to live until you find a new apartment, and I have a room in my house. A very nice room and a luxury bathroom goes with it. You'll have free access to the entire house, the pool, the private beach—"

"Pool? Private beach? Luxury bathroom? Not sure what constitutes luxury in a bathroom. Quilted toilet paper?"

I smiled. "And a few more amenities I think you'll enjoy."

"What's the catch?"

I hesitated, not entirely sure how to continue. She took the pause as something sketchy.

She backed up again. "I take my clothes off on stage, but I'm not a whore. I think this conversation is over." She headed back to the crates of wine.

"Wait, Shay. I told you I won't touch you. I will even add that to the contract—

"There's going to be a contract?"

"It's always a good idea to have a contract if someone is being paid a large sum of money."

She stopped and turned around. "Who is getting paid a large sum of money?"

"You. I'll pay you. Like I said, it's complicated."

"I've got to get back to work." She backed up without taking her eyes off of me. I'd fucked up. My entire approach was wrong.

I pulled a business card out of my wallet and wrote down my address on the back. "I'm going to leave my business card here on this stack of pallets." I placed the card down. "In case you change your mind."

Just then, the door to the stockroom opened, and Rocky walked inside. His expression went from surprise to annoyance. Rocky didn't know much about Jack and me except that every few weeks we showed up in our expensive cars to drink beer and watch the dancers. His thick black brow arched in full suspicion. "Nash, you know I don't let my customers bother the dancers."

"I'm just leaving. Have a good day."