There was this guy who was a regular at the Pussy Cat, a middle-aged man who kept his body in great shape, perhaps to make up for his receding hairline.

He used to come every Tuesday night to talk about his marital problems for a few minutes. He’d pay me $100 to hear stories about how his wife never paid much attention to him anymore after they’d had kids.

Many of the men who walk into strip joints aren’t just there for sexual gratification. They’re also after companionship, a little sympathy, or maybe some emotional connection. I’m not going to deny that, obviously, for a large portion of the audience, sex is the main appeal.

I knew it wasn’t like that for Jacob. He didn’t fit the bill for the average strip club goer. He’s hot, for one. And he can be charming when he feels like it. A guy like that probably has women throwing themselves at him all the time.

He’s only been in Ashbourne a couple of weeks, and a few women have already asked me about him, which annoys me for some reason.

My point is, Jacob doesn’t need to visit a strip joint to get some female attention.

I mean, just look at him right now. I’ve been doing just that for two solid minutes at least, standing here by my car as he works on his bike with his back to me.

I haven't spoken with him since that little tiff we had on the porch a few days ago. But Bertha just told me that he’d changed her locks yesterday and now I feel like I have to thank him. I just haven't decided on a good way to start the conversation.

It still boils my blood when I think about how he basically called me a promiscuous slut who deserves to have my home broken into because of the way I tease men.

And yet, something within me stirs when I look at him, all big and strong and cocky. Like now. My eyes trace the curve of his jeans-clad ass as he crouches on his driveway, his white shirt drenched with sweat, allowing me to almost see his skin, his muscles flexing and relaxing as he works. His tattoos look like they're alive and dancing on his skin.

He puts down his metal wrench on the ground with a soft clang and stands up. As he reaches his hands toward his back, I notice they're covered with a black, slick liquid. He grabs at the fabric of his shirt, leaving two perfectly clear big handprints. I guess that explains all the faded stains on his shirt.

He starts to lift the shirt off and my eyes trace the ripples of his back, the curve of his spine. He stops to remove the oversized headphones perching on the top of his head before the takes the shirt all the way off.

My heartbeat quickens as I study the lines of ink on Jacob’s back, remembering the way my fingernails dragged over his brawny shoulders all those years ago.

“Enjoying the view?” Jacob says in a low, sexy voice.

Shit. He just caught me in the act.

My jaw must have dropped while I was watching him because my mouth is hanging open stupidly. Heat spreads across my face as I quickly try to regain my composure, put on a neutral expression. But it's too late. There's no denying that I was totally checking him out.

“You can come over here and stick dollar bills in my waistband if you want to.” He pulls the waist of his jeans away from his skin. He has that annoying smirk on his ruggedly handsome face again, making him look like an arrogant douche bag.

I try to keep my gaze on his smug face, but I keep getting distracted by the V-shaped shallow grooves below his sculpted abs that start from his hip bones and disappear into his jeans. I force myself to meet his mocking stare. “I just wanted to thank you for changing Bertha’s locks, but you didn't hear me.”

“Okay, so you decided to just stand there and watch me until I take off my headphones. That makes complete sense.” His smirk widens as he adjusts the headphones around his neck.

“Of course it does.” The moment the words leave my mouth I realize what a lame comeback it is. I walk toward the mailbox to hide my embarrassment. If I were to just go inside it would seem too much like I was trying to hide.

I can feel Jacob's penetrating gaze on me, his desire searing into my flesh. I know this stare. I used to feel it all the time when I was dancing on stage with only a thong on my body.

But it never made my heart race like this. It never caused tingles between my legs like this. If it did, everyone would be able to see a wet spot in my panties, all the way from the back of the club.

“Any fan mail today? Maybe a love letter or two?” Jacob taunts. I can't see him I have my back to him now, but I can hear the smirk in his voice.

“Not today, Jacob,” I say in the coolest, least affected tone I can muster. I sort the mail into two piles—one for the recycling bin and one for reading. To change the subject, I ask him, “So what's wrong with your bike?”

“Nothing. It's in great condition. I just changed the exhaust and the muffler to make it quieter. Apparently, I was not being a good neighbor.”

I swing around to look at him incredulously. “You didn't have to do that.”

He waves a hand. “Nah, just pulling your leg. It's better for my hearing.”

“Oh,” I say lamely.

“Yeah. Although, at the volume I listen to music, I’m probably going to lose my hearing anyway. These new noise-cancelling headphones are great. And now your house parties won't bother me again.”

“It was hardly a house party.” I roll my eyes as I throw the flyers into my box of paper trash.

“Hey, wanna have a listen? The sound quality is great,” Jacob says, his voice low and inviting.

My heart jumps in my chest. I’d love to get closer to that vision of hotness. It wouldn't hurt, right? I’m just going to have a listen to his music. Not like he's asking me to come test his mattress.

“Sure,” I say as I saunter over to his driveway with the rest of the mail in my hand. Our eyes meet and I give him a small smile.

“Here you go.” Jacob steps closer, invading my personal space and making my heart race faster. He raises his hands over my head and puts the headphones on me. His fingers almost graze my cheeks.

He places his phone in my hand. It's still warm from being in his jeans pocket. He stands a little behind me, looking over my shoulder at the screen.

He's so close I can feel his bare chest on my back, his hot breath on my neck. With one hand over mine on the phone, he navigates to the song list.

This feels intimate, although we’re not doing anything risqué. I’ve always felt like phones are really private things. Although you see them out in the open all the time, you don’t really get to touch or play with someone else’s phone. It’s like an extension of your person, in a way.

I pick a song and the little speakers play Adele’s Skyfall. It sounds good, but to be honest I wouldn't know the difference between these headphones and my cheap $10 ones.

As Jacob goes back to working on his big bike, I realize I miss his closeness. He wipes the exhaust with a rag and looks up, catching me looking at him. I immediately try to look busy by opening my mail, but not before noticing his lips pulling upward into a self-satisfied smile.

I set the letters from the bank and the power company aside. One letter has caught my attention. There's no company logo or any writing at all on the envelope. It’s probably some kind of mass-produced brochure stuffed into as many mailboxes as possible. I tear open the envelope, pull out the letter, and unfold it.

I almost scream when I see the message on the single piece of paper. I clasp my hands over my mouth.

Jacob must've heard me dropping the rest of my mail onto his driveway because he rushes to my side and takes off the headphones. He asks, “Is anything wrong?”

When I hand the letter to Jacob, I notice my hands are shaking. He grabs the letter, stares at it with an angry frown on his face, and looks at me with concern. “What the fuck is this?”

My heart is pounding against my rib cage and blood roars in my ears. I can't think so I just shake my head.

“Who the fuck would send something like this?”

I shake my head again. “I don't know,” I say softly. All my energy has drained out of my body, leaving only fear. After everything I’ve done, everything I’ve been through, I’m right back at square one again. Just a prey being hunted. With resignation, I say, “Just throw it away.”

“What do you mean just throw it away? This is serious,” Jacob says, holding up that horrible piece of paper for me to see.

I’ve been trying to tell myself this is not really happening, but there it is. Little cutouts of alphabets from glossy magazines arranged on a normal piece of paper. If it weren’t for what the letters spell, it would almost look like an elementary school student’s art project. My vision blurs as I read the words again.

RUN, WHORE