“Lose the shirt.”

The already scorching day gets ten times hotter when I raise my eyes from the retro CD player I’m struggling to connect to my outdated iPod. The owner of the club I am auditioning at is glaring at me, as shocked by my attire of choice as I was when I noticed his waitress’s state of undress. They’re not wearing shirts. They’re not even wearing bras.

“My shirt?” I ask, acting daft.

He smiles a slick grin. It is lucky his looks override his greasy demeanor. “Yes, sweetheart, your shirt. I need to see what I’m working with.”

“If you give me a minute, I have a whole audition prepared.” I return my focus to the CD player, praying it will magically play the song I’ve rehearsed to the past two weeks.

"Please," I beg the CD player. "I don't want to take off my shirt."

I jump out of my skin when a roared, “Next!” ages my hearing by a decade.

“Oh no, please, I only need a minute,” I shout when a blonde close to my age sashays onto the stage. The gold tassels on her boobs reflect on her knee-high boots.

“I’m not done yet.” I gently clutch her elbow to direct her back off the stage. “But you look great. I’m sure you have this gig in the bag,” I add on when she glowers at me.

“Look. . .” The club owner stops talking to glance down at the clipboard in his hand. “Abby.” The way he pronounces it sounds as foreign as it does when I say it. “I’m not looking for dancers. I’m looking for dancers.” His dark eyes stray to the group of scantily clad women waiting for their turn to audition. “Unless you can give me what they can give me, you’re not going give me what I need. Capiche?”

I stare at him, more confused than ever. Is he speaking English?

Spotting my bewilderment, he simplifies his reply, “Unless you remove your shirt, you’re not what I’m looking for. . .”

His words trail off when I whip my shirt over my head. Although the bra I'm wearing should never be seen in public, I'm so desperate, I'll wear it like it is made out of the most expensive silk in the world.

“Better.” The club owner scans my frame in a slow, dedicated sweep. “Much, much better.” He licks his lips before demanding, “Now your bra.”

My hands dart up to cover my heaving chest. “You said I only had to remove my shirt.”

His lips purse. “True. But I wasn’t anticipating . . .this.” He waves his hand across my hideous grandma bra. “Is that a nursing bra?”

“No!” I deny, shaking my head. “I don’t think it is?” Since I’m not willing to remove my hands to test his theory, I stick with my first reply.

“You asked me to remove my shirt. I did as you asked. Now can I perform my routine?” You can hear the plea in my voice.

I should be ashamed I'm begging for the chance to sashay my ass on stage in front of a man who lacks morals, but I'm not. When you're backed into a corner, you either come out swinging or lose. Since this is a fight I have no plans of losing, I'm coming out swinging.

“If you’d just give me a chance, I’ll prove that naked breasts aren’t the only sexually satisfying visual you can get from the female anatomy.”

The dark-haired man takes a moment to contemplate. I swear it is the longest thirty seconds of my life.

For the second time in my life, it also ends nothing like I am anticipating.

“I’m sorry. The men who visit my club want naked breasts. They want ass shaking. They want. . .” He scans his practically isolated club before finishing his sentence. “Anything you are willing to give them. Are you willing to do that? Give them anything they want?”

“Anything?” I double-check, certain the circumstances of my day have me mistaking the dip in his tone.

“Anything,” he clarifies.

Disappointment forms in his eyes when I shake my head. I may be desperate, but I’d rather live in a shelter than do. . . that for money.

“Then, I’m sorry, sweetheart, you’re not what I’m looking for.”

I beg for the tears pricking my eyes not to fall. I will not cry like a defenseless, idiotic woman who needs a man to rush in and save her. I will dust off the shit and move on to the next stage of my life. I. Will. Not. Cry.

I'm crying. Not enough for anyone around me to notice, but enough to dent my ego even more. I need this job. With my last two years of university spent as my dad's in-house caregiver, I have no education to fall back on. Then a few years after my father's death, Tobias passed away, leaving the operation he had personally handled the past six years in limbo. No one knew of my existence, not even the local US Marshalls. I was merely referred to as Witness #11734.

I thought once Col Petretti’s case had been brought before the courts, I’d be free from witness protection. I was wrong—very very wrong. Tobias’s efforts to keep me safe tripled when Col walked away from court without a conviction. He knew someone had tattled, and he was doing everything in his power to discover who it was. In the year prior to Tobias's death, I moved more times than I did the five years earlier. We were forever on the move, ensuring not a breadcrumb was left behind.

The only reason I am free now is because Col was killed in a joint police/FBI sting over a year ago. Although that stage of my life is now over, I’ll never live without fear of repercussion. I’ll always be looking over my shoulder, waiting for my past to catch up with me.

After brushing away a tear that settled in the groove of my cheek, I gather my iPod from the floor and shove it into my tattered gym bag. The lady with the gold tassels on her nipples is strutting across the stage. Her dance routine is as hideous as her fake boobs that are on display for the world to see.

The club owner’s approving nod of her provocative grind on the stripper pole reveals what I’ve always known: men are idiots. I could add a few more words, but that one is the most appropriate, so I’ll stick with it.

“Perfect. Beautiful. Wonderful. You’re hired.”

I gag more at his last praise than his first three. Nothing about her routine was entrancing. It was hideous. If I had a way of getting down my satin ribbons bolted to the ceiling without the help of the club’s maintenance man, I’d be long gone from this strip club on the outskirts of town. But since I haven’t grown a millimeter since the day I turned fifteen, I keep my feet planted on the ground—barely!

Another four girls perform before the lackey is given the green light to assist me. Every girl was hired—even the one who had underarm hair longer than the hair on her head.

“Didn’t give you the time of day?” The young man I’d guess to be mid to late twenties asks, peering at me through lowered lashes.

I shake my head. “No. I wanted to keep my shirt.”

He huffs. “Pity. We could sure use some lookers like you in this place. When you’ve seen one set of silicone tits, you’ve seen them all.” The playful gag at the end of his sentence makes me laugh.

“How can you be so sure my boobs aren’t silicone? You’ve only seen them through a baggy tee.”

His Adam’s apple bobs up and down. “I was out back when you whipped off your shirt.” The guilt in his eyes triples when he discloses, “They have cameras of the main stage area in the dressing room.”

“Oh.”

I want to say more, but I can’t form a reply. Removing my shirt in front of one man was hard enough. I wouldn’t have done it if I knew I had an audience.

“The image was grainy, but I’m fairly certain your tits aren’t from Silicon Valley,” the dirty blond with a devasting grin mutters.

I ludicrously smile. Don’t ask me why. I’m as stunned by my body’s reaction as you are.

Bobbing down to gather my ribbon strands in his hands, he asks, “Are they?”

I glower at him. He doesn’t really want me to answer him, does he?

“No. They’re all mine,” I mumble a short time later when he arches his brow, waiting for a reply.

His grin enlarges. “I knew it.”

He jerks his chin to the satin ribbons bolted to the ceiling. "So what's the deal? Do you use these in your routine?"

Shocked by the shift in our conversation, I nod.

“Show me.” He’s not suggesting; he’s demanding.

I swear, I’m going to get whiplash at this rate. Our conversation is worse than a one-sided tennis match. All serve and no return.

Deciding to play along, I ask, “Show you what?”

His lips tug high. I really wish he’d stop smiling. He has a gorgeous grin that has me thinking reckless thoughts. It has me thinking of him.

The stranger runs his sweaty hand down his denim jeans before standing from his crouched position. "Your routine. I want to see what you've got."

He thrust the satin ribbons toward me. "Come on, what have you got to lose? I've already seen your tits. I know they're not fake. We're practically best friends."

I smile for the second time the past five minutes. This guy is a ball of mischief but in a playful, non-threatening type of way.

“You won’t get in trouble?”

“Nah,” he overemphasizes, waving his hand in the air like he is shooing a fly. “He thinks he runs the show, but nothing happens around here without my approval.”

I follow his gaze. The man who dismissed me over an hour ago is standing at the main bar, talking into his cell phone.

“Show him he’s an idiot,” the blond encourages, moving to the side of the stage. “If nothing comes of it, you just saved yourself a trip to the gym.”

For a man who appears to know nothing about gymnastics, he's got knowledge by the bucket loads. Just ten minutes of aerial ribboning equals an hour of cardio.

“Music?” I ask, nerves rattling in my tone.

He shoves a cherry-flavored lollipop into his mouth. “Who needs music? Your heart has its own beat; work with it.”

My lips crimp. “Okay. . . I can do this.” My words don’t have an ounce of confidence in them.

After a quick stretch to ensure I don't risk injury, I curl the satin ribbon around my arm before racing to the end of the stage. The satin catches me midair, winding around my body as I have trained it to do for years.

Within seconds, my love for aerial acrobatics overtakes the nerves fluttering in my stomach. I complete my routine with the precise accuracy awarded by years of study. I tumble, twist, and glide down the silk as if it is an extension of my body. I’ve always felt free dancing, but this is an entirely different experience. It is like I am soaring, flying freely in the air. I finally feel at peace when I’m floating amongst silk.

I plan to end my routine as practiced, with a daring death roll. I can only hope the quick calculations I made on arrival are accurate, or I'm two seconds away from landing with a smack on the hard wooden floor.

I land with mere millimeters to spare, my touchdown perfect. It looks risqué and on edge, yet graceful at the same time.

Smiling like a loon, I unwrap the satin from my thigh and stand to bow. I’m not bowing expecting an uproar of applause. I’m showing my thanks to the arts; I’m bowing in gratitude.

"Woohoo!" shouts a deep voice from the side. An ear-piercing wolf-whistle complements the lackey's praise. "Holy shit. That was as fucking hot as. . .fuck."

An unexpected giggle graces my smile. "Thank you," I reply, curtseying as if I've just performed for royalty.

After bolstering his praise with a bump of our hips, the unnamed man wraps his half-consumed lollipop into a crinkled package, stuffs it into his jeans pocket, then starts pulling down my ribbons.

He’s barely yanked on the pully twice when a husky voice to our side says, “Wait.”

The club owner throws his cell onto the glistening countertop before strutting our way. Yes, I said strut. He just needs to fan out some feathers, and his rooster walk will be as perfectly executed as my routine.

“That. . .thing you just did. . .”

“Aerial ribboning,” I fill in, still giddy.

He nods. “Yes. . . that. Can you do it with less of. . . this?” He waves his hand at my plain white tee and faded black shorts.

“Do you mean naked?” I double-check, confident in my intuition.

My clothes may be hideously outdated, but they leave nothing to the imagination. Even with my tee being a little baggy, my shorts are so tight-fitting, I couldn’t look any more naked unless I were naked.

The dark-haired man’s lips twitch as he struggles to hold in his smile. “Would you be open to the possibility of doing it nak—”

“No,” I interrupt him, not the least bit worried about my bitchy attitude.

Just like it always does, my ten-minute acrobatic routine stripped the anguish from my mind, leaving me free of turmoil. I was unsuccessful in securing a job today, but that doesn't mean I will be unsuccessful tomorrow. I hope.

I shift my eyes to the lackey watching our exchange with amusement slashed across his features. When I capture his attention, I nudge my head to the hoist, requesting he continue to lower my ribbons.

When he does as requested, I pad to my gym bag left dumped on the floor.

The club owner shadows me. “Topless?”

“No,” I answer, shaking my head.

He follows me off the stage, his desperation interesting me more than his suggestions. “What about a glittery little number with a few well-placed tassels. . .”

The rest of his sentence rams into his throat when I shoot him a vicious sideways glare. “I’m only here because your ad said you were looking for dancers. If it had mentioned the word stripper, I wouldn’t have auditioned.”

“Huh,” he huffs out with a chuckle. “Did you not see the big ‘Gentleman’s Club’ in bright red letters in numerous spots outside the club doors? You’re here, sweetheart. . .” He doesn’t emphasize his term of endearment as pleasantly as he did the first few times. “. . .because you are like every other girl who walked through those doors today. You’re desperate.”

Having no plausible defense, I remain quiet. I saw the signs he mentioned. They flashed into my eyes like big ass warnings, yet, I still walked through the doors because I am exactly what he said I am: desperate.

“So, what is it? Are you paying a hefty tuition fee, running, or are you an addict?”

His eyes scan my body. I wouldn’t say it is an overly sleazy gawk, but it isn’t a friendly one either. “Considering you’re a little too old to be saddled with school fees, I’ll say it is one of the latter.”

I roll my eyes, not looking any more mature than my nearly twenty-nine years. “I’m not doing any of those things. Maybe I’m just a poor, lonely housewife who wants to stick it to her old man by shaking her moneymaker for paying clients instead of his lazy ass.”

I’m startled to within an inch of my life when he seizes my wrist and yanks me toward him. I’m five seconds from showing him aerial ribboning isn’t the only way I’ve kept fit the past ten years. I also practice martial arts.

He is saved from discovering my love of boxing when his lackey says, "Come on, Pete, let her go."

Pete ignores his request. “No track marks on your arms. Where do you shoot up? Between your toes?” His eyes drop to my bare feet.

I yank my arm out of his grip. “I’m not a drug addict.”

“So you’re running?” he surmises, reading between the lines.

“I didn’t say that,” I snarl, snatching my ribbon from where it landed on stage.

I need to leave, and I need to leave now. I raise my eyes to the man observing me with worry. He is no longer sucking on a lollipop like someone much younger; his squinted gaze is bouncing between Pete and me.

When the late-hanging sun reflects in his glistening eyes, it dawns on me why I felt immediately comfortable around him. He has wise, old eyes like my dad had.

God, I miss him. Every. Single. Day.

There is only one person I’ve missed nearly as much. He is the same man who restored my faith in humanity before destroying it beyond repair. The one man I’ll always love even when I hate. Ryan.

I thought our five-year separation when we were teens was torture, but it was nothing compared to the past ten years. Ryan deceived me, yet the man who creeps into my dreams isn't a liar or a cheat. He is the boy I fell madly in love with when I was six. The man who chased away my demons while making me feel whole. He is a knight in shining armor, but instead of riding in on a white horse, he had a dark blue bike with recently removed training wheels.

I dared Ryan to step out of his comfort zone that day, and he challenged me to step into mine. If it weren't for his words of wisdom whispered in my ear every night, I would never have the courage to do what I am doing right now. To an outsider, it looks like I've hit rock bottom. To me, I'm striving for better—one day at a time.

After stuffing my ribbons and bolts into my gym bag, I return my eyes to the stranger, who is once again sucking on his beloved lollipop.

“Thank you,” I mouth, my worry about being homeless incapable of excusing my manners.

He grins around his treat before dipping his chin. “Until next time.”

Smiling at his assumption there will be a next time, I pivot on my heels and stalk to the main entrance, tugging on my hoodie on my way. Nothing against this club, but I’d rather not be seen entering and exiting it.

My quick strides across the highly buffed floors slow when an Italian accent shouts, "I'll pay you fifty dollars a night to do your routine." They come to a complete stop when he continues, "I'll even let you keep your clothes on."

Although tempted by his offer, I’d never survive on three hundred and fifty dollars a week, so I negotiate, “Fifty dollars a routine.”

Pete laughs, amused by my negotiation skills. “That’s fifty dollars for ten, twenty minutes max. No fucking chance,” he scoffs. “I could have my dick sucked for less than that.”

“Fifty dollars for thirty seconds of work? Your odds don’t stack up, Pete,” pipes up a husky voice from the side.

"Shut up, Jet," Pete snarls, glaring at his right-hand man. After returning his slit eyes to mine, he says, "Fifty dollars a night. Take it or leave it."

“Okay,” I reply, shrugging my shoulders like it’s no big deal. “It was nice meeting you.” My praise isn’t for him; it is for Jet.

I wait for Jet to dip his chin again, acknowledging my comment before I continue for the door, praying I didn’t misread the desperation in Pete’s voice. I really really need this job. I thought my mom left my dad and me high and dry the first time she vanished. It was nothing compared to the second fleecing she issued me months after his death. That old saying about not having two nickels to rub together—that’s been the story of my life the past four years. Except now, I’m not just broke; I’m homeless as well.

I stop halfway through the main entrance door when Pete shouts, “One hundred dollars a night, and you keep your tips.” The last half of his sentence is forced, as if it pained him to say.

I crank my neck back to the stage. “How much will that be?”

Once again, my question isn’t directed at Pete. It is for the dirty-blond with a devastating grin. Jet—my stranger/ally.

Jet purses his lips. "Normal girls. . . Fifty, maybe a hundred a night. You. . ." The smile on his face forces my knees together. "An easy two hundred."

"A night?" I clarify, wanting to make sure we are on the same wavelength.

Jet’s smile reveals he didn’t miss the shock in my tone. “Easy,” he guarantees in a rumble.

My eyes bounce between him and Pete while contemplating a reply. That’s more per night than any job I’ve been offered, but can I do this? Can I take something I love and sex it up to entice dirty old men out of their hard-earned money?

Yes. Yes, I can. For her, I’ll do anything.

“I can wear my clothes?” This time, my question is for Pete.

He points to my rundown getup. “Do you have anything more enticing than that?”

It shames me, but I shake my head.

“Give her a wardrobe budget—”

“Shut up, Jet!” Pete demands again, the veins in his neck bulging like he’s about to have a coronary.

Pete runs his eyes down my body enough times to creep me out before he pushes off his feet and heads my way. If Jet weren't eyeing him with as much caution as me, I'd be fleeing. Mercifully, his reassuring glance keeps my feet planted on the ground. He has my back, even though we were only strangers minutes ago.

“Although I’d rather you wear one of the outfits we have out back, you’re not going to do that, are you?” Pete asks, smiling a slick grin.

I shake my head.

Huffing, his hand slips into his trouser pocket to dig out a bundle of bills. “Keep your receipt. I plan to claim anything you buy on my taxes.”

His command shocks me. I didn’t think businesses like this kept records anymore. I assumed when Col went down, all legitimate business dealings for establishments like this went right along with him.

Realizing his business dealings have no impact on me, I accept the three hundred dollar bills Pete is thrusting at me before nodding my head.

“We open at 9 PM. Make sure you are here no later than 8.”

Not waiting for me to reply, Pete spins on his heels and stalks back to the stage Jet is standing on, giving me the thumbs up. Pretending I can’t feel my stomach swirling at the base of my throat, I return his gesture.