“Ten minutes, Abby.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m coming,” I assure Jet, glaring at my reflection in the mirror.

My father would be rolling in his grave if he could see me now. Not only am I wearing a bathing suit as if it is an outfit, but my makeup is also done in a palette that can only be described with one word: trashy. The red lipstick is classic old Hollywood, but my dark shadowed eyes and contoured cheeks make me look years younger than I am, and much more risqué than my celibate lifestyle entails.

After adding a few more pins to the rich chocolate brown wig I’ve been wearing the past three weeks, I stand to make sure the girly parts of my body are covered. Well, as hidden as they can be in a two-piece someone my age shouldn't be wearing.

I fan my sweaty cheeks with my hand when I take my position in the wings of the stage, waiting for my introduction. The crowd has grown dramatically the past few weeks, and are graciously missing the vicious chants and unmissable boos my first routine was welcomed with.

The clients at Vipers were as unimpressed with my dressed form as Pete was the first time he saw it. Fortunately, the topless waitresses’ mingling around the club kept their interest at bay long enough I could perform my routine without incident.

When I finished, pin-drop silence spread across the club. I was sure I was seconds away from being pummeled with rotten tomatoes.

Something was pummeled that night.

Mercifully, it wasn’t my body with rotting fruit.

It was my eardrums.

The crowd of approximately thirty men responded in the same manner Jet did the first time he saw my routine. They cheered. They clapped. Then they threw money at my feet.

I was so damn excited, I bobbed down to gather the bills like the novice I was. After ushering me off stage, Jet explained it was his job to collect the tips at the end of each performance, and he would have them waiting at my dressing table by the end of the night. Although trust has become a significant issue for me the past ten + years, I held Jet to his word.

He didn’t disappoint.

I made one hundred and eighty-three dollars and fifteen cents in tips my first night. Although it was a little short of the figure Jet had assured earlier that day, it was pretty damn close, and I didn't remove an article of clothing.

The first week, my money went toward the deposit for a two-bedroom apartment. My second week, I used my earnings to have the gas and electric connected. This week, I'm aiming high. I need a car. I don't care what condition it is in. I just need it to get me from Point A to B. The four-mile walk from Vipers to my apartment is growing old fast. After twisting myself around two slips of silk for three hours in four-inch heels, I'm exhausted. A car will be a godsend.

The lights dim two times, announcing it is time for my performance to begin. I move to the X marked on the middle of the stage. Wanting to give his clients the same dramatic edge he got, Pete requested I start my routine as I did the first time he saw it: by leaping off the stage.

A smile touches my lips. You won’t believe how many clients hold out their hands, preparing to catch me. Doing my routine without any safety measures enhances the clients’ . . thrill level, which, in turn, increases my bank balance. It’s a win-win, really.

Once I have the silk positioned around my right arm, I twist my neck to Jet standing at the side of the stage. Although he is barely seen in the dim lighting, the white stick of his favorite cherry lollipop makes him identifiable.

Within seconds of me dipping my chin, advising I am ready, soft, sensual music filters around the club. I breathe out two times before sprinting for the end of the stage. Just as they do every time I perform, the regular clients of Vipers hold out their arms to catch me, and the newbies gasp in shock.

I love this. Even taking something I adore and ramping it up to entice larger tips can’t change my love of acrobatics. I get so immersed in my routine, within seconds I forget I am performing. I am simply free—floating amongst silk.

By the time my performance reaches the end of my playlist, I am sweating profusely and smiling without shame. The crowd is even more robust than usual. My love of aerial ribboning is as contagious as the flu; they can't help but smile.

With it being Friday night, I climb to the very top of the silk rungs, wanting to achieve the most drastic death roll possible. I’m halfway through twisting the ribbon around my midsection when my eyes lower to calculate my risk. The satin slips from my sweaty grip when my eyes lock in a man at the edge of the stage. Usually, the stage lights hide the clients from my view, but since I’m positioned higher than the lighting, I have no trouble recognizing the blazing brown eyes and shoulder-length hair of a man I once knew.

“What the hell are you doing here, Brax?” I mutter to myself, my furious heart rate resonating in my tone.

I applied for positions on the outskirts of Ravenshoe as my old crew would never be caught dead in this part of town. Clearly, the years haven’t made me any smarter.

While I finish twisting the ribbon around my waist, I scan the club, praying Brax’s appreciation for skimpily dressed women isn’t shared by his friends—most notably, a man with ravishing blue eyes and cut facial features.

Failing to find any signs of Ryan in the club, I exhale three times before rolling down the silk. Though I’d like to say my eagerness to end my routine is compliments of the large bundle of money I see sitting mid-stage, that isn’t true.

I need to leave, and I need to leave now.

With my mind fritzed from seeing a familiar face, my calculations aren't as precise as usual. My worry about being spotted working at a strip club switches to panic when my tumble toward the wooden stage occurs at a faster rate than I usually descend. Moments away from impact, my thoughts drift. I want to pretend only one person is occupying my thoughts. Unfortunately, there isn't. He enters the equation no matter how angry I am. Ryan—my first and only love.

My heart lurches into my throat when my freefall stops within mere inches of the stage. I suck in ragged breaths as I scramble to my feet. I was so certain I was about to plunge to my death, I’m both stunned and relieved.

After ungracefully stumbling out of my ribbons, I curtsy to the wolf-whistling crowd before darting off the stage. I don’t know where I am going or what I am planning to do when I get there, but I’m shoving the cosmetics scattered around my station into my handbag like a madman within two seconds of hitting backstage.

"Abby?" Jet questions, his one word as breathless as my panicked composure. "Did you nearly fall. . .? That was cutting it close. I don't think you should do that again. You scared the shit out of me. . ."

His words trail off when he notices me packing. “Where are you going, doll face? You have another two performances.”

“I. . .I’m. . . This. . .”

I can’t get my words past the panic curled around my throat. I don’t know what is more distressing, wondering if my cover has been blown or my near-death experience. Considering I’d rather be dead than caught, I’d say it is my first worry.

“Abby. . .” Jet follows me into the dressing room, darting between a dozen topless dancers on his way.

I flick on the outdated bulb before moving to the section reserved for my clothes. Although Pete's first three hundred dollars went toward two outfits, the remaining eight spread sparingly on three feet of hanging space belong to me. I paid for them out of my profits, hoping a change-up in outfits would keep the regulars entertained until I devised more daring routines.

“Stop and think about this, Abby. You need the money.” Jet isn’t prompting me about my dire financial state because he is concerned about Pete’s profits. He is reminding me because he has become more a friend the past three weeks than a coworker.

I stop shoving my clothing into my open gym bag when he adds on, "Running won't get you anywhere fast. It hasn't in the past; it won't now. It's time to face your past, Savannah."

I clamber backward, shocked and void of a reply. I never told him my real name—not once.

“Oh. . . come on. Don’t be scared. It’s me. Lollipop Jet.” He digs a cherry cola pop out of his pocket before shoving it into his grinning mouth. “Look in my eyes, Savannah. Tell me what you see? It isn’t a man who will hurt you.”

He steps back, placing an unthreatening amount of distance between us before raising his eyes to mine. It feels like I’ve been kicked in the stomach for the second time tonight when the reason behind his familiar eyes comes to light. How did I not see this earlier? Have I been walking around with blinders on?

“Jeffrey. . .?” My words are as unconfident as my facial expression. “Jeffrey Moat?”

I see Jet’s tongue curling around his lollipop from the broad grin he is giving me.

“But you moved to Cali years ago. Your dad is a lawyer.” I scan our location. Although Vipers glistens like my skin after a dusting of body glow, it is still a strip club. No amount of sparkle can alter that fact. “You shouldn’t be working at a strip club.”

“Why not?” he asks, chuckling under his breath.

“Because. . . because. . .”

I’m stumped. I work here, so how can I give a valid point without degrading myself?

“You’ve lost a lot of weight.” I roll my eyes. That’s the best you could come up with? Anyone would swear I was meeting with the ladies who use to run our primary school PTA, not a boy I went to school with until grade seven.

“And you’ve gained a few pounds. . . in a good way.” Jet’s last sentence comes out in a hurry, unfazed by my snarled growl.

I groan for the second time when his eyes fail to deviate from my chest.

"Sorry. Old habits die hard." If he weren't smiling, I might have believed him. "You were always a looker back in the day, Savannah. I’m glad to see nothing's changed."

His compliment removes some of my worry. “When did you move back to Ravenshoe?”

I can't believe how different he looks. When we were young, Jet was very overweight. He wore thick-rimmed glasses, and his left shoe was padded because one of his legs was longer than the other. He didn't look like this. . .hot enough to fight off three to four eager women every night. The Viper's female clientele don't arrive at precisely 6 PM every night for cheap drinks. They come for Jet.

"A couple of months ago," Jet answers, reminding me that I asked a question. "I ran into some trouble in Cali, decided to start afresh. You?"

He asks his question without any stipulation. If I don’t want to answer, I don’t have to.

“Same.”

He nods, not deterred by my short reply. “So you inevitably knew tonight would happen, right? You can’t come home and not expect to see old faces. It would be nice, but very unlikely.”

Sweat slicks my skin. “You saw Brax too?”

Jet nods again. "Hasn't changed, has he? I swear he's been rocking that hairstyle since kindergarten."

I laugh. “It suits him.”

“Yeah, it does,” Jet replies with a shrug, not entirely convinced. “But you need to shake things up a bit, dust off the cobwebs, so to speak.”

I immaturely roll my eyes. “Are you sure your family moved to Cali? Or did you just don a skirt and hang out with the senior girls at Ravenshoe High?”

My voice is snarky from memories of Amelia saying something similar to Ryan years ago. What I said to Ryan over a decade ago was true, Amelia was a nice girl, but neither of them saw the bitchy looks her friends gave me when she said her comment loud enough for me to hear. Although peeved, since I had a long way to go to repay the money I believed I owed Axel, I was happy Ryan was moving on.

Somewhat.

Maybe.

That’s a lie.

I was devastated.

He deserved to be happy, but I had always hoped we’d find that happiness together. God—how wrong was I? I just wanted him to wait a few more months. . . Ten years later and I still haven't gotten my shit together. At least this time around I'm not solely to blame for our separation. Ryan instigated it; I’m merely sustaining it.

“Brax. . . really? I never saw that one coming.”

I glance at Jet, confused by the shock in his tone.

"That worried look on your face. That's from Brax?" His facial expression doesn’t reveal if he is asking a question or stating a fact.

“Nothing happened between Brax and me."

Jet breathes out dramatically. “Good, because he always looked at you like a little sister, so that would have been weird—”

“Ryan, on the other hand,” I interrupt, praying he doesn’t say he also saw me as a sibling, as that wouldn’t just be weird, it would destroy every fantasy I’ve ever had.

Jet smiles a blistering grin. “Ah. So you two finally sorted your shit out?”

A grin cracks onto my mouth. "Somewhat. We kind of dated for a few years. . . Then things went sour. Then we dated again. . ." A grimace finishes a truth I don’t want to acknowledge.

“Then things went sour again?” Jet fills in.

I nod. “As sour as you can get.”

Jet shoves my half-packed gym bag onto the counter we’re standing next to before nudging his head for me to sit. When I do, he crouches down in front of me like a coach about to give a pep talk to his star quarterback.

“What happened?” he asks, his tone not intrusive or rude.

I take a moment to consider how to reply in a mature, non-emotional type of way. I shouldn’t have bothered. “Ryan cheated,” I blurt.

Jet falls onto his backside, making me giggle. “Ryan-Take-a-Chance-on-Me-Carter cheated? No fucking way.”

I take a mental note to book an appointment with an optometrist when I roll my eyes for the third time in under five minutes.

"You must have misread what you saw. . . Smoked crack. . . Knocked your fucking head, because there is no way Ryan Carter would cheat. The guy wouldn't even let me glance at his paper when we were taking a spelling test in third grade. Cheating isn't in his vocabulary."

After blowing air out of my mouth so fast my lips wobble, I stand and make my way back to my wardrobe. “I would have believed you if he didn’t reveal his philandering ways himself.”

Jet stares at me, blinking and mute.

“Are you sure that’s what he confessed to?” he asks, handing me a wrapped lollipop, as if sugar is the answer for everything.

I twist off the plastic and pop it into my mouth before nodding. “He said he got sick of waiting so he moved on.”

“He couldn’t have waited to tell you he wanted to move on before moving on? That’s whacked.”

“Whacked? We are too old to say ‘whacked,’” I giggle, my words extra throaty from the sugary spit my lollipop is creating. I can understand Jet’s fascination. They are delicious.

“Speak for yourself. I lived under my dad’s command for twenty-five years. I’ve got years of youthful misdemeanors to make up for.”

“Ah. Now the strip club job makes sense.” I barge him with my barely covered hip.

He grins while waggling his brows, confirming my suspicion.

“You sure you want to do this?” he asks, nudging his head to the two original outfits I started with. “This is the first time I’ve seen anyone I know here. Maybe Brax’s visit was just a one-off. He was standing with Keke. I’ve heard rumors they are more than friends.”

I take a deep breath. “I can’t risk it. Ten years of silence will already make things awkward, let alone if it happens here.”

Jet glances into my eyes for two heart-thrashing seconds before dropping them to my midsection. I don’t need to peer down to know what he is looking at. I’ve felt its significance long after the burn wore off.

“It’s not what you’re thinking—”

“I didn’t say it was,” Jet interrupts, returning his eyes to mine. “But it’s got to mean something, and I’m fairly sure it is the reason you sashayed into this club three weeks ago with your head held high even though you’d hit rock bottom.”

Sick of lying, I nod. The ink on my hip is precisely why I am here.

Pretending he can’t hear Pete shouting his name, Jet runs his hand down my goosebump-mottled skin. “Then take a step back and breathe. You’re earning a living. Nothing more. Nothing less. If you decide this isn’t what you want, hand in your notice. But if it is what you need, there is no shame in admitting that.” His wisdom matches his wise eyes.

When I nod, he takes a step backward. "I'll tell Pete you've got woman issues." The cheeky glint in his eyes doubles when he drops them to my teeny tiny white pants.

“Even Pete won’t have any issues understanding why you can’t perform your last two shows.”

I nearly correct him that there are feminine products that stop that from being an issue, but when his glance lingers on my bare thighs longer than what could be deemed acceptable, I realize he isn’t worried I’ll represent the club in a negative light—he’s perving.

“The loss of an eye will be worth the sacrifice.” He chuckles when I grab one of the stilettos resting near my knee and peg it at his head.

His dash out of the dressing room slows to a snail’s pace when I call his name. I wait for him to spin around and face me before asking, “Why Jet?”

I know why I picked the alias I did. It is the same reason my name changed a minimum five times the past ten years—my safety. But what purpose does Jet have for a change in name?

“Do you want the honest answer? Or a watered-down version?” Jet asks.

My arched brow answers his question on my behalf.

He pulls his lollipop out of his mouth before licking his lips, adding to their glossy appearance. "Because I make women come faster than a rocket."

My eyes pop open. That was not an answer I was anticipating.

My shock doubles when he adds on, “If you ever want to test my skills, give me a holler.” A bold wink seals his cocky offer.

Stealing my chance to reply, he disappears into a sea of half-naked women who don’t bat an eyelid at his boastfulness. It is business as usual, making me suspect everything he said was true.

Even the parts including his sexual abilities.