Sighing, I lifted my hair off the back of my neck as I walked out of the nursing college where I was attempting my degree. The heat in Atlanta this time of year was exacerbated by the humidity. My hair was rarely affected by the moisture though—I was born lucky—the thick brown layers maintaining whatever style I had put it in that morning. But when I wore it down, the hair was like a heavy blanket lying across my neck and shoulders.

My backpack weighed a ton, but I’d read somewhere that knowledge was often weighty. I laughed at my thoughts as I tossed the ridiculous thing into the back seat of my old car with a loud thump. I turned the ignition, a little prayer in my heart, and felt an inordinate amount of relief when it started without any issues. The power windows still worked, thank God, so I lowered them all. The air conditioner hadn’t worked in over a year, so the summer sun beating on the metal meant several showers a day if I had to get out of the house. That was pretty much every day of my life except Sundays. On Sundays, I relaxed.

Grateful the day was Wednesday, I drove straight home rather than to the club. I only worked Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays, and luckily, I made enough money in those three days to pay my rent and buy food. But not much else.

As a stripper at a high-end club in Atlanta, I made more money than I could at any other part-time job, by far. Only the top beauties were hired by the owner of Burlesque, and only men who made upwards of half a million a year could become exclusive members. According to the Yelp descriptions, the establishment was considered the classiest strip club this side of the Mississippi.

I had snorted when my boss informed me of that particular review, which had earned me a glare. Thankfully, I was a popular dancer—for reasons I couldn’t fathom—and could get away with certain comments other girls couldn’t. Regardless, that oxymoronic description of the strip club amused me.

I parked in my spot outside the apartment building that I’d moved into six years ago, happy to be home. I had time for a short nap before dinner and studying until I had to go to bed. I trudged across the parking lot, frowning, my heavy backpack slung over my shoulder, bitching internally as the sweat dripped down the center of my back. I actually liked being on the first floor: no stairs to climb. I had a little porch, about five feet wide and six feet long, and after the sun went down, I sat out there to study, burning my citronella candle to keep the mosquitoes away.

My cat greeted me with a loud yowl when I walked in the door. “Good afternoon to you too, Snickers.” He meowed louder in response and began winding through my legs as I walked to the tiny kitchen and I dropped my bag on the table before my shoulder gave out.

Snickers continued his rubbing against my legs as I tried to walk further. I tripped over him, as usual, but caught myself before I could hit the counter with my arm. “Snickers,” I murmured as I picked him up to give him the love he needed. With irritation, I thought about the rule at work about no visible bruises, which sounded terrible the first time I heard it. When I asked what he meant, my boss, Mr. Carpenter, had explained.

“These men pay an exorbitant membership fee for perfection. Any mark on the skin, regardless of how it got there, will not be tolerated. If you’re clumsy, you’d better know how to apply makeup to cover it up or you won’t work here long.”

“What about scars?” I’d asked. I didn’t have any large scars, but here and there were marks from childhood.

“I don’t hire women with scars,” he’d replied, ignoring my somewhat disgusted expression. As an interview, I had performed a set for him, complete with stripping, so he had seen me naked even before hiring me.

I had never been clumsy, thank goodness, and when I did have a random bruise, my best stripper pal, Rita, helped me with the makeup. I thought the makeup was obvious, but on the stage in the dark room, it was invisible. And the men there weren’t looking at a bruised shin or bicep. They focused on my tits and ass.

Shaking my head to rid myself of that creepy thought, I wandered to the tiny bathroom and turned on the equally tiny shower. I took my time undressing because the water wouldn’t be hot for at least two or three minutes. I’d asked the super about a million times to check my water heater, but he couldn’t ever seem to stop by when I wasn’t already in the shower. The man was a creeper, and I really didn’t want to be in the room alone with him anyway.

So I bided my time, wandering around my apartment naked, waiting for the water to heat up. I grabbed a glass of water and walked back to the bathroom to wash the sweat off my body. I had nowhere to go but studying and bed, so I allowed myself a lengthy shower.

* * *

I hurried to work in my nursing scrubs the next afternoon, a Thursday. The athletic shoes nursing students wore to ease the soreness of our backs after a long day of clinics squeaked as I entered the cool, dark atmosphere of Burlesque. I treasured my last few minutes in the sneakers before I had to put on my stilettos. I kept a pair or two of flip-flops in my locker for between sets. Occasionally, we were allowed to dance barefoot for different theme nights, but tonight was just a regular night.

Beach night was probably my favorite theme, though the bikinis we wore were absolutely ridiculous and covered nothing but nipples and the barest essentials down below. But we got to play with beach balls, and the customers—those who wished to and paid the price—could join us on the stage, one or two at a time, and have us rub them down with tanning lotion. By the end of the night, everyone was greasy, and the club smelled like coconuts rather than booze.

Mr. Carpenter had banned smoking years before I began working there, so the place never smelled of cigarette smoke, thank God. The men who could afford to join this club were not the type of men who smoked anyway, unless it was a cigar or two from Cuba—the most expensive kind—and Mr. Carpenter asked them to kindly step out onto the patio to enjoy their cigars.

I meandered slowly through the tables—spotless after last night’s shows—and walked to the bar, shivering at the sudden cold blast from the air conditioner. The club was always freezing before it opened, but once the crowd of horny men surrounded the stage, the place heated up quickly.

I glanced at the stage in the center of one wall with a catwalk that extended twenty feet from the main stage. Four poles were bolted to the stage and ceiling, one at each end of the catwalk and two on each side of the stage. Lights created a trail for the girls to follow, a sort of boundary that helped us place our feet safely. Falling off the stage not only meant a possible injury, it also meant being fired. Surrounding the catwalk and stage were the spotless tables with comfortable leather lounge chairs around them. In the bright fluorescent lights, the decorations were gaudy and seedy, almost frighteningly so. But the golds, reds, and blacks were perfectly elegant in the darker lighting, which had been fine-tuned for the eye’s pleasure.

The bar was on the far side of the club, away from the stage and a bit of a walk in high heels, which was why I thanked God I wasn’t a waitress. The poor girls wore as little as we did when we walked out on stage, but they didn’t get the tips we did. And though it was an unkind thought, I knew it was true: the girls who were waitresses weren’t pretty enough to be on stage, though none of them were ugly. Mr. Carpenter did not hire ugly women. They were plain or cute, or too skinny or too chunky. They were tipped well and touched more often by the patrons, but the strippers made the real cash.

I made enough cash each weekend to pay for my apartment, bills, and the small interest I had to pay on my student loans each month. On top of the tips slipped into my G-string—sometimes twenties and even a hundred if I performed a lap dance, which I rarely did—Mr. Carpenter, to maintain legalities for taxing purposes, paid each girl a small salary, much like a waitress makes. My check might only be a hundred dollars, but the tips made up for that small amount. The most I’d made in one weekend—a holiday weekend—was five grand. Typically, I made around a thousand to fifteen hundred for three days of work, which sounded like a lot until the cost of living in Atlanta and going to college was taken into account.

The Thursday night bartender, Louis, wasn’t there yet, so I continued past behind the stage to our dressing rooms. I had learned quickly who to make friends with in this line of work—the DJ and the bouncers. The DJ was in charge of playing your music, and if he was mad, a girl’s music might not play and she’d have to wing it to whatever shit he felt like playing. Mr. Carpenter didn’t like it, but he didn’t stop it, either. A girl had to learn, after all, he would say. The bouncers watched out for the girls, protecting them from unwanted attention because, occasionally, one of these rich men thought they could do whatever they wanted because they had money. The bouncers also walked girls to their cars at the end of the night.

And it didn’t hurt to make friends with the other girls, which I had made sure to do. Mostly, we were a close-knit group. We took care of each other, shared product if someone ran out, checked for stray hairs, and things like that, almost like a theater troupe. We had fun, we had spats, but overall, we helped each other through everything from breakups to bad customers. One gal, Carrie, whose dad had been a doctor, helped me study for exams between performances. And Rita and I had become the closest friends the day we met on my first day as a stripper.

I’d been terrified. No one had seen me without clothes, let alone taking them off for watching eyes. My hands had shaken, and I bit my lip continuously. The girls had been nice, but only Rita stepped over to my dressing table.

“Honey, you’re gonna bite a hole in those pouty lips,” Rita commented, brushing a fingertip over my lips to stop me.

I’d giggled, a high-pitched, nervous sound. “I’m so nervous.”

“Chica, with that body and that face, you have nothing to be nervous about,” Rita had assured me in her thick accent. And she’d been right. As soon as I stepped out on the stage and my music started, I danced like I was in my bedroom. I had a blast. The cheers were disconcerting, though certainly boosting for the self-esteem. I’d made five hundred that night and learned that I could do something most people thought was terribly inappropriate.

I pushed open the door to the dressing room, which looked a lot like the green room for actors. Ten tables with lighted mirrors lined both walls, and little chairs were pushed under each, with a wall of lockers against the back wall. Each stripper had her own mirror and had decorated it with personal paraphernalia as well as makeup and random items for hair. Mine was mostly bare, with only the essentials of stripping cluttering the top, no pictures of family or friends. The girls asked occasionally, though only Rita knew that my parents had died while I was in high school.

Rita was leaving the shower room in all her glorious nakedness as I walked in. Few of us had a shred of modesty left after working here for more than a week. Even I, the girl who had covered up in the locker room in high school, was comfortable walking around with nothing on.

“Hey, Randi! How’s my chica?” Rita called, her sultry, smoky, accented voice as enchanting as her face. Rita was Brazilian and a favorite with the clients. Exotically beautiful, she had almond-shaped eyes that could stare through a man into his soul, or so they said, and she dressed those eyes with makeup like an artist. Her waist was small, her tits average, but her ass and legs were a man’s wet dream—tanned, toned, and perfect.

“Going to class, kicking some ass,” I replied, winking at her when she laughed at me.

“You know, for a girl who has an innocent air about her, you sure do have a mouth on you,” she told me.

“Innocent my fucking ass,” I laughed, pretending, like I always did, that I wasn’t as innocent as a little girl. I was a cliché, the stripper with the heart of gold, another oxymoron. I was also a virgin, though no one knew it there, not even Rita. As far as any of them knew, I was too busy with school and work to have a boyfriend, which was true, but that I just wasn’t interested in sex was the bigger truth. Life had played that little trick on me early and stripped me of the desire for sex. “We can’t all be hos, you know.”

“I’m not a ho,” Rita defended blandly, “I’m just a nympho!” We cackled at her inappropriate rhyme. “So, I’m going back to the samba routine for the next two weeks.”

“Why’s that?” I asked. She’d been dancing to some pop rock she’d discovered on the hit station, which had seemed popular over the last couple of weeks.

“Remember Andre? The Brazilian millionaire?”

“The one we’re pretty sure is a high-ranking member of the drug cartel there?” I asked, gaping at her. “You know, the one I’m pretty sure I saw on the news who may or may not be responsible for the deaths of a shit-ton of people.”

Rita shrugged. “Yeah, that one. He’s back in town and specifically requested me and the samba routine. Says it reminds him of home.”

I scoffed and waved a hand dismissively. “Please, please don’t do anything stupid.”

“Like what?”

“Like fuck him because he’s Brazilian.” I pinned her with a look.

“That’s against the rules. I’d get fired,” Rita pointed out.

“As if rules stop you.” I laughed though I didn’t want to joke about this.

“I won’t fuck him. Promise,” Rita replied, crossing her heart with a painted nail. “But if he offers to take me away from all this, I’m not sure I’ll be able to say no.”

I rolled my eyes at her. “You’re a hoot.”

“I’m something, alright. What are you dancing to tonight?” Rita asked, changing the subject she didn’t want to discuss.

I glanced at her, worried, but answered her question. “I haven’t choreographed a new routine yet. I still have this weekend and next before I have to revamp my set.” Each girl had a set she created, and once a month, she had to change her music and choreograph a new routine. We were required to have two sets prepared at all times because some of the regulars noticed if a girl danced the same dance more than a handful of times.

I dropped my bag on my table and pulled my hair out of the elastic band holding it back. Rita watched me in the mirror, frowning. “What?”

“I’m so jealous of your hair,” she sighed.

“Why? Your hair is the most gorgeous pure black.”

“And bone straight,” she grumbled as she lifted my hair, wavy after being in a ponytail since 7 a.m. “Won’t hold a curl longer than an hour.”

“In this humidity, you should be thrilled.” I laughed as I grabbed towels, soap, loofa, razor, shampoo, and conditioner from my locker. “I’m hopping in the shower and may take a nap in the lounge.”

“Why don’t you go home for a while before you come to work?” she asked, curious. “I live too far, but you don’t.”

I lived ten minutes from the club if traffic was right, and I finished school by four. I had four hours to waste between, and sometimes, I did go home. But the club had Wi-Fi for its patrons and workers, and I could study or play on my phone here as easily as at home.

“Because I probably wouldn’t come to work,” I joked. Her bubbly giggle followed me as I disappeared into the locker-room-style showers. Five shower heads descended from one wall, and the room was big enough for a girl to shower at the far end and walk past the others when finished without getting sprayed by the water. When I had to shave, I preferred to use this shower rather than the one at home because of its roominess and the built-in bench across from the shower heads. My shower at home was smaller than a coffin, in my estimation, while this one was nearly as big as my bedroom.

I tossed my towels on the dry bench and placed my razor next to it. Another rule was to be completely hairless in the areas where American women were expected to be. Rita lived by waxing, especially at the bikini area, but the idea of someone else intimately touching that part of my body was distasteful. I’d found creams that prevented the ever-present bumps, and luckily, I’d been born with skin like a baby’s.

The only complaint I had about my skin was its extreme whiteness. Not quite albino, I still avoided the sun, and when I did go out in it, I slathered on so much sunscreen I might slide off the beach chair. I’d been praised for my skin and made fun of for it, depending on who was around. Regardless, I had protected it with sunscreen and hats most of my life, and I’d reap the rewards when I turned fifty but still looked thirty.

The showers heated up so fast I wished I could live here. I let the spray sluice over me and lifted my hair off my neck so the water would glide down my back. Gratefully cooler, I let my hair fall and reached for my loofa and body soap. I breathed in the ocean smell of the soap and wished briefly I was at the beach, breathing in the real ocean.

I let my mind wander. If I had my way, I’d be on a beach chair—under an umbrella, of course—with a fruity cocktail in one hand and a novel in the other. A waiter would stop by every now and then to check on my needs, and after two more fruity concoctions, I’d rise from my chair and walk across the veranda to my room, slip inside, and stretch out on a glorious bed someone else had made. One day, I told myself with a sad smile. Yeah, when you are fifty.

Sighing, I rinsed the delicious soap off my body and started on my hair. Nursing school first, work for a few years and pay off the student loans, and maybe after that, I’d have the money to spend a few days on the coast. Not in the plush resort I’d imagined, but that wouldn’t matter to me. And all that meant another year at Burlesque. I reached for my razor, sighing with resignation again, and set about the task of creating a body that men paid money to look at.

“I am not the least bit interested in going to a strip club, Art,” I grumbled as I stared at the report in front of me. It was not pleasing in the least and did not reflect the amount of work my team had put into the research. “What the hell?”

“What’s wrong?” Art asked, glancing over my shoulder to read the report.

“Are these numbers accurate?”

“As of two days ago, yes.” Art looked at me, his expression sympathetic. “I know it’s not what you wanted.”

“It’s not even fucking close,” I seethed. I crumpled the report in my hands and slumped into my chair to stare out the window at the Atlanta skyline. My office was on the top floor of the building that housed the research company I had started, MindMatters, Inc., and the view was spectacular. I didn’t see it, though. My mind was circling the fact that the newest development drug for Alzheimer’s did no more than my original prototype. “I just don’t see how, with the improvements we’ve made to the drug, our subjects show no improvement whatsoever.”

“I agree, but Eliot, this is only the fourth drug. Viagra went through dozens upon dozens before they found the right equation.” He snorted, and I jerked around to look at him, eyebrows raised. “Imagine those tests, huh?”

A corner of my lip lifted. He chuckled, I followed, and soon, we were laughing. “What a sight!” I agreed, shaking my head.

“Don’t worry, boss. You’ll find the right combination—or one of your talented young scientists will,” Art assured me. He clapped his hands together and rubbed them. “Now, back to my original proposal. The strip club?”

I rolled my eyes at him, frowning at his persistence. “As I already explained, I’m not the least bit interested in a strip club.”

“You’re a tight-ass, and your tight ass needs to relax,” Art informed me. “A strip club—especially the one I have in mind—is just the thing to take that tightness and loosen it up a bit.”

“Are you asking me to go to a strip club or propositioning me for a sexual act?”

Art snorted. “Like I said. Tight-ass.”

“Tight-ass or not, you aren’t getting a piece of it,” I deadpanned, pressing my lips together so I didn’t grin.

Art’s laugh echoed as he threw his head back and let it loose. “Damn, sparring with you can be such fun. Let’s spar with some titties!”

“Sparring with you is like talking to a fifteen-year-old boy,” I returned with a chuckle. “Titties are the last thing on my mind. I need to work on these equations. We’re so close.”

“Listen, man. You need a break,” Art insisted. “When’s the last time you went somewhere besides this office, the lab, or your house?”

“Yesterday.” Art tilted his head and pursed his lips, waiting. “I picked up dinner at Chino’s.”

Art scoffed. “You’re going home, and I’m picking you up at nine. You will be dressed appropriately, and you will get in my car.” He stood after his pronouncement and left my office without waiting for my agreement.

Sighing, I swiveled my chair again and stared out the window. Art was right, though I wouldn’t say it out loud to him. The man’s ego was bigger than the entire state of Georgia. But I really hadn’t been anywhere but the three places he’d listed in the last month. Paradoxically, I couldn’t find a breakthrough because I was too focused on trying to find one.

When I’d created the original formula, I’d been sitting in a movie theater surrounded by people laughing at the antics of the actors on the screen. I’d been working for six months without a break, searching for the exact combination I needed to ease the symptoms of Alzheimer’s. I’d leapt up, throwing popcorn all over the people in front of me and spilling my soda, and raced back to my lab. Three days later, I’d created the drug that had helped a generation of Alzheimer’s patients retain their memories for much longer. The drug had also made a few million, which had allowed me to continue the research company.

With that success behind me, I was ready to attain my new goal: create a drug that stopped the debilitating process of Alzheimer’s altogether. My mother’s face popped into my head, and the familiar pain ripped my heart. At the age of fifty-two, she’d begun to lose her memory. By fifty-four, full-on Alzheimer’s had set in, and she’d died with no memory of anyone around her. I had watched her cry for hours because she missed this person or that, people I’d never heard of. On lucid days, when she knew who I was, she would hold my hand and tell me stories of my childhood. Those had faded so quickly, though, and after her death, I’d struggled to remember her before the disease.

The first drug had been finished a year after her death, much too late to do my mother any good. But it would lessen the pain others had to endure as their loved ones settled into old age.

Yes. Yes, I should go with Art, I told myself. But seriously, a strip club? I wondered if I could change his mind, convince him to go to a bar and have a few drinks, maybe flirt with a few ladies. Naked, uneducated women at a strip club didn’t sound the least bit appealing. If I was going to socialize, I wanted to speak to people of the same caliber as myself, not a woman who probably didn’t graduate from high school.

I rose and gathered my wallet and keys, which I always left in my desk at my office. I took off the lab coat and hung it on the back of my door as I walked out, pausing to lock it before heading to the elevator bank.

My assistant left every day by six, so she’d been gone for over an hour at this point, though she’d left me a note about a meeting with the pharmaceutical company tomorrow morning at ten. If I planned to eat anything before Art picked me up, I’d better hurry. I phoned in an order to Chino’s—my favorite Chinese place—as I climbed into my Mercedes, one of the few luxuries I’d bought myself when the Alzheimer’s drug formula had sold.

As I drove to the restaurant, I ran through a list of reasons to stay home rather than go with Art to a strip club, no matter how high-end. Every reason fell flat until my phone rang, though the person on the other end wouldn’t be of much help. I hit the Bluetooth on the steering wheel.

“Hi, Dad.”

“Hey, kid! How’s my favorite son?” My dad’s boisterous voice filled the car, and I reached for the volume.

“I’m your only son,” I reminded him with a small smile, as I did every time we spoke. It had become a tradition of sorts, one I still thought was funny.

“That you are, my boy!” he yelled through the phone. “What’s going on?”

“Well, I’ve almost got the formula right for the new dru—”

“Tsk, I don’t want to hear about work,” he interrupted, which grated a little. After Mom died, my father wouldn’t speak of her condition or anything to do with it. My research was completely foreign to him because he chose it to be. “Tell me about your personal life.”

“I don’t have one of those,” I reminded him sarcastically. “My life is work, work, work.”

“Ah, you’ve made enough money that you can retire now. What are you, thirty?”

“Thirty-two,” I corrected him with a roll of my eyes. “And you know money is not the reason I do what I do.”

“Yes, I know,” Dad replied with a sigh. In the background, I heard a high-pitched voice call ‘Steven’ and ask who he was talking to. I cringed in my driver’s seat, grimacing as my father replied. “It’s Eliot, baby.” He listened for a moment and returned to our conversation. “Tiffany says hello.”

I grumbled under my breath before wishing her the same. I hated the woman and avoided visiting my dad if she would be home. She rarely was. The woman—only three years older than me—spent her time spending my father’s money with abandon. And though I’d thought she was stupid, I quickly discovered she was a calculating, manipulative bitch. Dad thought she hung the moon, so I had to assume she was amazing in bed, though I refused to let my father discuss that with me. He had tried on more than one occasion while drinking, but I’d never been drunk enough to listen.

“She wants to know when you’ll visit when she’s here,” Dad said, a smile in his voice. Dad knew very well I didn’t like her. I’d never hidden it.

“Probably never, if I can help it,” I replied as I turned into the parking lot of Chino’s.

“Now, Eliot, she’s your stepmom,” Dad reminded me needlessly.

“Yes, she is,” I agreed. “Listen, Dad, I’m picking up some dinner, so I need to let you go.”

“And what are you doing after dinner?” he asked before I could hang up. With a sigh, I told him Art had invited me to a strip club but that I was planning to get out of it. “You will not get out of going. You need to go. Knowing you like I do, you’re close to a breakthrough, and Art knows that you need to get out. Am I right?”

He may have married a money-grabbing bitch, but the man knew me well. We were close in spite of her awfulness. “How’d you guess?”

Dad chuckled. “Go out tonight. I’ll call Art and pay him to kidnap you if you don’t.”

My laugh was small but sincere as I nodded my head. He really would offer Art money to get me out of the house. He’d done it before. “Alright, I’ll go. But if I get some kind of fungus from sitting on the chairs there, you’re paying my doctor bills.”

I ended the call on his raucous laugh, loud and boisterous, and climbed out of the car to get my food.

* * *

At precisely nine, Art texted me that he was downstairs and to hurry my ass up. I’d chosen jeans and a polo with sneakers for our visit to the ‘upscale’ strip club Art had chosen. When he’d texted me the name of the club, I’d snorted around my bite of beef and broccoli. Burlesque. Classy, I’d mused with a derisive air as I’d forked up more rice and ate the aromatic food.

My condo was a studio close to the company. Spacious, with open architecture, the only rooms hidden from sight were the bedroom, bathroom, and closets. The kitchen, rarely used, was stainless steel everything, and sometimes, I lamented the fact that I didn’t cook. The living room was decorated in blacks and whites, the furniture was black, and the carpets were white. I liked the sterile look and straight lines of the living space I’d created for myself, though I’d been told by more than one woman that the place was cold. Which is why I choose not to date. Too much work, and too many opinions I didn’t care about.

“Where is this place?” I asked after I’d climbed into his car—a flashy Porsche—and I could hear the snotty tone of my voice. I didn’t adjust it. “No, wait, let me guess. We have to drive outside the city to a back road that leads us to a mysterious building with no outside indication as to what kind of establishment we’re walking into.”

“Have you always been such a fucking snob?” Art asked, frowning. “The club is just outside of downtown. The building looks like an old theater.”

“Like a movie theater?”

“No, a theater where plays are performed. I know you think it can’t be anything but tacky, but Burlesque really is a classy joint.”

I snorted. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“Pull that stick out of your ass, or I’ll pay one of the strippers to do it for you,” Art grumbled.

“You’re fucking hilarious.” I watched as the Atlanta skyline loomed ahead of us. Art exited and took the loop around, so I assumed we were in for at least another twenty minutes of driving. I let my mind fill with the equations for the new drug, manipulating numbers and adjusting ratios. Sighing, I only saw the one equation, the one I’d already perfected. I shook my head and focused again, seeing nothing outside the window.

Art cleared his throat loudly, jerking me out of my mathematical thoughts. “Stop calculating.”

“I was thinking about titties.”

Art chuckled. “I’m not sure you ever think of titties.”

“On occasion.”

“Well, think about them now and stop thinking about the drug. Rather than a movie theater for your distraction, you’ll have tons of titties jiggling in your face.”

“Hmmm, plastic titties, pretty faces, and empty minds. Just my style,” I said sarcastically. I could almost hear Art’s eyes rolling in his head.

“Those are the things you want in a stripper, Eliot. Big tits, a face for the screen, and they don’t expect to talk to you or you to talk to them.” Art laughed.

“You know, Art, if I have to be around women, I’d prefer women who can, at the very least, have a conversation,” I explained to him as if he were slow.

“You aren’t fucking marrying her. You might not even be fucking her,” he said with a raucous laugh, much like my father’s, and a wink.

“Are you high?”

“Not yet! But this place caters to all needs,” Art promised

“How the hell are we best friends?” I grumbled. Art didn’t feel the need to reply, so I reached over and flicked on the radio. If I found a station he liked, Art might not speak the rest of the trip.

Twenty minutes later, Art announced ‘we’re here’ in the middle of his rendition of Guns-N-Roses’ “Sweet Child of Mine.”

I mumbled, “Thank God.”

The building was unassuming, though a tasteful sign above the door, lit by round globes, announced the name of the club, Burlesque. The letters were done in bright red paint with small red bulbs around the lettering rather than neon. The door was black, the building brick, and it did resemble a theater with posters in stylish frames. Rather than displaying upcoming plays to be performed however, erotic art, beautifully rendered, drew the eye. The art looked like what one would see in a museum, and after seeing the outside, my interest about the inside was piqued.

“The building doesn’t give the impression of a strip club,” I mused to Art, who smiled smarmily. With some sarcasm, I added, “And valet? Fancy.”

“Wait ‘til you see the inside,” Art said. “The owner converted an old theater. There are balconies to sit in if you want to see the show but not touch, but those spots are usually empty unless someone wants lap dance after lap dance or has reserved one for a private party.”

I looked at Art, a question in my expression. “Jesus, how often do you come here?”

“Not as often as I should, considering the fee to be a member,” Art grumbled as he passed the keys to a valet driver. He straightened his shirt as he walked to the front door, which was opened for him by an attendant who knew his name.

“Not that often, but the staff knows your name.” My eyes struggled to adjust to the dark atmosphere, and I frowned when we reached a reception desk with a woman dressed in professional attire. I leaned close to Art and asked, “Do I have to purchase a membership?”

“No, we’re allowed one guest a month,” Art informed me before turning to the lovely woman behind the desk. “Hello, dear.”

“Welcome, Mr. Quinten,” she replied with a smile as she rose to her feet. “And who is your handsome friend?”

“Eliot Messer.”

“Welcome, Mr. Messer.” I smiled at her, and she turned to Art again. “Your usual table has been taken for the evening”—she wagged a finger playfully at him—“because you did not let me know you were coming this evening.”

Art smiled and propped a hip on her desk. “Well, Samantha, I didn’t decide to come until late in the day. We’ll take whatever table is available, as long as you’ll join us later.” He winked at her.

She snickered. “Mr. Quinten, you are a scamp.”

“Every day,” Art said with another wink.

Samantha shook her head and gestured to a scantily clad hostess who had just appeared at the door behind her. “Madison will show you to your table. Will you be dining?”

“Just drinking and enjoying the shows,” Art informed her.

“As you wish.” She handed Madison two drink menus. “Enjoy your evening, gentlemen.”

“If you’ll follow me,” Madison squeaked, her high-pitched voice almost a falsetto, and I wondered briefly if the girl was of legal age.

Art winked at me, a gesture I was tiring of, and we followed the curvaceous woman with the child’s voice. My eyes widened when we stepped through. Elegant was the appropriate word for the vision in front of me, though using it felt awkward because I was in a strip club. However, except for the naked woman on the stage—which had been extended in three directions by catwalks with poles—the ambiance was of a theater. So, not seedy, I thought. Just naked chicks.

Madison led us to a table near one of the catwalks. The other patrons were quietly watching the woman on stage as they sipped their drinks—fine whiskeys, brandy, or scotch. Several paid no attention to the woman. Serious discussions were taking place around the room, business deals and whatnot, and I realized this was a club where rich men brought their clients not only to enjoy the writhing, perfect bodies, but also to discuss propositions.

“Classy, huh?” Art asked after we were seated.

“Not seedy,” I informed him, refusing to go so far as to call the place classy.

A waitress in a pseudo Catholic-schoolgirl outfit sashayed to the table. “Hello, gentlemen,” she said, her smile directed first at me, then Art. “How may I serve you this evening?”

Art flirted a bit, which seemed a waste of time. This wasn’t a bar where a girl might go home with you if you worked hard enough. These women, I assumed, weren’t allowed to go home with patrons. She replied to the flirtations with her own, a twinkle in her eyes, and I wondered if she really enjoyed the flirting or if she was just a good actress. Art ordered his scotch, an expensive brand, and I asked for a whiskey on the rocks.

“I'll have it back as quickly as possible, gentlemen,” she replied. She ran her hand down my arm and smirked at Art, who smirked back.

As she walked away, her ass peeking out from the several-inches-too-short skirt, Art whistled quietly. “Goddamn, that’s a nice ass.”

I glanced and agreed, though I didn’t speak. The emcee, a large man with an accent I couldn’t place, yelled over the microphone. “Thank you, Candy! Gentlemen, isn’t she beautiful!”

The woman, Candy, who had been on the stage a moment ago, meandered through the crowd in nothing but a G-string, accepting tips from the patrons. Men didn’t circle the stage here and slip ones into her clothes as she danced. When she reached our table, I looked at the money. Not ones—mostly tens and twenties. Art, who had seen thirty seconds of her routine, slipped a ten into her G-string with a compliment. She smiled at him and moved on.

As she disappeared behind the stage, the emcee began again. “Now, gentlemen, one of our treasures is about to take the stage. If our beautiful Rose doesn’t arouse your senses, you might need to reevaluate your life choices.” He cackled, and several men laughed as well.

“He’s funny,” I deadpanned, and Art glanced at me.

“Shut up,” he ordered. “This girl really is a treasure.”

“I’m sure they’re all treasures,” I replied caustically. I glanced around for the Catholic schoolgirl. I wanted my drink.

A song I didn’t know began to play, and a woman stepped through the curtains and onto the stage as if she owned it. Her eyes flashed, and she moved like a woman with actual dancing talent, not just stripper moves. Her hair, dark brown and long, slightly wavy and full, cascaded across her shoulders and lifted in a wave as she spun to the beat. Her face looked like an angel’s, which she used to her advantage by dressing in an angel costume complete with halo, though apparently she’d left her wings at home. Her body was the perfect amount of slender and curvy. She was pale—paler than I preferred my women, when I chose to have one—but otherwise, she was stunning. A treasure indeed, I mused as I watched her.

She removed her clothes like a woman stripping for a lover, and she made eye contact with those closest to her, making each one of them feel special, as if she only had eyes for him. I wished we had a closer table. I wanted to see those eyes, stare into them, to see if the innocence I saw from this far away was really there. Innocence, I thought with a smirk. She might work at an upscale strip club, but she’s still a stripper.

I rolled my shoulders when Art tapped one of them. “What did I tell you?”

“She is lovely,” I agreed as I watched her. The Catholic schoolgirl returned with our drinks, and I sipped mine thankfully, though my eyes didn’t stray from the woman on stage.

Her breasts, revealed in the stage lights, were sprinkled with a glittery dust, and her nipples were perfectly pink and smaller than average. Her skin was the same hue of pale all over, and her legs, long and muscular, were strong—from the dancing, I assumed. Her ass, bared in the tiny G-string she wore as her only clothing, was also toned and perfect.

My eyes stayed on her after the music ended, and as she passed through the tables, she smiled at each man who offered her cash, brushing shoulders or briefly touching the hand of a regular. She spoke to them, and my understanding of what made her a treasure was the individual attention she paid to each man, as if he really was the only one in the room. None of them were touchy, as they had been with Candy. They slipped the money in her G-string, spoke a few words, and watched her walk away as if they had a certain amount of respect for her.

Fascinated, I watched her as she moved towards our table. Her G-string had mostly twenties, and I spied at least two fifties and a hundred tucked in among them. She looked at Art, recognition in her eyes, and when her eyes slid to mine, a shot of electricity bolted through my body. She faltered in her steps before catching herself and looking at Art again.

“Hello, again,” she said to Art with a small smile, completely at ease with her nudity as she stood in front of us. “Been a while, yes?”

He wagged his finger at her. “You have the memory of an elephant and the body of an angel.”

She laughed quietly as the emcee began introducing the next dancer. “How could I forget the biggest flirt who comes in here?”

Art laughed and gestured to me. “This is Eliot.”

I held out my hand, unsure if she would shake it, but she shook like she was being introduced to the friend of a friend. “Pleasure,” I croaked. When our hands touched, another jolt skipped along my spine.

She removed her hand from mine quickly, staring at me with a strange expression on her face. It cleared immediately, and she smiled. “Nice to meet you. Are you thinking of becoming a member?”

“No,” I answered brusquely, almost rudely.

“Oh, well then, I’ll be heading back,” she replied, a coldness in her eyes.

She turned, but I stopped her. “Wait! I… uh, wanted to give you this.” I held out a hundred to her.

She looked down at it, indecision in her expression. She expected me to slip it into her G-string, but I couldn’t touch her skin or I’d lose my ability to keep my hands off her. With a small smile, she took the money and folded it. “Thank you, sir.” With a wave at Art, she left us. I watched her ass as she walked away and hardened as I imagined gripping it with both hands as I pounded into her from behind.

I didn’t want to watch her chatting with other customers, so I reached for my drink and caught Art staring at me. My actions were far from the norm, but I chose to play stupid. “What?”

“What the hell was that?” Art asked.

“What?” I repeated after sipping my drink and clearing my throat.

“You just gave—to use your words—an uneducated stripper a hundred-dollar bill,” Art said.

“She seemed like a normal girl, not crass or trashy.” I shrugged nonchalantly as if it was no big deal. He saw through it.

“You liked her,” Art announced with a laugh.

I grimaced at him. “How could a person like someone after thirty seconds of interaction?”

“You spoke to her for thirty seconds, but you watched her the entire time she was on the stage.” Art sat back, musing. “You know, she is the prettiest one here, and she does seem to have a brain. How about a lap dance?”

“No, thank you,” I answered immediately.

“Come on! Maybe the two of you will hit it off,” Art insisted. “You need a woman in your life.”

“Not a stripper. And the women are probably not allowed to date customers.”

Art shrugged as if that meant nothing and excused himself to the bar. I watched him balefully, hoping he wasn’t ordering a lap dance I didn’t want from a girl I most certainly did.

Randi

That man in the glasses with the ponytail… holy shit! My mind raced as I wandered through the tables, speaking to the customers. I was thankful only a few more tables stood between me and the dressing room, but I couldn’t rush. Half of our job was schmoozing the clients, and if I didn’t stop at each table, I didn’t get as much money.

But the ponytail guy had given me a hundred. Rarely did we get hundreds on a Thursday unless one of the regulars who liked you the most was there. At the last two tables, the clients handed over another forty dollars, which I appreciated and thanked them with a smile and a shoulder rub. I hurried to the stage with the plan of walking right by and into the dressing room. I halted when I reached the stage and watched as Rita sauntered on.

Beautiful, I thought with a smile. I glanced back and located the table with the guy from the drug cartel, Andre whatever, and frowned. He’d stiffed me and every other girl for tips, but he had a wad of cash in his hand for Rita. I hoped she didn’t do something crazy, but with that amount of cash, I worried the Brazilian would be able to talk her into who knew what.

My eyes drifted to the ponytail guy, Eliot, and my heart skipped a beat before returning to its regular rhythm. He was talking with his friend, but I couldn’t take my eyes off him. I shook my head and hurried to the dressing room, hoping Eliot would be gone before my next set. I didn’t go on for another forty-five minutes, so there was a chance he’d leave.

Candy, whose real name was Monica, had slipped on a robe until her next set. She winked at me when I stepped in. “Heck of a crowd tonight, huh?”

I smiled at her. “I guess. Did you see Rita’s Brazilian drug lord?”

“I did. You think she’ll go home with him?” Monica asked.

“God, I hope not, but he’s handsome, rich, and from Brazil. Those three things are her must-haves when it comes to finding herself a man,” I grumbled. “Maybe we should find her somebody who doesn’t come here.”

“Do you know any decent men?” Monica asked with a laugh.

I pretended to think. “Well, my dad was great before he died. Other than him, nope!”

Monica nodded. “My dad was a piece of shit, so I guess I don’t know any decent men.”

I frowned. So many people made jokes about strippers having daddy issues, and since I’d become one, I had discovered this stereotype was mostly true. Monica’s dad had been an abusive alcoholic, and she’d left home at sixteen because her mom wouldn’t. She hadn’t spoken to them in years. Rita’s mother had moved her to the U.S. as a child because the man who was her father had tried to kidnap her several times with the goal of selling her into prostitution. Another woman who worked here had been sexually abused by her stepfather.

As an orphan, I was the closest one to having a normal life, which was kind of sad. But the women here were my friends, they were good people, and I enjoyed working with them.

A knock sounded on the door, and Monica called, “Come on in!”

Mr. Carpenter stuck his head in and smiled at me. “You have been requested for a lap dance.”

I was silent for a moment, trying to think of an excuse and failing. “Mr. Carpenter, you know I prefer not to do lap dances,” I replied with a frown. Since I’d worked at Burlesque, I’d managed to escape most requests for lap dances with some excuse or other, and he had always let me, even if the excuse wasn’t particularly believable.

“I know that, but the guy offered three hundred for twenty minutes.” He wiggled his eyebrows at me, looking silly and eliciting the smile he wanted. The man was kind and a father figure, which went against everything people think about owners of strip clubs.

“Three hundred?” Monica screeched before I could reply. “Holy crap! Are you sure he doesn’t want Candy?” She giggled.

“Asked specifically for Rose. It’s a gift for his buddy, so the buddy might give you a tip afterwards as well,” Mr. Carpenter said. He pulled the cash from his pocket and waved it at me. “He insisted I bring the money back with me even though I told him you don’t do lap dances.”

I stared at the cash, frowning and lost in thought. An extra three hundred would go a long way. When I’d taken my car to have the air conditioner looked at, I’d been told it would cost two-fifty. That thought pushed me to agree to do the lap dance.

“Why me?” I asked. “Who is it?”

“Art Quinten. Said his buddy really liked you,” Mr. Carpenter told me and watched my eyes widen before I could school my expression. Sensing my capitulation, he smiled and waved the cash at me again. “Three hundred now and a possible tip after.”

Art’s buddy, the one who had stared at me and given me a hundred. The one whose hand I had grabbed and felt a jolt of electricity. Good looking in a nerdy kind of way and with eyes that drew mine like magnets. Well, shit, I thought as I debated. Dancing for him could get me in a lot of trouble.

“Ugh, fine!” I answered, though I grinned at him as I grabbed the cash and stuffed it in my wallet tucked away in my locker. Although I trusted the girls, Rita had warned me when I started that trust shouldn’t extend to my money. “Does he want anything specific?”

“Art asked that you walk to the table, take his hand with no explanation, and lead him to one of the balcony rooms. Dance to whatever you want,” Mr. Carpenter told me.

I nodded and glanced at the clock. “Got somebody to cover my set? I can switch with whoever goes after me.”

“Lacey just got here. See if she’ll be ready in time.”

Lacey stepped out of the shower, her hair up in a bun so it didn’t get wet. Completely nude, she sauntered into the dressing room area as if Mr. Carpenter wasn’t there. Some of the girls could do that, but I wasn’t one of them. As she pulled her hair down so she could fix it, she asked, “How long do I have?”

“Thirty minutes,” I said with my eyebrows lifted in question.

“No problem, sweetie. Go get your money,” she said. She leaned over and kissed my cheek, her breast brushing my arm. She moved past me to her mirror and began putting her hair back up.

Mr. Carpenter—who barely noticed our nudity because we all lacked penises—smiled at her and said, “Thanks, Lacey girl. Appreciate it.” His eyes met mine. “Get a move on before he changes his mind.” His smile eased the bossiness of his words, as always, and I wondered what would happen if he had to fire someone.

I slipped the tiny, little white dress over my body, the only thing I wore besides my G-string because I’d discarded the top on stage. I stopped and looked at Candy. “Should I put my bra back on, or is this good?”

She looked me up and down. The dress was low-cut—almost to my nipples low-cut—and it barely covered my crotch. My ass showed with the slightest movement, but when I stood still, it was covered. Because I didn’t have my bra on, my nipples peeked through the fabric even though they were pink rather than brown, and because of the ever-blowing air conditioner, they were taut and poking against the fabric.

“Leave the bra off. Maybe you’ll get another hundred,” Candy said with a nod.

“I could sure use it,” I mumbled as I hurried out, mentally tallying the songs I could dance to before settling on Naughty Girl by Beyoncé.

I strolled through the tables, smiling and saying hello to men as I walked. Rita sat on the Brazilian’s lap, and as I watched, she took his hand and led him up to one of the private rooms I’d be in momentarily. I grimaced and hoped she would keep her wits about her, but my thoughts turned to the task at hand: a lap dance for Art’s friend, the one who had already paid me a hundred dollars and whose eyes flashed into my mind. In this light, I hadn’t been able to tell what color they were, but I would be able to upstairs.

Art saw me before Eliot did, and the grin that spread across his face looked like the Cheshire cat’s. He murmured to Eliot and pointed at me, and Eliot swiveled in his seat. His eyes widened, and he jerked back around and spoke heatedly to Art. My steps faltered, but I continued after a moment’s hesitation. I already had the money. Now, I had to earn it.

When I reached their table, I smiled at Eliot who had turned to greet me. “Hi. Your friend has paid for a lap dance.”

“Yes, so he tells me.” His voice sounded angry, which worried me. I glanced at Art.

“He doesn’t like surprises, Rose. He’s not much fun.” Art snorted on a laugh.

I put my hand on Eliot’s shoulder. “Should I return your friend’s money?”

Eliot rose and took my hand. “Lead the way.” He glared once more at Art, who waved and laughed as if this was the funniest thing he’d ever seen.

I led Eliot up the stairs to the balcony rooms. Each room had a view of the stage, but windows prevented some of the music from interrupting conversation. All the rooms were equipped with iPods attached to speakers and using the Pandora app. The rooms required an additional fee if a client wanted to use it for the full night, as well as a reservation. Specific dancers could be requested for the evening, with a minimum of two days’ notice.

The rooms had a fully stocked bar, and a personal bartender could be hired. Catering was available as well, and often, well-to-do gentlemen would bring their twenty-one-year-old sons for extravagant parties. I hated working those parties. The boys were often handsy, which was a polite way to say they were pervy little assholes.

At least one room was empty every night for lap dances or surprise guests requesting rooms, which was more expensive last-minute and came without girls, bartender, or catering. Small tables with plush chairs sat close to the windows, through which the stage was clearly visible. I pulled one of the chairs away from the window and gestured for Eliot to sit down. He moved reluctantly to the chair, his movements slow.

“Are you alright, Eliot?” Stripper rule number one: pretend to care.

“Um, I didn’t really want a lap dance. Art…” He shook his head, gesturing helplessly. “He thinks I need to loosen up.”

“Maybe you do,” I replied. Stripper rule number two: I can touch, but they aren’t supposed to. I walked behind him and put my hands on his shoulders and kneaded the muscles there. “You have knots the size of my fists in your shoulders.”

He stretched his neck and rolled his shoulders, effectively removing my hands. “Yes. Troubles at work.”

Stripper rule number three: Don’t touch unless they welcome it. “Ah.” I moved in front of him again and smiled. “Would you like to begin the lap dance?”

He looked into my eyes. “How long does a lap dance normally last?”

I was surprised by the question. “Well, I guess it depends on the amount you paid. Your friend paid quite a sum, so as long as you want—within reason, of course.”

“Within reason?”

His attitude was beginning to prick my sensibilities. The man obviously thought I was stupid. Stripper rule number four: play dumb if it gets you the cash. I never liked that one and rarely followed it. These rules were mostly made up by Rita and the other girls. Most of them made sense, but this one didn’t.

“Yes, within reason. I can’t stay up here all night,” I informed him with a little more irritation in my voice than I meant to let slide. Frowning at myself, I realized I was forgetting stripper rule number five: watch your tone when speaking with the client. I cleared my throat and smiled again, softening the muscles of my face.

“Do I have at least twenty minutes of your time?” he asked so quietly I had to lean towards him to hear over the bass from downstairs.

Twenty minutes? I thought, a little shocked. Did the man want me to dance for twenty whole minutes? I’d be done for the night! The thoughts flitted through my brain quickly, but I hoped they didn’t cross my face. Stripper rule number six: learn to control your facial expressions. “I think twenty minutes of dancing might get boring for you, but we can play it by ear. Would you like a drink? There’s a fully stocked bar.”

“Will you join me for a drink?”

I tilted my head. “I’m not allowed to drink at work, Eliot.”

He nodded. “That’s understandable. I’d love a scotch on the rocks.”

I walked to the bar and found the scotch. I took my time making the drink, hoping he would settle a little. He was incredibly tense and nervous. I glanced at the back of his head. His hair was pulled back in a ponytail and probably reached his shoulders when down. The glasses he wore were wire-framed and looked as though he wore them to appear a certain way rather than to actually see. His cheekbones and jaw were chiseled and covered in stubble, and under his clearly expensive clothes was a body he probably worked hard to keep.

He was the kind of nerdy women dreamed of, and I wondered what he did for a living. A doctor maybe, or something like that. With his long hair, I seriously doubted he was a lawyer or had a job requiring interaction with the public. He didn’t seem to like people much.

“Here’s your drink,” I said with what I hoped was a sexy smile, but my nerves were frazzled. The man watched me like a predator, though he didn’t make eye contact. I didn’t feel the least bit afraid of him, which surprised me. “I can dance while you enjoy your drink, if you’d like?”

He rose and grabbed the chair nearest to him. He pulled it in front of his and positioned it so I would face him if I sat down in it. He gestured to it as he picked up his drink and resumed his seat. “Please, have a seat.”

My brow furrowed as stripper rule number six skipped out of my mind. “Um, Eliot, we’re not supposed to do that, really.”

“You’re not supposed to make your customer happy?” he asked, his tone amused.

I narrowed my eyes and pursed my lips, pretty sure the man was making fun of me with his subtle remarks and laughing eyes. “I was paid to dance, not sit around.” Adding ‘on my ass’ seemed inappropriate, but it was hard not to.

“My friend paid you for a lap dance, but I would like to talk first.” He gestured to the chair again and sipped his drink. Smiling, he smacked his lips. “Excellent scotch.”

I stared at him for a moment, debating. His eyes lifted to mine, questioning, and though I wanted to flounce to the chair and flop into it out of protest, I moved gracefully and sat gently on the edge of the cushion with my ankles crossed and my hands clasped in my lap. I shifted uncomfortably as his eyes moved from mine, down my body to my toes, and up again. I looked away when his eyes returned to mine.

We sat across from each other without speaking for a few minutes, and my discomfort increased. After another minute, I said, “Did you pay to stare at me for twenty minutes?”

“Would that be okay?”

“Well, it’s a nice break,” I joked, and he chuckled. Finally, I thought, a human response. I smiled back at him. “This is very unusual.”

“I’m sure it is.” He sipped his scotch and eyed my body again. “Why are you sitting like a girl who’s been sent to the principal’s office?”

My laugh erupted before I could stop it. “In this outfit? I’d get kicked out of school before I could walk in!”

His throaty laugh joined mine. “I guess that’s true. It’s a lovely outfit.”

“Thank you, Eliot.” Our conversation felt like a first date discussion. I had to end this and start dancing.

“Do you like your job, Rose?” he interrupted when I opened my mouth to speak.

“Um, I do. It’s okay, for the most part,” I told him hesitantly, looking at him sideways and wondering if he was a cop or inspector or something like that. Not a cop, not with that hair, but maybe a government employee. I had no idea what the laws concerning strip clubs were, but I was pretty sure Mr. Carpenter followed them all. “If you’re here to inspect Burlesque, you won’t find anything amiss. Mr. Carpenter is extremely careful about the law.”

Eliot stared at me for several seconds then burst into laughter. I watched him, fascinated by the movement of his throat and the crinkles at his eyes. This man was one of the sexiest I’d ever seen off the movie screen, especially when he laughed.

“Am I being funny?” I asked haughtily. Stripper rules be damned!

His laughter ended abruptly, but his smile remained on his face. “No, not at all, and I’m sorry if I offended you. I’m not an inspector. I know nothing about strip club laws.”

I smirked at him. “Why are you asking me about my job?”

He cleared his throat. “This might be offensive…”

“Go on. You won’t believe the things that have been said to me. I doubt it’s anything I haven’t heard,” I told him, my lips pursing. I was ready to end the conversation and dance so I could get the hell out of there, but he pursued his line of questions like a dog after a bone.

“You seem like an intelligent, sensible woman. Why are you a stripper?”

Stripper rule number seven: keep your personal life separate. I shrugged nonchalantly and said, “I work three days a week and make enough money for the month.”

“Really? That’s fascinating,” he mused, sitting up. “What about when you can’t dance anymore?”

“That is none of your business.” I rose from the chair, the first date feeling long gone, and asked, “Am I going to dance for you or not? I have another set to prepare for.” He frowned up at me, and I stared down at him, waiting for his answer.

The woman was magnificently beautiful. And funny, which had surprised me, because funny usually meant intelligent. And her vocabulary provided more than a hint at her intelligence. When she rose from the chair across from me, her perfect breasts bouncing, I was struck silent for the third time. I couldn’t take my eyes off her.

She stared at me, then waved her hand in my face. “Eliot, do you want me to dance?” She enunciated each word in her sexy voice as if I was a toddler learning a new word.

I shook my head slightly to clear it and smiled up at her. “By all means.”

Her expression, schooled into apathy before, sparked a reaction in me. She was irritated. “Is there a particular song you would prefer?” I shook my head, and she nodded. “Okay, I have something.”

She turned and moved to the iPod attached to the speakers. I watched her ass—barely hidden under her tiny, white costume—as she walked. As she bent to start the music, the lower half of her cheeks were revealed, and my breath hitched.

Her pale skin was perfect, missing any tan lines that might mar its perfection. I’d noticed it on stage, but in the small room with much better lighting, my anticipation had reached an incomprehensible level. Which was the reason for our little chat. Heightened anticipation made an event more stimulating.

She probably thinks I’m an asshole, I mused. And when she turned, before she tamed her face into false sensuality, the irritation gleamed from her eyes. Only for the briefest moment, but I saw it, and I liked it. The woman was feisty, interesting, and more than just a stripper.

The music began playing a song I didn’t know and hated immediately—some pop song shit teenagers listened to. Her hips began to move to the beat, her hands moving up and down her sides. She pulled on the hem of the little dress, revealing then hiding her G-string as she strolled to my chair. When she reached me, I lifted my hands to put them on her hips, but she froze and wagged a finger playfully at me.

“Don’t you know the rules?” she asked, her voice sultry and deep.

“I—” My words were trapped as she ran one hand between her breasts, lowering the neckline just enough to give me a peek at the top half of her breasts. I cleared my throat. “Um, no. Tell me the rules.”

“No touching unless I put your hands on my body.” One of her hands clasped mine and drew a line between her breasts with my fingers. My hand itched to massage her breast, but she let my hand fall. She took the other and placed it on her hip, holding it in place with hers. “Okay?”

“Yes.” My voice was ridiculously shaky, but this woman had magic in her eyes and was weaving a spell with every move of her body. “Rose. Is that your real name?” I had to know.

“No talking,” she ordered as she put a finger on my lips and shook her head. Her hair shifted like brown waves… mesmerizing. She bent so our eyes were level and whispered, “Sit back and relax, Eliot. Let those problems disappear and enjoy yourself.”

She straightened and stepped away to dance, her body moving with the rhythm of the song. As I watched her, I imagined—like all men did, I’m sure—having sex with her. Her legs, toned to perfection, wrapped around my waist, her lips on mine, and her arms around my neck. The rhythm we would create together would shatter worlds, and once would not be enough for either of us.

My eyes half closed as she lifted the hem of her white dress, slowly revealing inch after inch of her body for my eyes only. I wanted her to do this for me at my house, in my bedroom, before we made love.

I wondered if she’d spiked my drink and chuckled at my thoughts. I’d never thought about a woman I was dating in terms of making love to her, but the magic this woman wove around my senses held me in thrall. I couldn’t take my eyes off her as her immaculate breasts came into view. She tossed the little dress away and stood before me in just the tiny G-string that nearly revealed what I was sure would be the most beautiful pussy in the world.

She draped her arms on my shoulders so our faces were close, tantalizingly so, but she did not kiss me. She wouldn’t, not here. She did, however, rub her cheek against mine and whisper in my ear, words I couldn’t understand through the fog in my brain. When she turned away to sit in my lap and grind against my crotch, I thought I’d die of lust. Certainly, she could feel my dick, hard as steel, against her ass.

My eyes popped open, and the sexy woman in front of me ceased to exist for a few seconds. The formula. I had it! How had I missed such a simple step? Cursing myself and the idiots I worked with, I interrupted her by tapping the center of her back.

“Um, Rose, I have to go,” I said urgently, hoping she could hear me.

She straightened, confusion in her expression when she turned to look at me. “Is everything okay?”

“Better than okay,” I exclaimed as I jumped out of the chair. I grabbed her face and kissed her soundly on the mouth without thinking. “You helped me. I have it now. I know the formula!”

She stared at me, wary of my explosive voice and surprise kiss. “Formula?”

I waved a hand at her dismissively. “It doesn’t matter. You’ve helped me save so many lives and so many families from sadness. Thank you!”

“Um, you’re welcome. Do you need me to walk you down?”

She’s the nicest person, I thought wildly. “No, I can find my way out. Please tell Art I left.”

She nodded, her lips pressed together to keep from smiling. “I can do that. Have a good night, and good luck with your formula.”

“Thank you, beautiful.” I turned to leave but stopped and looked at her. “I’d like to see you again.”

“I work Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays,” she told me with a small smile.

She didn’t understand that I meant anywhere but here, but I didn’t have time to explain. I reached for my wallet, but she waved me away. “Rose, please let me give you something. You have no idea how much you’ve helped me.”

“Art paid me already,” she replied.

“I don’t care.” I pulled another hundred out of my wallet and put it in her hand. I forced her fingers to close around it and held her hand for much longer than necessary. A spark flew between us, the reflection of what I felt in her eyes. Quietly, I told her, “You have magic in you.”

She didn’t speak, only watched my eyes as if she couldn’t look away. I couldn’t, and for several seconds, nothing mattered but her. Reality returned quickly, though, and I had to get to the lab. I pulled her against me and kissed her again, letting my lips linger just a little longer than last time. Her naked breasts pressed against me were almost my undoing, but I pulled away and headed for the door before I changed my mind.

“Bye, Rose.”

At the door, her voice halted me. “Randi.”

I glanced over my shoulder, the doorknob in my hand. “What?”

“My name is Randi.”

I smiled at her, understanding she’d just given me a second gift. “Goodbye, Randi.”

“Bye, Eliot.”

* * *

What the hell did I just do? I asked myself as I pulled my dress over my head and turned off the speakers. I’d never given my real name to a client, but something about that man had erased common sense for a few minutes. I snagged the glass from which he’d sipped his drink and returned it to the bar area before wandering slowly down the steps to the lower floor. The lap dance with Eliot had lasted half the time I expected, so I still had some time before my next set.

A few clients stopped me as I walked through the club, asking if I’d be on the stage again. I assured them I would be and headed for Art’s table. He saw me before I reached him and looked behind me and around for his friend. “Where’s Eliot?”

“I killed him and left him on the roof,” I joked.

“The roof? Not a very good place to hide a body.”

“You’re right. I should toss him in a body of water to destroy all evidence,” I quipped, smirking at him.

“That’s why you’re my favorite.” Art laughed.

“Eliot left. He said something about a formula and took off,” I told him with a smile.

Art frowned, then his eyes widened. “Holy shit! I have to go, too. What an asshole! I can’t believe he left me.” He threw some cash on the table, said a quick goodbye, and hurried for the front door.

I watched him curiously. This formula must be incredibly important if Art was leaving too. I wondered what on earth the formula was for. As I walked to the dressing room, my mind pondered the mystery. Art had to be well-off if he was a member of this club and could drop three hundred on a lap dance for his pal. Eliot must also have money. He’d given me two hundred in the space of an hour. What formula could they have created, and what did it do?

Since I had no idea what either of them did for a living, I gave up the mystery as I pushed the door open and walked into the dressing room, grateful for the five hundred I’d made, not including the rest of the tips I hadn’t counted yet. Rita was a bundle of excitement and grabbed my hand, spun me around, and screeched unintelligibly, half in English, half in Portuguese.

“What the hell, Rita?” I gasped as I stumbled in my heels when she jerked me around. “What are you doing?”

“He wants to take me to Brazil for two whole weeks!” she screeched again, her accent impeding enough that even I could barely understand.

I stared at her big grin for several moments, waiting for her to remember why going to Brazil with Andre was a terrible idea. When she only smiled brilliantly and bounced on her toes, I huffed out a breath. “Rita!”

She stopped bouncing, and her smile faded a little at my tone. “Why are you yelling?”

“Because,” I hissed, pulling her to the side so no one could eavesdrop, “he’s a high-ranking member of a drug cartel!”

“We don’t know that for sure,” she defended, pulling her arm out of my grasp.

“Rita! I saw him on the news!” I reminded her. “He’s suspected of dozens of murders.”

She huffed and stomped her foot. “Suspected, never charged. He’s never been to prison.”

I rolled my eyes at her ridiculous defense of the man. “Rita. The man has never been to prison because there are never any witnesses to testify. I wonder why that is.”

She pointed a finger at me. “You can’t make assumptions like that. The American media lies all the time.”

I grabbed her shoulders. “Rita, if you go, you’ll get fired. You’re not supposed to date or go out of the country with a client.”

Rita waved away my concern, batting her hand at my words as if they were bothersome flies. “The man is in love with me. I might not need this job if I go with him.”

I shook my head. “Please listen to reason. What if he’s just using you?”

“Who cares!” she exclaimed with a laugh. “It’s a free trip to Brazil! And, he told me I could bring a friend.” She waggled her eyebrows at me.

My eyebrows winged into my hairline. “You want me to go with you? Are you crazy?”

“You’d be crazy to turn down a free trip to Brazil!”

“I’m not fucking some Brazilian friend of his so I can go to Brazil for free,” I told her fiercely. I jerked around, stomped to my vanity, and plopped down to freshen my makeup before my next set.

Rita sighed loudly, followed me, and sat next to me at her vanity. “Randi, you don’t have to fuck anybody. That’s my job.” I clamped my lips together to keep from smiling, and she giggled and bent so she could look at my reflection. “And I’ll make sure your room is far away from ours so you don’t have to listen to us and be jealous.”

I couldn’t help myself and giggled, then she laughed, and my laughter joined hers until we were a mess. “Stop it!” I griped, wiping my eyes. “I’m trying to fix my makeup.”

“Go with me. I’ll be safer if there are two of us, and we’ll have such fun,” she hinted. She batted her eyelashes at me, and I rolled my eyes again, exasperated.

“Batting your eyelashes at me doesn’t work. I’m a woman,” I reminded her.

“Yeah, but all women have lesbian tendencies,” she teased, and we laughed again.

“Besides, I have school. And work. I can’t jet off to Brazil for two weeks. I have no drug lord to pay my bills,” I asserted, disdain in my words.

“I don’t either. Yet.” She winked and turned to her mirror to fluff her hair. “And we could go over Thanksgiving break, so you’ll be out of school.”

“Thanksgiving break is only a week,” I reminded her.

“You can come back earlier than me.” She shrugged as if the matter were settled.

“Rita!” I turned so I could look at her.

She dropped her hands and looked at me. “Randi, please. I want to go home. He’s willing to take me, and I like him a lot. He likes me too.”

“But he’s dangerous,” I said weakly. I wouldn’t change her mind, and the beach in my daydream popped up in my mind. “So, does he live on the beach?”

Rita squealed and grabbed my hand, sensing my agreement was near. “He has a house on the beach near Salvador. We can walk right down to it. It’ll be great!”

I shook my head, a small smile on my face. “I didn’t say I’m going. But I will think about it.” She laughed loudly and bounced up and down in her chair, rattling the objects on her table when she bumped it, but I lifted my finger to cease her excitement. “After I do a little research to make sure we won’t be in any danger. And you have to make me a promise.”

“What?”

“If I find anything that’s sketchy, you agree not to go,” I begged, holding her hands tightly.

She stared at me for a moment, grumbled under her breath, and looked away. “Fine. If you say it’s dangerous, I’ll stay home.”

I didn’t believe her, but that was the best I would get from her. Besides, I had to be on stage in ten minutes, and I hadn’t fixed my hair or my makeup to my liking. I smiled at her and made a mental note to do some research while I drank my coffee the next morning.

“Hi, Mom,” I murmured quietly. Loud noises frightened her.

“Oh, hello dear,” she murmured without a hint of recognition in her voice. She stared at me for several seconds with a frown on her face. “And who are you?”

I smiled at her. The doctor told us she would forget us, but it still hurt when she had bad days, which were more and more often. “I’m Eliot, Mom. Remember? Your son.”

Her face brightened. “Oh, Eliot! My favorite boy!”

I wasn’t sure she actually knew who I was, but she still pretended well. “Hi, Mom,” I repeated as I took her hand. “What have you been doing today?”

“I don’t know,” she mumbled with a shrug of her birdlike shoulders.

“What do you want to do?” She shrugged again. “How about we go to the common room and chat with some of your friends?”

The facility she stayed in was the top home for Alzheimer’s patients in the state. The ward she stayed in was for patients who had a tendency to wander. The doors to the outside world were locked and required a keycard to get out. The doctor, when I’d asked, had told me it was no longer a good idea to take her out of the ward. She became overstimulated and had breakdowns.

“I don’t have friends here,” she grouched. “Where is Annie?” Our dog, who had died when I was in high school, was a memory she had locked in her mind. She asked me every time I visited.

“Mom, Annie is in heaven,” I reminded her sadly.

She frowned and looked around her room. “I don’t like it here much, Steven.”

I hated when she called me by my dad’s name, and I cringed. “I’m Eliot, Mom. Why don’t you like it here?”

“They try to make me eat disgusting food,” she informed me with a sniff. “I just want my yogurt.”

“Mom, you have to eat something other than yogurt,” I explained patiently.

“I don’t want to,” she replied like a petulant child.

She was lost in her own lonely world inside her head after that statement, refusing to speak again. Her deterioration was no longer just mental. Her body was sinking in on itself because she refused to eat anything but her damn cherry yogurt, and then only when she was in the mood. Dad had stopped visiting after she had a fit when he tried to kiss her because she thought he was a stranger. But on her rare coherent days, she asked about him, and I made up a lie.

Her fragility frightened me, and over the next four months, she weakened until she didn’t want to get out of bed. When she died, she hadn’t known her own name, let alone mine. Saying the final goodbye had been both a relief and the saddest moment of my life.

My sadness had eclipsed my life for a time after her death, but a renewed sense of purpose followed that. I created the first medicine, and now, I’d spent three days straight at the lab, emerging Monday afternoon with a complete, correct formula. I was sure this was the combination necessary, and the medicine, once produced by the pharmaceutical company after testing was complete, would not only slow the effects of Alzheimer’s, it would halt them and possibly cure it if caught early enough.

Art had joined me Thursday just before midnight and worked by my side all weekend. We only broke for meals, and those were eaten in the lab. Our discussions centered around our progress, and sleep was nonexistent until the formula—enough for several tests—was complete.

Through the challenges, though, Randi’s face would slip into my mind unbidden, and I’d have to concentrate to push her out. Her perfect body and her angelic face filled my dreams in the few hours’ sleep I’d managed to get over the weekend. I promised myself I’d see her again at some point.

A clap on my back brought me out of my reverie. Art’s broad smile filled my vision. “We did it, man. I’m sure of it this time.”

“So am I, my friend.”

“Let’s celebrate!” Art exclaimed, and I shook my head.

“Tests first to be certain,” I reminded him.

“Then we’ll not only celebrate our discovery but our simultaneous retirements.” Art laughed. “Because after this, we’ll be the richest lab rats in the country.”

I laughed, which felt good. I hadn’t laughed a real laugh in a year. “I’ll tell you what I want, and that’s a trip to a beach somewhere.”

“A nude beach,” Art added, his eyes almost dreamy.

I rolled my eyes. “Stop thinking with your dick.”

“Speaking of dicks, we’ve been so busy I didn’t ask you about your lap dance with Rose.” He wiggled his eyebrows at me.

“Um, it was nice, I guess,” I hedged. If Art knew how much I liked the woman, I’d never hear the end of it.

His eyes narrowed at me. “You’re leaving something out.”

Dammit. “Not really. She made me a drink, we chatted for a few minutes, and she’d barely started dancing when the correct formula filled my brain.” I slapped his shoulder. “Thanks for making me go. Not exactly my idea of a relaxing atmosphere, but my mind emptied and it hit me. Just what I needed.”

Art threw his head back and laughed. “If that woman could relax you, she must be a witch!” He laughed again and rose. “I’m headed home.”

I said goodbye with a frown on my face. I was going home as well after picking up my favorite meal from Chino’s. We were at a standstill until the next morning, anyway. But his comment lingered in my mind. He’d called Randi a witch, a harsh word, and I had asserted that she had magic in her. My visions of her were certainly enchanting, and I couldn’t believe how much I wanted to see her again now that I had completed the formula.

She worked Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays, but I didn’t want to wait that long. Taking her to dinner would be my way of thanking her for giving me the down time I needed to find the perfect formula. Frowning, I left my office and walked to my assistant’s desk.

“Hi, Eliot,” she greeted with a smile. “I was beginning to think you’d just move in.”

I chuckled. “Not yet. And maybe not ever.”

She gasped and clapped her hands in excitement. “You found the formula?”

“We did. Testing begins tomorrow, but Grace, I think this is it,” I told her, my smile so big my cheeks hurt.

Grace rushed around her desk and hugged me tightly. Her round body and slightly graying blonde hair reminded me of my mom, which is why I had picked her out of all the candidates for my assistant. Thankfully, she was also excellent at what she did and shared in my tragic failures as well as my ecstatic successes. I wrapped my arms around her, thanking her.

“I’m so proud of you,” she gushed when she pulled back.

“Thanks. I’m headed out for the day, but I’ll be back in tomorrow morning early,” he told her. “Why don’t you take the rest of the day off as well?”

She waved her hand at him. “Nah, I’ve got plenty to do. Especially now that you’ve succeeded! But maybe in an hour,” she conceded with a wink. “You and Art going out to celebrate?”

“No.” He leaned closer to her and whispered, “There’s a woman I’d like to celebrate with.”

Grace’s eyes widened in shock, and she was speechless for several seconds. “A woman?”

I snickered. “Oh yes.” I loved to tease Grace.

“Well, I wish you the best,” Grace breathed, her smile mirroring mine. “I’m so happy for you.”

“Don’t get too excited. I haven’t asked her out yet,” I warned.

“If she says no, she’s an idiot and you don’t need to be with her anyway,” she defended, her expression fierce.

“You’re the sweetest, Grace,” I told her and kissed her cheek. She really was a mother figure for me, a role which she’d slipped into without hesitation. “See you tomorrow.”

“Bye, sweetie,” she called.

As I walked to the elevator, waving distractedly at those who spoke to me, I wondered how I would obtain her full name and number. I hit the button for the bottom floor and leaned against the wall, mentally listing names of people who might be able to help me. By the time the doors opened, I had the name of a friend from college who worked as a private investigator at the forefront of my mind. I unlocked my phone and scrolled through my contacts until I found his name.

I dialed, and he answered on the first ring. “Jake Calahan.”

“Hey, Jake. Eliot Messer here.”

“Eliot! How are you, old man?” he exclaimed into the phone.

I smiled slightly. Jake had called his frat brothers, me included, ‘old man,’ regardless of our ages. “Doing well. Listen, I need to find somebody. All I have is her first name and where she works. How much will that cost me?”

“For a brother? Nothing,” Jake laughed. “I could teach you how to do a search this simple in about five minutes.”

“I wouldn’t mind learning how to do that. Dating is scary,” I joked, eliciting a loud laugh from him.

“That it is, my friend, especially if you’re a millionaire.” He chuckled good-naturedly. “Give me the name and location.”

“Her first name is Randi, and she works at Burlesque.”

Jake whistled into the phone, and I could hear the clicking of computer keys as he typed. “That’s an expensive place. Let me guess, Art took you there.”

“Of course he did.”

“Same old Art. So who is this chick?”

I frowned and considered lying, but I’d already made the remark about the dating world. “She’s a stripper.”

“You thinking about dating her?” he asked, his voice lacking the tone of judgment.

“I am. Art bought me a lap dance, and she and I chatted. Not your typical stripper,” I told him. “I’m climbing in my car, so the Bluetooth will click over.”

“Yeah, sure thing,” Jake answered. After the phone connected to the car, Jake spoke. “You’re right, she certainly isn’t a typical stripper.”

“Really? Why do you say that?”

“She’s putting herself through nursing school.”

I nodded my head. “I knew she was more than just hot.”

“And hot she is, Eliot! I’ve got her license pulled up.” He wolf-whistled into the phone, which hurt my ear. “Want her address?”

“No, no, just her number. I don’t want her to think I’m a stalker,” I laughed. “And speaking of which, do you give out information over the phone like this all the time?”

“I’m doing you a favor, and here you ask me something like that,” Jake huffed.

I laughed. “You know I’m joking, man.”

“Humph, yeah.” I could hear his smile, though. “Listen, I give you her number, you work on a double date for me with one of her friends.”

“First, I have to convince her to go on a date with me. Then I’ll work on your love life.”

“Love life, ha! I’m too busy for chicks, man,” Jake grumbled.

“Until recently, my life was the same. Gotta get out of there,” I told him.

“Yeah, yeah.” He rattled off her number.

“What’s her last name?”

“Banton. She’s an orphan, lives alone, has no family that I can see on the basic search.” Jake listed the information quickly.

“Alright, thanks, Jake,” I replied, interrupting before he gave me any more information. I wanted to learn about her from her, not from an internet search. “Let’s get a drink soon.”

“You know, Eliot, I’ve never really liked you that way,” Jake jeered.

“You’re missing out,” I finished and ended the call on his laugh.

Randi Banton. A good name. I wondered about her parents—how long they’d been dead and how long she’d been on her own. She was strong, doing what she had to do to make a life for herself. I respected her for it and wanted to know more. And I wanted to kiss her again and touch her body, not at the strip club, but in the privacy of my bedroom. I wanted her alone, naked, and willing, wanting me to fuck her as much as I wanted to fuck her.

My dick hardened as I envisioned the scene, and I shifted in the seat of my car. Calm down, I ordered myself. I decided to wait until I got home to call her so my hormones didn’t rule the conversation.

I hurried into my apartment Monday evening around eight. I had joined a study group for my nutrition class, which had proven to be the hardest class I’d taken so far. There was so much to remember in order to pass a class that I probably wouldn’t use when actually an RN. The damn class was required, though. We’d shared a couple of pizzas while studying, the four of us, so my stomach was full. I’d bargained with myself that I’d run an extra mile the next morning before class to make up for the calories.

I dropped my bag on the couch and immediately went to the bathroom to turn on the shower. As usual, I had dripped sweat on the walk to the library from the nursing building, and it had dried into a sticky residue on my skin. The ride home had been even more uncomfortable than usual due to the heat and lack of air conditioning. Two showers a day was the motto citizens of Georgia lived by, one at night, one in the morning.

I meandered back to the kitchen for a bottle of water and a green apple, my favorite, while I waited for the water to warm up. I bent to scratch Snickers on the head, listening to him purr and relaxing with the sound. A knock sounded on the door, surprising the cat and me. He jerked and flew under the table, and I straightened so fast I got dizzy.

I glanced through the peephole and opened the door with a sigh. “Hello, Mr. Jacobson. How are you?”

“Fine,” he mumbled, as he always did when he spoke. “Want me to look at your water heater?”

I stared at him, frowning. “It’s kind of late. I just got home.” I was grateful I hadn’t stripped out of my scrubs and wandered around naked, my usual pattern.

“You’re home, and I have time,” he shrugged, his voice low. “You said you didn’t want me to come when you weren’t home.”

“That’s correct,” I grumbled unhappily. I stepped back and let him in, leaving the door open because I didn’t want to be alone with him. I reached down and scooped up Snickers so he wouldn’t take off out the door. “I’ll be in the kitchen.”

He lifted a hand as he shuffled down the hall to the bathroom. From there, he called, “The water’s on.”

I rolled my eyes and joined him after putting Snickers in my bedroom and shutting the door. “You can turn it off or whatever. I was about to take a shower.”

“How long has it been on?”

After a glance at my watch, I said, “I don’t know, two or three minutes. Like I said, I have to leave it on for several minutes before it’s hot.”

He nodded. “I won’t be long.”

He opened the door of the closet that held the water heater and began tinkering. I watched him for a few seconds, wondering if he would go through my things if I left him alone. Probably not, but I didn’t like the idea of leaving him so close to my bedroom. I hurried back to the kitchen and grabbed my water, then walked to my room so I could hear him messing around. Snickers jumped up on the bed and insisted I pet him as I unlocked my phone and started playing solitaire, wasting time while Mr. Jacobson finished. As long as I had a hand on Snickers, tickling his fur, he didn’t try to leave the bedroom, so I left the door open.

The man made me uncomfortable, so I couldn’t concentrate on the game and made stupid mistakes. In the ten minutes I played while waiting for him, I’d only won three times. I was too busy listening for drawers being opened or footsteps headed my way. A thought struck me. If he wandered down the short hall in this direction, I’d be trapped in my bedroom with him between me and the front door. Panic trickled through my brain, and I jumped up from the bed, afraid if he found me on it, he’d hurt me.

I grabbed the closest thing I had to a weapon, a heavy, metal flashlight that could be used as a blunt object should I need one. As I walked by the water heater closet, I got a good look at his butt crack, something I could have lived my whole life without. But the sight eased my fear, for which I was grateful. A panic attack over the super in my apartment building was a stupid waste of energy.

“Almost done?” I asked, hearing my voice shake and pissed about it.

He banged his head, startled, and cursed. “Damn! Um, yeah, a couple more minutes.”

“Sorry.” I hurried back to the kitchen—where the knives were stored—just in case. I rolled my eyes at myself, at my useless fear, and forced myself to sit at the table and wait. My leg bounced under the table, and my fingers tapped on the table hard enough to jiggle the salt and pepper shakers. I needed him to leave. Fuck the hot water. I couldn’t calm down, couldn’t beat away the irrational fear. I rose and began pacing in the tiny kitchen, my hands drumming my thighs in nervousness. I stopped at the fridge and stared at the old pictures of my parents I’d managed to hang onto and felt calmer.

When I turned to the door, he stood near the wall, watching me. He realized I had turned and jerked his eyes up to mine. “I finished. You should have hot water quicker now.”

“Okay, thanks,” I responded. He stood there, staring at me, until I gestured to the open front door. “I appreciate your time.” My voice showed my fear, and I’d bet a million dollars I had paled.

“Yeah, okay.”

He headed for the front door and left without another word, and I rushed to lock it behind him, turning the bolt and setting the chain. I didn’t want him to come back.

I walked to the bathroom and was reaching for the shower to turn it on when my phone dinged in the bedroom. With a sigh, I wondered if I should maybe forego the shower tonight since the interruptions seemed endless. I grabbed my phone and checked the number, but I didn’t have it saved in my phone nor did I recognize it. Frowning, I unlocked my phone to read the message.

UNKNOWN: Hi, Randi. I know this is terribly forward, but I would really like to take you out to dinner.

I frowned at the message. I didn’t know who it was and debated deleting it without answering. I didn’t date and hadn’t dated since high school. Being alone with men made me uncomfortable, which was so ironic considering my job. But I was never alone with men while at work, even during a lap dance. People were always around us. On a date, I would have to be alone with a man at some point throughout the evening. The idea made me tremble.

I read the harmless message two more times. I had to stop this ridiculous behavior. Nothing would happen to me if I was careful about who I chose to go on dates with. I forced myself to reply, my fingers shaking as I did.

RANDI: Who is this? I don’t have your number in my phone.

I released the breath I’d been holding and waited for the reply. While I waited, I began undressing, tossing my clothes in the hamper as I did so. My phone dinged before I had completed my stripping.

UNKNOWN: Eliot Messer. We met at Burlesque last week.

My eyes widened. The lap dance guy who had left suddenly—and who had been on my mind off and on all weekend, though today I’d managed to forget about him. His kiss had been unexpected and surprisingly memorable. However, the fact that he had my number bothered me. I saved his number and replied.

RANDI: How did you get my number?

ELIOT: May I call you?

He wanted to actually speak to me. I felt my face tighten at the idea. The man could be a member of the club. He’d come as Art’s guest, but he may have decided to become a member. But that didn’t matter yet. First, I had to decide if I wanted to talk to him. My curiosity won over the stress, and I texted that he could call.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Randi,” Eliot said, and his voice shot sparks down my spine.

“Hi, Eliot. How did you get my number?” However he got it, he had invaded my privacy, and I wanted to know where he got it.

“I have my sources,” he said playfully.

“You invaded my privacy,” I informed him.

A silence. “I guess I did,” he admitted, “but I did it so I could thank you. And, hopefully, treat you to dinner.”

“Thank me?” I asked, baffled.

“Yes. This is going to sound insane, but you distracted my brain long enough for it to calculate the formula I needed to complete my work. I couldn’t have done it without you,” he said. Then he chuckled. “Well, I could have, just not as quickly.”

“Um, okay,” I replied, confused. “You’re welcome, I guess.”

“So how about that dinner?”

I didn’t know how to respond. I knew nothing about him, had spent a grand total of ten minutes with him, and I’d been half naked the whole time. Many men who patronized the club asked me on dates or offered me money for favors. I always said no because those men were interested in nothing but my body. This man seemed different, had seemed different even when I’d been in nothing but a G-string. Sure, he’d looked at my body, but he’d also looked at my eyes when we chatted.

“Are you a member at Burlesque?” I asked hesitantly.

“No. I was with Art, remember?” he answered.

I could hear the smile in his voice, and I wanted to see it again. “I remember, I just wasn’t sure. Are you going to become a member of the club?”

“No.”

I sighed and explained. “Okay. We aren’t allowed to date members.”

“That makes sense,” Eliot replied. “So, since I’m not a member, how about dinner?”

I smiled. “You’re kinda pushy.”

He chuckled, and a warm sensation filled my body. “I can be. I’d like to have a real conversation with you.”

“While I’m dressed?”

“Yes, while you’re dressed.” He cleared his throat. “You’re kinda suspicious.”

For the first time during the conversation, I relaxed and let out a little laugh. “Yes, I guess I am. You know how men can be.”

“Scamps, all of us.”

“Accurate,” I said with a smile.

“You’re smiling,” he announced. “I can hear it in your voice.”

My smile brightened. I liked him, and I wanted to see him and listen to his voice. “I am smiling. You’re very charming. As well as a scamp.”

“I call it being versatile,” he told me.

“Nice.”

“What night can I take you to dinner?” he pushed.

“Um, I’m free tomorrow or Wednesday,” I told him, mentally clicking through the days of the week. I’d answered without much thought—quickly, as if my brain wasn’t completely in control of my decision-making.

“How about tomorrow at eight?”

“Can we do seven? I have an early class on Wednesday,” I explained.

“Class? For what?”

“I’m in nursing school. Can’t be a stripper forever.” I laughed.

“A nurse. That’s hotter than a stripper,” he complimented.

“Wow, scamp, you’re good with the compliments.”

“Wait ‘til I get going,” he promised. “What school do you go to?”

“Emory University.”

“Great school,” he said. “I’ve lectured there a time or two.”

“Oh really? What about?”

He hesitated. “How about we save our conversation for tomorrow? I really want to get to know you, but not over the phone.”

“I like that idea, Eliot.”

“Text me your address and I’ll pick you up at precisely seven.”

“Precisely?”

“I’m a scientist. Everything is always precise in my world.”

“I’ll have to teach you how to relax,” I told him. The smile had not left my face.

“I could use a lesson,” he replied, a sexy note in his voice. “I’m excited to see you, Randi.”

The way he said my name was incredibly arousing, which shocked the hell out of me. “Me too.”

“See you tomorrow.”

He ended the call, and I let myself fall back on the bed where I had sat while talking to him. My stomach was jittery, and the date was almost twenty-four hours away. I put my hand over my belly to calm it and realized my cheeks hurt from smiling. I jumped up and squealed, scaring Snickers in the process.

“Sorry, Snickers. I’m just excited.” He forgave me by allowing me to scratch his ears. I sighed and walked to the bathroom to get ready for bed.

* * *

“Good morning, Randi,” my instructor called in her high-pitched voice as I walked into class the next day.

“Good morning, Dr. Chandler,” I said with a brighter than normal smile. “I’m ready for that test. Let’s do this.”

She chuckled at my deadpan tone and fake smile. “I can tell you’re excited.”

“So excited I was up two hours early to get ready.” She laughed again and shooed me to my seat. I was so grateful that my professors were easy-going and fun people who could take teasing rather than stoic, dusty old men who cared only for academics, not real life. I plopped down in my seat and pulled out my laptop for a few minutes of last-minute studying. Lost in the fascinating world of nutrition, I didn’t hear Dr. Chandler say my name until my neighbor bumped me with her elbow and gestured to the front.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said quickly, rising and walking to the front.

She smiled at me and handed me a note. “Apparently, you have a delivery in the office downstairs.”

“A delivery?” I took the note and read it, frowning. The note was written in a lovely script and asked that I stop by after class.

Dr. Chandler picked up a stack of papers, one of the few tests we had to take in class rather than online. “I’d bet it’s flowers from your boyfriend.”

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” I told her, my frown deepening.

She giggled like a schoolgirl, which was so out of place for a woman in her early sixties. “Someone has a secret admirer. How romantic.”

I laughed uncomfortably and returned to my seat as she announced for us to leave our laptops open so we could submit our answers online. I reached into my bag to make sure I’d turned the sound off on my phone and saw a text from Eliot. I nodded as realization sank in. The flowers were from him.

ELIOT: Good morning. Can’t wait for tonight.

RANDI: Good morning. Same here.

I chose not to thank him for the flowers yet since I hadn’t seen them. His text made me smile, though, and I really couldn’t wait to see him. I had to put him aside for a bit so I could concentrate on my test, but my mind kept wandering as I worked on my open-ended questions about nutrition. I had to delete answers more than once, grumbled at myself internally, and forced myself to focus on the task at hand before I blew my 4.0 GPA over a man I barely knew.

After submitting what I hoped was an A but was probably a B, I hurried to the office before my next class to gather my delivery. The woman at the front office gestured to a small box that couldn’t possibly contain flowers. My curiosity intrigued, I asked for a pair of scissors so I could open it. I pulled the tape off and opened the box. Sitting inside was a toy airplane and a menu for a restaurant in Miami. I turned the menu over, looking for a note, but found nothing.

I thanked the receptionist, who had watched me open it and wanted to ask what it was, but she said ‘you’re welcome’ and nothing else. Her imagination would run wild the rest of the day, just like mine as I put my bag on the stoop outside the building and fished my phone out. I called Eliot’s number and waited for him to answer.

“So you got my gift?” he asked without a greeting, his voice welcome in my ears.

“I did, and I’m very confused. What is this?”

“It’s a hint about our date tonight. Guess where we’re going.”

I frowned, and my eyes widened a second later. “Are we flying to Miami to eat at this restaurant?”

He laughed quietly. “You’re a good guesser.”

“Well, your hint was a little too obvious.” He chuckled again, and I continued. “I have class in the morning.”

“I’ll have you back at a reasonable hour, I promise.”

Slowly, I said, “Okay. I’ll see you at seven.”

“Looking forward to it.”

I ended the call and looked around to make sure no one was watching me. I performed a little happy dance, my hands clasped in front of me like a teenage girl, and my nerves from the night before were forgotten. The man was going to fly us to Miami for dinner! Just for dinner. Shock reverberated through me, the kind of shock you wanted to feel before going on a date with a guy.

“What are you doing?”

I jerked around. Two of my classmates, Bridget and Audrey, were watching me, barely containing their laughter at my expense. “Um, a happy dance?” I grabbed my bag and headed inside with the two of them directly behind me.

“A happy dance?” Bridget asked, interested. She grabbed my arm and wiggled her eyebrows. “What—or who—has caused the happy dance?”

“Ugh, you are such a pain in my ass,” I insulted playfully to buy time. Bridget and Audrey were in my study group, but we weren’t close. No one at school knew what I did for a living, and my private life was private. I listened to their gossip but rarely added anything and secretly hoped I wasn’t a regular topic.

“Oh, come on, Miss Secret. I’m beginning to think you’re a spy or something,” Audrey teased as we wandered down the hallway together.

“I’ve got a date tonight,” I stated as if it were no big deal.

“A date?” Bridget squealed as we sat at a table and began unpacking for the class.

“Yes, a date,” I repeated nonchalantly.

“And you’re so excited! That’s so sweet! Where did you meet him?”

“At work.” I regretted the answer as soon as I said it in case they asked about that, but they were too excited about my date to care about something as dull as my employer.

“You’ll tell us everything tomorrow, right?” Audrey was nearly leaping out of her seat, and I remembered that at twenty-four, I was older than both of them by at least four years. I hadn’t started college right out of high school like they had. Her enthusiasm was a little over the top, but I smiled and nodded as the professor walked to the front to begin class.

* * *

I rushed home to take a shower, my second of the day. I had no idea what to wear to the restaurant he was taking me to, so I looked it up on the internet. Not too fancy, but the standard little black dress would be perfectly acceptable. Flats rather than heels would also work for the restaurant he’d chosen. Not too fancy.

I called Rita while I dressed and did my makeup, putting her on speaker phone. “You won’t believe what I’m doing right now,” I said by way of greeting when she answered.

“Am I supposed to guess?” she asked. After I affirmed, she said, “Hmmm, well, you’re not having sex. Too quiet.”

I guffawed loudly, scaring Snickers off the counter in the bathroom. He was a skittish cat, annoyingly so. “No, I’m not having sex. Guess again.”

“I don’t want to. Just tell me,” Rita insisted. I could hear the music behind her. She worked on her choreography on Tuesdays at the club. I usually worked on mine on Wednesdays since the club was only open Thursday through Sunday.

“I’m getting ready for a date!”

“You’re lying.” I could hear Rita’s smirk.

“Nope. He’ll be here at seven,” I informed her gleefully.

“Is this a real date or a study date with another nurse?” Rita asked suspiciously.

“Whatever. It’s a real date,” I grumbled at her. “Remember the guy Art brought last week Thursday? He asked me out.”

“The nerdy-looking guy?” she asked with a giggle. “Long hair, glasses?”

“Yep. And he wasn’t nerdy-looking,” I defended, though he did have that scientist/nerd guy going on. I liked it.

“Hell, I don’t care who you go on a date with, as long as you go on one,” Rita stated with a laugh. “What are you wearing?”

“Little black dress. Pretty standard,” I replied as I lifted my hair off my shoulders. The dress had spaghetti straps, perfect for a night out while the weather was still hot and humid. I’d chosen a thin, red sweater to go over the dress in case a cool breeze hit us while we were in Miami. The restaurant was on the ocean and offered outdoor seating. “Should I wear my hair up so my shoulders are bare or down?”

“Oh, that’s a hard one,” Rita murmured. “I’d say down because your hair is so beautiful. The dude will lose his mind when he runs his hands through it.”

“If he gets that far,” I reminded her as I reached for my mascara. “I’m not a whore like you.”

“Whore? I don’t get paid for sex. I’m no whore. I’m a slut,” she argued, and we laughed together.

“I looked up the restaurant, which is somewhat fancy. Do you think I should wear flats or heels?”

“That is a dumb question. Always heels!” I could hear her rolling her eyes at me.

“Whoa, whoa, sorry,” I laughed. “I don’t know the rules of dating.”

“I have to teach you everything,” she said with false exasperation.

“Shut up,” I replied without heat as I stared at my reflection.

“Call me tonight when you get home. I know you’ll be home at a decent hour.”

“Yes, I will be. I have class,” I responded smartly. “I’ll call you, promise.” Before she could hang up, I said, “Oh, wait, let me tell you what he sent me today.”

She loved the little airplane and menu, completely wooed by his romantic gesture. She sighed. “I sure wish Andre was more romantic. Though he did send me pictures of his villa on the beach in Salvador.”

“So you’re still planning on going?” I asked, setting my mascara down so I could listen carefully.

“Yep! And I hope you go, too. I really want you to go, Randi,” Rita said, pleading in her voice.

“I told you I’d think about it. If you are going on Thanksgiving, I’ve got time to decide,” I told her. And you’ve got time to change your mind about going, I thought, though there was no point in saying it out loud.

“When I show you these pictures Thursday, your mind will be made up,” she assured me.

“Yeah, we’ll see,” I murmured. “I’ve got to finish my makeup. Call you tonight.”

“Have fun, be careful, and do something wild,” she said with a laugh before ending the call.

Wild, my ass, I thought. I never did anything wild. Not my style at all, though occasionally, I imagined doing something insane. I decided going on a date with a relative stranger was pretty wild. Flying with him out of state was definitely a little crazy, especially for me.

I looked at my reflection in the mirror and smiled. I was proud of myself for taking this step, for refusing to give in to my fears. I reminded myself the rape hadn’t happened to me, I had just witnessed it. Eight years was a long time, and I had finally made the decision to move on. Therapy hadn’t helped. I had needed time. The fear was still there, but it no longer controlled my life. It just visited now and then.

I knocked quietly on her door and waited patiently for her to open it. My stomach was a bundle of nerves, although I knew I hid it. Only those who knew me well—Art and maybe Grace—would notice. When no answer was forthcoming in the first thirty seconds, I knocked a little harder, wondering if she were playing music or had the television on while she dressed.

I glanced down at my attire—black slacks with a vividly blue polo and black shoes. Simple, casual, but nice enough for a date. Mom would have approved my choice, I mused, though she probably would have seriously questioned me going on a date with a stripper. But Randi was more than just a stripper. Despite my promise to myself, I had checked her finances, which Jake had sent to me without being asked. I’d almost put them in the garbage, but curiosity had won out.

According to her bank statement and the deposits she’d made, the woman averaged approximately fifteen hundred a week. That didn’t include what she kept out in cash. She made regular payments for bills, including her student loans, which were outrageous. I calculated and assumed she probably paid her bills, bought groceries, and not much else. She rarely ate out.

I admired her for her work ethic, for the fact that she would do whatever she needed to do so she could finish school. And a nurse. As a lab rat, I worked with formulas, numbers, and chemicals to create medicines that helped people, but I didn’t work with those people. I didn’t want to be around sick people. Her choice of professions was certainly admirable.

Just as I was preparing to knock for a third time, concerned I had the wrong apartment, she opened the door. She was breathless, as if she had hurried to the door, and my breath was stolen. I let my eyes drift down her body to her bare feet, then returned my eyes to hers.

“Wow. Randi, you look amazing.” I pointed down, smiling teasingly. “But I think you forgot something.”

She huffed out a breath and smiled. “I can’t find the shoes I want.”

“I’m perfectly fine with bare feet, but the restaurant might refuse service,” I said, returning her smile. “You do look beautiful.”

“Oh… um, thank you,” she replied, blushing furiously and giggling quietly. She opened the door further and gestured for me to step inside. “If you’ll give me five seconds, I’ll be ready.”

“Take your time. Our reservation is open,” I called as she disappeared down a hallway and through a door.

“What do you mean, open?” she called. A small crash sounded, she cursed, and then said, “Ignore that!”

“Okay,” I murmured to myself as I looked around at her tiny apartment. So enclosed, I mused. “We can show up at the restaurant at any time this evening, and they’ll have a table for us.”

I heard her curse again and wondered if I should offer my help, but she yelled, “What about the plane?”

“It belongs to my company. Doesn’t leave until I’m on it,” I told her, feeling a little like a braggart. I assumed she had realized I had money based on the amount I’d tipped her at Burlesque, but unless she’d done some research on the internet, she couldn’t know the extent. Which was fine by me. I wanted her to like me for me, not my money, which didn’t explain why our first date included an airplane and the most expensive restaurant in Miami.

While she apparently dug around in her room, I looked around her apartment. Interested in the pictures on her refrigerator door, I meandered into the kitchen, only a few steps for my long legs. I recognized the Hispanic woman in one of the snapshots from the strip club. She and Randi smiled brightly, happy to be wherever they were, which looked like a zoo. She and several with people wearing scrubs posed in a clinical setting. I assumed they were in her nursing classes.

As I perused the door, I found another picture of her as a teenager with two people who must be her parents. Sadly, this was the only picture of them, and I hoped she had more tucked away somewhere. Then I remembered I wasn’t supposed to know yet that she was an orphan and hoped I didn’t accidentally mention it.

She stepped into the kitchen, her shoes adding three inches to her height. When she saw me looking at her pictures, her expression tightened before a smile lit her face. She gestured to the fridge and saved me from any mistakes without knowing it.

“Those are my parents. They died when I was a teenager,” she said with a sad smile.

“That’s terrible. Did you live with another family?”