Chapter Nineteen
I only have a few minutes before he starts looking for me, so I change quickly. I’m wearing a white masquerade mask with feathers on it, a white see through baby doll dress and a white thong. Essentially it’s all lingerie. I kept my bra on. I slip into silver stilettos, which are a tiny bit too big, but I can manage.
“Winter, you’re up!” someone yells.
I’m going to hell for this, I know. But I need to teach this man a lesson. It’s okay for women to strip, it’s their choice. And it is. I just don’t want my man to be in this business. The other women can do as they please, I’m sure some of them are here by necessity. It’s horrible to think about really. But he calls me judgmental. Well I’m choosing to dance tonight, according to him its fine for them. We will see if he thinks its fine for me.
I’m shit scared right now. I’m not scared of the dance moves; I have been dancing my whole life. Maybe not on a pole, but I can compensate with some grinding moves, those I have down pact. I walk onto stage, as Sean Paul’s ‘She doesn’t mind’ hits the speakers. Suddenly the spot light is on me and I start to move. I glance around and see that Chase is not there, he must have gone to look for me. I push him out of my mind and pretend I can’t see several men’s greedy eyes on me.
I gyrate my hips, spin around and lower myself on the pole. Hey, this is kind of fun. I can hear some catcalls, so I must be doing something right. Lost in the music, I sensually sway my hips, and raise my hands over my head. I hear a crashing noise, and the sound of glass smashing in the back ground. I open my eyes and I can see Chase, fuming. He is standing by the bar, eyes trained on me, fists clenched. His eyes are ice cold, his scowl harsh. His stance is so commanding, he looks ready to kill someone. I have never seen him this angry before. The broken glass is from the bar, where he has, what look like, smashed everything in a state of rage.
He walks towards me determinedly, with long purposeful steps. He jumps on the stage, grabs me and takes me down the way that I came out, from the dressing room. He looks around for something to put on me, but the only items available in this dressing room are similar to what I’m already wearing. Shaking in anger, he lets go of my hand and pulls of his shirt. He roughly puts it on me and buttons it up; it comes almost to my knees. He grabs my other clothes and shoes, retakes my arm and proceeds to drag me out the back entrance. He practically runs to the car, dragging me along with him.
“Such a hypocrite!” I say softy, resigned, earning me a slap on the ass.
“Don’t fucking start, Layla!” he growls, his voice like thunder. The car door is opened and I’m pushed inside, the instant I’m seated, he slams the door closed. He gets in the driver’s side, and sits there in silence for a few moments, breathing heavily, his hands shaking. I can see that his knuckles are grazed and bleeding slightly.
“Chase..”
“Shut up, Layla,” he grinds out through clenched teeth.
Shit. I’ve pushed him too far this time. His shirt has drops of blood on it, and suddenly I’m feeling guilty as hell. I don’t even throw the comments he made back at him, about me being so judgmental, and that stripping is a perfectly fine occupation. The ride home is silent, and the air is so thick, so tense. I have no idea what is in store for me. I try to talk to him but every time I say even one word I’m cut off with a deathly glare and no response. After three tries I just shut my mouth and wait. He’s the one in control now. We pull up into the driveway and he stops the car.
“Go inside, Layla.” Huh?
“What about you?”
“Get inside, now,” he says stiffly.
I step out of the car and notice that my car is back in the driveway, I guess one of his minions dropped it off. I walk to the front door with quick strides. As soon as I open it, he slams the car into reverse and speeds off. Fuck! I guess I succeeded in pushing him away. Which is what I wanted right? Then why do I feel like shit?
I have a quick shower and jump in bed. A few hours of restlessness later, I go into Chase’s room to find him still not home. I call his phone, but no answer.
L: Chase please just let me know you are okay.
C: I’m fine, go to sleep.
L: Are you coming home?
No answer. I crawl into his bed and fall asleep.
******
CHASE
I’m sitting at the bar, agitated, waiting for Layla to return from the bathroom. It’s been five minutes, what the fuck is taking her so long. Getting worried, I get up to go and find her, when the stage music starts. Men start whistling, and my eyes automatically go to the stage.
Fuck! What the fuck is she doing?
She wants to fucking kill me. My heart stops beating and I stare at her white barely there outfit. Thank fuck she has a bra on, but she is wearing a fucking thong. I glance over at all the men who are devouring her with their eyes. I see red. I feel hatred.
In a fit of rage, I smash anything I can get my hands on. The glasses that were lined up on the bar, anything. I punch at the glass case, glass going everywhere.
I look over at her to see she has stopped dancing, and is staring at me.
The most fucked up thing about this whole situation, is that if she wasn’t mine, my Layla, I would have looked at her and thought she belonged up there. Her body is made for sin, and the men seem to agree with me. She would have made this club a lot of money.
Fuck, she’s right.
What the fuck am I doing owning a place like this? Every girl on stage could be someone’s Layla. I’ve had a fucking epiphany, but at what cost?
My woman, up there, being ogled by all these perverted fucks.
What happens next is a blur, but I know I grab her off the stage and get her into my car. She tries to talk to me, but I’m not having it right now. I’m fucking pissed. At her, but mostly at myself. At what I have reduced her to do. I drop her off, knowing I’m not joining her inside. I feel raw, I need some time alone.
I wait until she’s safely inside, and then drive straight to my apartment. This place is just for me. No one comes here, no women, no one. It’s my place. I make my way inside and pour myself a scotch. I get a text from Layla, but I can’t talk to her right now. I need to fix this shit.
My phone rings, Aubrey.
Fuck.
Luckily, Layla didn’t see her at the club. She was having another fucking fit, trying to use her job as a way to manipulate me. I could care less anymore. Her hold on me is over.
Nothing matters anymore, except my Layla.