Sliver of Truth: An Injured Hero Secret Lovers Romance

Book 3: Shattered Hearts of Carolina

by Jody Kaye

Genres: New Adult & College; Action & Adventure Romance; Contemporary Romance; New Adult Romance; Small-town Romance

Synopsis

Men beg to touch my body. Yet, Dusty’s moves against mine in unspeaking eloquence.

My heart stammers when we’re alone and he growls my name.

I hate that I love the strength of his arms.

I love that I hate it too. The feeling keeps me sane because when we’re apart doubt creeps in.

I’m ashamed to admit my fears about what happens if everyone finds out we’ve been hooking up. Along with the guilt, comes the horrible thoughts I shouldn't have about Dusty’s disability.

Perhaps those emotions are a sign I’m not a good person and there is a sliver of truth that I don’t deserve a better life.

After all, what would a single dad really want with a woman who took her clothes off to get to where she is?

Release date: October 22, 2020

Print pages: 225

Sample

Chapter 1

Celine

Water swirls down the drain of the old clawfoot tub as I wrap myself in a fluffy white bath sheet. I take the smaller one I’ve twisted around my head off, rubbing my scalp to wick as much of the moisture away so I’m not stuck blow drying my hair. The ends split on my long brown locks when I do. Year-round, the North Carolina heat does mighty fine on its own without my meddling. However, we’re enduring a mid-December cold snap and wet hair makes me chilly. I’d used the hot bath to warm my bones and limber my muscles before work.
Other dancers at Sweet Caroline’s swear by wigs. For me, they’re a job hazard. I apply enough tape to keep my costume in place and prefer not stabbing my scalp with bobby pins. I’ve been stripping long enough to have watched hairpieces go flying across the stage, landing in a patron’s lap like the pelt of a dead rodent.
A giggle escapes me, bouncing off the vaulted ceiling. Everyone should have memories that make them laugh.
I’m so darn relaxed it’s easy to forget I’m about to spend the next few hours as the evening’s headline showgirl parading around in sky-high fuck-me pumps and wearing less than my bathing suit covers. This is my last night on stage. Within the week, I’m graduating from the physician’s assistant program and will finally finish school. The past few days have been the most time I’ve had to myself in forever. Thank goodness clinicals are done and over with, and don’t even get me started on how hard the prior year was. They ground us into the dirt, weeding out survivors with each exam. This month, I scored a nine-to-five in Dr. Randolph’s clinic, a pediatrician who I’d shadowed. After tonight, dancing is my past and I have a whole new future.
The steam in the tiny washroom is like a sauna, and the linens I pulled from the shelf are the sort you’d expect at an expensive day spa. Thank heaven the ladies who live on the third floor at the mill have what we need, even if we hadn’t known we needed anything this decadent.
None of us are footsteps away from slumming it at the no-tell-motel anymore. Each of us has a story, most of which is made up of the nastier stuff in fairytales; those low points of abandonment and loss swept under the carpet because what folks remember about bedtime stories are the parts where everyone lives happily ever after. For girls who grew up the way we did, getting to the point where, on our own, we didn’t have to figure out where the next meal was coming from was half the battle. I’m fortunate I’ve never had to choose between selling my soul or affording my rent and tuition. But I came damn close to choosing if they were worth going hungry for before Jake hired me at Sweet Caroline’s. A few months later, he set me up with Carver, the mill’s owner.
Living at the old cotton factory is an enviable spot to be in. Carver foots the bill for our living expenses while each of us attends college. Although, given all that goes unsaid around this place, I figure it’s pragmatic to understand Carver has a vested interest in what we become. I’ve yet to figure out his endgame for me. Nobody’s that altruistic.
I run my razor over a spot I missed near my ankle while soaking. I’m between waxes and I swear those little patches sneak up when you’re positive your skin is pristine. I understand the audience is none the wiser when I’m on stage—and it’s not as if they’ll lie down on the stale carpeting to inspect my Achilles Heel—but it matters to me. Maybe because the last time I saw my mother she had a whisker on her chin and a glower on her face.
Is it pathetic, while I was quick to get over feeling like a slut taking off my clothes on stage in front of all of those men, that I still worry over every nasty remark my mother would make if she knew I afforded my tuition by dancing? Defending my actions against her judgmental words are the ugly phrases on repeat in my head while getting to this point. Mom’s transgressions never seem to bother her. Soon enough it won’t make a difference. I’m proud of myself for achieving my dreams instead of succumbing to her nightmare.
Rubbing lemon and basil scented lotion over my arms, my mind wanders back to happier thoughts. Against the odds, my brother, Morgan, and I have stuck together like glue. He wasn’t thrilled at my choice to become a stripper, though, he picked up shifts at the club to monitor my safety which means everything to him. That right there reminds me I have someone to count on. My best friends—who started out up here as my floormates—are also with men willing to walk over broken glass for them. With the changes about to happen in my life, the last thing I have the energy for is a relationship. But a girl can hope the notion of the right guy coming along when you least expect it rings true.
I can’t help the dismissive shrug of my shoulders. What’s meant to be has a way of working out. One thing I’ve realized is luck’s more likely to shine on those who are prepared, and I have a plan for the next few years.
A thump on the other side of the wall has me cracking open the door to the little room where the original to the factory building antique clawfoot is. I glance around the bigger bathroom area with its clean bright tiles and periwinkle blue, sage green, and light tan shabby chic beach house decor. A tap drips along the far wall where multiple sinks are set into an immense marble countertop. Gooseflesh appears on my skin while I wonder for a second if I hadn’t turned the handle all the way off. Not seeing anything else out of the ordinary, I leave the frosted glass door ajar, stepping out to put my stuff away in the decorative locker-style cubbies. I appreciate not having to lug shampoo and bath bombs down the hall in a caddy.
When I started college, I’d have jumped in with both feet given the chance to live in Pinewood’s dorms. They’d seemed like the epitome, a normal experience out of my grasp. Now, I’m glad I lost out on the opportunity. My friendships at the mill have meant so much more.
As I place my razor, lotion, and a bottle of bubbles on the shelf, a calloused knuckle grazes my bare upper arm.
“Cees.”
His voice is a guttural growl I feel at the apex of my thighs.
My pulse speeds up and my breaths grow shallow. I want nothing more than to tell Dusty “No”. This has gone on long enough. I should have stopped it before it started, but resisting proved futile.
His fingertips skim the hem of the towel, pushing the soft cotton up over my ass. He cups each globe. The rough fabric of his jeans scratches against my bare skin as he moves closer, caging me in. Dusty’s lips touch my neck, sending anxious chills down to my toes. “Door’s locked. Nobody’s around.”
I swallow hard and try to look over my shoulder.
The standing rule is women only on this floor. Not all of the rooms are occupied anymore, but the ladies who live here have always worked at Sweet Caroline’s. I’m sure Carver’s edict is to stop us from bringing clients home. He’s forthright, refusing to accept any of us turning tricks on his property. What we do at Sweet Caroline’s and outside these four walls is our own nevermind. But Carver’s insistent the rule also serves a greater purpose: to keep us safe. Mindful of what kind of people are out there, it’s difficult to argue with.
No man other than Dusty goes past the last step before the landing. He’s allowed a free pass because he’s the maintenance guy here and over at the club. Everyone trusts him. I trusted him more than I had myself, and should have said no to his advances on the night he took Morgan’s place and walked me home. Ever since, I’ve lost count of the number of instances Dusty’s left me with his cum dripping down my thighs.
The first dozen times I was sure we’d be found out. Then, recognizing I broke Carver’s cardinal rule, shame made me more concerned with keeping this secret closely guarded.
“Don’t make a sound,” Dusty warns me the way he always does.
I bite my lip, hearing the metallic zip of his fly coming undone. He thrusts his impossibly huge cock inside of me, and I whimper.
I hate that I love this. I love that I hate it too because the feeling keeps me sane.
“Shh… Take it all, Cees. You know you want it.”
The warm rush between my legs proves him right. With Dusty, the condemnation of my choices is ever present. I let him do this to me and I don’t tell a soul. Admitting we’ve been fucking for over a year will lead to questions I’m unable to answer.  
He removes my palms from the polished lockers, placing them on the cold tiled walls. Dusty drills into me over and over. It’s pure ecstasy and I can’t stand how wet it gets me. How dirty I feel letting Dusty use me for sexual gratification whenever he damn well pleases, like I’m no more than a toy.
Dusty loosens the knot in my towel. It falls, pinned between his front and my arched back. My nipples are hard points instead of the tender rosy circles they had been when I got out of the water. They ache for attention. His large rough hands knead my breasts, squeezing them as he thrusts, almost as if he’s using my tits for leverage to piston himself harder.
As the wave of pleasure builds, I choke down any sounds so they don’t reverberate against the tile and walls. I want to scream out. Dusty moves one palm, covering my mouth to keep me quiet. I suck one of his fingers into my mouth, and he murmurs dirty words, urging me closer to the peak of my orgasm. A little mewl hums from me as my tongue swirls the digit and I crest over, my pussy contracting. His climax follows with hot streams of semen painting the inside of me.
I’m stupid for not making him wear a condom, but I’ve always considered birth control my responsibility and I’m clean. This happens so often I doubt Dusty has the stamina to fuck anyone else. I also lie to myself that even though the sight of this man can stop a woman dead in her tracks, he wouldn’t have the opportunity. I’m easy. A sure thing compared to him having to try to get in anyone else’s pants. I acknowledge this makes me a bitch. Because if it weren’t for me relying on a flimsy excuse, I’d have to admit the gorgeous man inside of me could have any woman he wants.
Dusty’s thick arms encircle me, stopping my weak knees from buckling. My head lolls back against his massive chest and his dark hair and beard brush my cheek. I let out a sigh. He turns my head to shush me, thrusting his tongue into my mouth. We groan together in sorrow. Round two for us is rare.
I know so little about him, and yet I’m cognizant of the safety of his body afterward. The way his lips glide over my skin in reverence. His always-warm palms’ lingering touch. We’re strangers outside this act, but inside of it? The trust and familiarity are like nothing I’ve experienced.
He waits before pulling out and when he does it washes the awareness away. He’s back to being the lumbering maintenance guy. I’m simply another one of the women who live on the third floor. Dusty doesn’t sing praises for my pussy. Ask me if I’m okay. He doesn’t need reassurance that I liked it. We’re a means to an end for one another. He’ll show up again tomorrow or the day after until I’m gone.
I won’t confuse what we have as anything more than great sex. And I can’t feel sorry if the next occupant of my room winds up pushed against the lockers with her legs spread.

 

Chapter 2

Dusty

After buckling my belt, I flip the lock, leaving the ladies’ room without a goodbye to Celine. Politeness aside, it wouldn’t make sense if I did. I’m not supposed to be up here when the girls are around. Someone finding me in the bathroom with her buck naked will draw unwanted attention neither of us is ready to explain.
I pick up some tools I’ve left in the hall as a deterrent for anyone who might be around when they’re not supposed to be and look back at a corkboard hanging on the wall as the door swings shut. The former cotton mill is one of the oldest buildings in Brighton. The girls started posting a schedule when there were big plumbing issues up here. That way I didn’t have to ask them to leave when fixing something or worry about interrupting them. They’ve kept it up since—more for themselves—and it benefits me knowing I can be alone with Cece.
The position I put her in having to lie isn’t an easy one. Is it bad after all this time I don’t feel worse about chasing her? I should have a hint of remorse she’ll need a second soak. But I smirk instead. My spunk is lining her cunt while she’s up on stage tonight with customers gawking at her. It’s what keeps me focused on Celine throughout her performances instead of jamming my fist through the drywall—that I’m responsible for fixing—pissed at the crowd of men drooling over her.
Opening the enclosed front stairwell door, I hurry down the steps to the living area. I scrub a thick paw over my chin and pause before I reach for the knob. A strand of Cece’s brown hair has gotten caught in the scruff of my beard. Glad I caught that. I flip my phone camera to selfie-mode, giving my mug a once over before stuffing it back in the clip and stepping onto the second floor.
Morgan and Skye are sitting on the couches watching some business news channel Skye follows. Technically, they’re loafing around. Although, I’m sure during the ten minutes I was upstairs screwing Morgan’s sister, Skye made us all more money than I earned my last year working as an engineer.
“What did they break this time?” Morgan points at the bucket I carry around with me.
“It was nothing. No installs?” I turn the question of why he’s at the factory today back on him.
If Morgan finds out his sister is the one breaking me I’d be a dead man. It was over a year ago my buddy trusted me to walk Cece home from her shift at Sweet Caroline’s. He’d had to duck out early and I jumped at the chance to bring her back to the mill safe.
Cece was the only dancer who hadn’t interacted with me like I was a lost puppy or a two-year-old. She’s compassionate, and that alone is an attractive trait. I didn’t feel as if she treated me any different. I never saw pity on her face. She never once talked down to me as if unclogging toilets is all I’m capable of.
My current job isn’t rocket science. My last one was, and it had the same pressure as the flames shooting out of a space shuttle on lift-off. I’d gone back to working for my former employer after the accident. It hadn’t lasted long. My cognitive abilities are all there. My speech? I’m more eloquent in my head. No stuttering. No pregnant pauses getting the correct word off of the tip of my tongue. The ability to articulate oneself leaves a lasting impression on people. Unfortunately, the inability to do so once will as well. Back then I’d slip up, get embarrassed. Exhaust myself trying to prove I was still as competent a man as I’d been.
The thing is, the way I look doesn’t help matters. Most people never understood my desire to get into a top-notch university when my physique screamed “World Wrestling’s Monday Night Headliner”. I’d spent years trying to change people’s perception. After almost losing my life, I haven’t the inclination anymore.
Let people believe what they want to.
Hell, saying I hadn’t agreed to take Cece home because of her hot little body is a lie. But I’d hoped she was more than a pretty face before leaning in to kiss her sweet lips. And I was right.
I’m damn proud of her for graduating. The only stupid part is I have no clue how to show or tell her how much. I’m certain testosterone puts me at the disadvantage rather than what anyone implies about my slow speech or aptitude. When it comes to Cece, I really am an idiot.
“Hey, are you even listening?” Morgan breaks my train of thought. I must give him a dumb look because he repeats an abbreviated version of what he’s said. “We finished the security upgrade at the medical office Cece’s going to work at. Next is installing new cameras for Sweet Caroline’s, but Jake’s all up in Carver’s business, so Trig’s been handling that.”
“What else is new?” Skye’s sarcasm regarding Jake, his older cousin, has us chuckling.
Jake owns Sweet Caroline’s. I’ve got nothing against him. He pays me well to make sure he’s not bothered to come in unless it’s a genuine emergency. The problem is there is a tendency for urgent issues to arise on the nights he’s covering for the club’s manager and Jake’s the type to leave everyone on edge. The stress is visible on Celine’s face then too.
“Glad Cece’s done working soon there?” I ask, scrunching my brow while repeating the phrase in my head. I’ve transposed words because I’m nervous the guys will find out about us at the wrong time. And thinking about Cece always leaves me half hard, which ratchets my anxiety over my friends figuring it out now.
“Hell, yeah.” Morgan understands the meaning anyhow. He’s confided never being onboard with Cece’s choice, but it was hers to make. “I’ve only stayed on the club’s staff because of her. Now that Celine will have a job wearing actual clothes, I can be home more nights with Aidy.”
“Or you could come out with Aidy instead of playing house with Trig and Kimber’s kid,” Skye’s focused on following the ticker at the bottom of the screen.
“I could have sworn you were the one who was up in my business to find a woman a few years back.”
“One to fuck the sad sack out of you and get a few jollies with. How was anyone supposed to know you’d wind up with Aidy? I merely proposed getting your dick wet.”
Sloan tosses brimming shopping bags over the couch. They land between the other men, startling us all. “I knew.”
“You did not.” Skye quips, rifling into them and holding up streamers. “What’s all this crap?”
“Okay, I didn’t.” She clutches both of their shoulders. “But what is for sure is that you three are helping decorate this place.”
“For Christmas?” I ask. The party supplies Morgan and Skye pluck from the bags are the wrong color for the holiday, and Sloan hasn’t had me haul the ornament boxes up from the basement yet.
Aidy, Hailey, and Kimber tromp up the ancient wooden staircase coming from the reception area where Carver and Trig’s businesses are run. The set up below, in the offices on the first floor, is impressive. I won’t venture to guess how much of it is legal. Not my circus…
The ladies fling more purchases on top of the guys, laughing. Aidy sits on Morgan’s lap, greeting him with a hello kiss. His fingers find the hem of her skirt, tugging it toward her knee.
Hailey settles on the edge of the sofa arm near Skye. She’s more animated. “It’s for Cece’s party after her last show. We’re putting it all up before heading over there to watch her.”
Skye’s pulled his hand away from Hailey’s back right before it connects and begins rifling through the bags. “Jasper is letting you go?”
Hailey rolls her eyes, ignoring the intrusive question as she snatches a metallic congratulations banner out of Skye’s grasp.
I’m not sure how much Celine knows about her own party, though, Sloan extended an open invitation to drop in to everyone at the mill and Cece’s coworkers at the club.
“If it’s a surrprise, hide it. She’s still around.” The blood hasn’t made its way back up to my brain again, and I’ve opened my mouth too soon by mistake. Plus, my rush to warn them has me tripping up, double pronouncing my Rs. It’s something I focus damn hard on and heat pools at my collar.
Morgan pegs me with a scowl.
“She was there.” I stick a finger in the direction of the steps to the third floor. “When I’d gone to check the ladies’ room.”
“Thanks for telling us, Dusty.” Sloan’s grateful. I’ve lost track of the surprise parties she’s planned.
Everyone’s almost got the balloons and packages of confetti put away when we hear footsteps coming from the landing near the wall of windows.
“What are you all up to?” Celine arches a brow, spying the seven of us sitting on the couches trying to act nonchalant.
Like usual, Cece’s waiting until she gets across the street to do her makeup. Her hair is curling, but she’ll straighten and style it before going on stage. She has on a gray sweatsuit to stay warm with “secret” splashed up the side in burgundy block lettering. The word mocks me. She’s twirling an umbrella in one hand.
“They’re biding time before your last performance. We, however, don’t want to be late when Jake’s got your image splashed on the marquee.” Kimber loops her arm into Cece’s. She’s the club’s manager. “It’ll be a packed house tonight.”
Celine hikes her duffle on her shoulder, glancing at the bags Aidy and Hailey have tried to hide under the coffee table. “I told you not to go out of your way.”
“Do you think your last dance and graduation are the only reasons to throw a party?” Sloan teases.
“No, but it’s one you’ll use. I said, ‘no fuss’ when you talked me into a few people afterward. Swear to me, it’s only you guys.”
Sloan bends her arm, giving Celine a wonky version of a scout promise.
Cece doesn’t seem convinced. The fingers of her empty hand splay into a diminutive wave directed at her brother. “I’ll see you later.”
I’m not happy I’m invisible, but she hasn’t paid much attention to Skye either. I ignore the ache in my chest and the overwhelming desire to pull Cece onto my lap the way Morgan had when Aidy entered the room. Kiss Cees. Tell her to break a leg. Be the one to bring her home to the party instead of her brother doing it. Reassure her she deserves the effort her girls are putting into making tonight special.
I listen, tuned into the soft scuffing of her ballerina flats as Kimber and Cece descend the stairs. We wait until we hear the heavy front door close before Sloan gives each of us a task.
Skye flips the television to a Christmas music station. “We’re on to you, Sloan,” he grumbles. “As soon as this party is over, you’ll make Morgan and I move the pool tables to put up the tree.”
“Oh, poor things.” She squeezes my bicep and then pats where she touched, giving me a friendly wink. “Where on earth will you and Morgan find a big strong man to help you weaklings?”
My chest rumbles. Sloan’s all right. I like how she’s making Cece’s celebration a priority before the big bash Carver throws on Christmas Eve.
“For implying Dusty is stronger, we’re not listening to Bing Crosby.” Skye changes the channel to a nineties grunge and modern alternative playlist.
Aidy takes me in from head to toe. “I’m sorry, Morgan, but Dusty could lift the flipping couch single-handed.” She snorts.
“With all of us on top of it.” Hailey agrees.
I take the girls’ compliments for what they are, but Morgan shoots me another glower I don’t want to read into.

 

Chapter 3

Dusty

Sloan, Aidy, and Hailey do a fantastic job of decking out the room in Pinewood College school colors and spangled sparkly banners. For as much as Skye bitched, we’ve sat around waiting on them to tell us what to do and then jumping to it out of boredom. The girls leave the cleanup to us and dart off to change before we all head over to the club to see Cece’s show. Anyone with a dick is wearing what they’ve got on; jeans and a t-shirt.
Trying to ignore the evil eye Morgan won’t stop shooting in my direction, I’ve spent most of my time sending a string of unnecessary texts, checking in to remind Renata I won’t need supper. I live about five miles away with my ex-fiancee’s mother. Renata wouldn’t consider my offer to stop squatting at her house after Beth died. Most evenings I go home for dinner and come back if there’s an emergency. Renata understands sometimes my schedule can be unpredictable, and she leaves me a plate if I haven’t called to say I’m running late.
I’m excited for Cece, but fold up the ladders feeling less than involved. I’d like to do something nice for her the way I have for the other women in my life.
I wrap a burly paw around the metal, stopping to drop the ladder to let Carver up the main staircase. He slaps me on the shoulder with his usual air of confidence. I grunt in acknowledgment as he disappears into the two-bedroom suite off the main living area where he lives with Sloan.
 Ruminating on how unfair his situation is in comparison, it dawns on me Sloan had a room on the third floor before they’d gotten involved with one another. Rocket scientist or not, I’ve drilled it into my head for as long as Cece lives at the mill, she’s off-limits. I’ve also used the excuse that hiding what we’re doing legitimizes its wrongness.
Every question about my competence rushes at me full force. I’m a dolt. For over a year, I’ve had the chance to sit Celine on my lap. Hold her hand in public and kiss her. I could have asked her out and put a stop to our sneaking around.
Outing our transgression, rocking the boat, hadn’t only seemed like the last option, it didn’t seem like a choice at all. Deep in my subconscious, I’ve hoped Cece would ask if we could hang out when neither of us were busy. When she hadn’t brought it up, I gave her space. Perhaps what she’s looking for in a relationship is nothing more than explosive chemistry, and we’ve got that.
I scrub my face. Fuck, I was more concerned with being close to her, letting her use me, then admit if she turned me down our escapade would cease. I didn’t want to admit she didn’t like me as much as she liked what I was doing to her.
Now, I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve been giving Cece the same impression. I’m ashamed of myself for not putting her needs first and making her think all I’ve ever been interested in is sex.
Our primary mode of communication is moans and filthy requests. I should have been talking to her all this time. I’ve likely given her the impression I can’t string a sentence together that doesn’t include more than the same three words; suck, my, and dick.
I want to make it up to her, and there isn’t a better reason to change things between us than her graduation. The spring is back in my step, and I skip every other stair, tackling the massive wooden staircase with newfound gusto. It creaks under the weight of my boots.
Arms crossed and stone-faced, Morgan’s waiting to greet me at the top. He’s not doing a damn thing to hide his contempt over whatever’s bugged him all afternoon.
“You’re not supposed to be up there when the girls are.” Morgan grits his teeth.
“Came back down.” My answer is nonchalant. I won’t lie. I did come back down. After I came in his sister. I’ve walked by Morgan a dozen or more times on my way to see Cece. If she’d wanted to let the cat out of the bag, it was her choice. I’m not ruining it now out of frustration or to puff myself up. Not when my mind is made up about what role Celine has in my life and I want everyone else to treat her with the same respect.
She’s mine. And my biggest problem is Morgan’s forgotten he once trusted I’d never hurt his sister.
The scowl his ugly mug is sporting relaxes when Aidy wraps her arms around him from behind. “We’re all ready!”
I haven’t passed the last stair before the ladies turn me around. They  slink their palms into their better halves’, encouraging us across the street to Sweet Caroline’s. A third, fifth—make that seventh wheel since Jasper, Hailey’s boyfriend, has taken Skye’s place—I wind up holding the doors for the couples as they march through with cheerful expressions.
“Where is Skye?” Hailey asks along the way.
“The caterer is dropping off the food in an hour. He offered to stay behind and wait,” Carver supplies. “Trig’s already inside with Kimber. He took off over there as soon as our meeting was over.”
 “And Kimber made sure Morgan wasn’t on the schedule to bar back.” Sloan smiles at her man while she chatters at the group.
“Why didn’t anyone tell me why I had the night off?” Morgan quizzes his girlfriend. “It’s my last opportunity to walk Celine home. What if I miss out on a sibling-bonding moment?”
“This was a need to know basis.” Aidy teases him.
“She’s my sister.”
Aidy shrugs. “We had it under control.”
“You enjoy having something to keep under wraps.”
He moves her lavender highlighted hair behind her ear, pecking her on the cheek, and I’m fighting the green-eyed monster again. It doesn’t bug me Morgan has Aidy, but that he’s able to show affection toward her in front of everyone.
Meanwhile, at Sweet Caroline’s front entrance, eighteen by twenty-four posters advertise Cece’s farewell. In most of them she’s clad in so little that the seductive way her arms cover her body gives the impression she’s topless or buck-ass naked. I know inside these four walls the latter isn’t true. Jake would lose his liquor license.
It’s dark and noisy in the club. We have to push through the standing-room-only crowd that covers the path of twinkling floor lights to get to the booth Jake reserves for Carver. There’s not much room for anyone else to sit if I do, so I pretend it’s better for everyone else to have ample space. Reality is, I want to see Cees. If I take a spot at the table, nervous energy will have my leg bouncing it off the Richter scale.
Kimber’s tending bar. She has Holly come take our drink orders because Trig has her penned back there, aware it stops patrons from copping a feel. Holly’s rockabilly style and short shorts attract the attention of an ass-grabbing guy nearby. I can’t blame Trig for being overprotective of his wife and step forward, getting in the guy’s face. The lascivious smile the bar’s patron has plastered on fades and low-and-behold the dipshit is glowing white in the dark.
“Thanks, big guy.” Holly motions over her shoulder at the creep. Her fingers dance up my bicep, but it means nothing to either of us. Holly’s good people. She’s got a kid at home and he’s her number one priority. “What’s your poison?”
“I’m drinking tonight.” The nice thing about working here is the bartenders know your order, even if it’s cryptic.
“Glad one of us is having fun,” she remarks wryly. Holly’s responsible for closing the place down when the rest of us clear out. A second dancer is on stage when she returns with a full tray of beer bottles, glasses, and the sometimes fruity, always non-alcoholic concoctions Kimber’s perfected for anyone who needs a drink in their hand but has had addiction issues.
Time ticks slow when Carver lifts his pilsner in a toast. I get the sensation someone’s pressed the pause button on my life and has forgotten to hit play. I guess the person was me.
“Oh, shit!” With an empty tray, Holly turns and puts her fingers to her lips, directing Kimber’s attention to the table with an ear-piercing whistle. She points at Aidy and just like that everything speeds up.
Kimber opens a fridge, sliding a water bottle down the bar to Trig, who pitches it over the crowd. I catch it as the house lights dim to black, the music turns up, and strobe lights brighten the stage. When our eyes adjust, Aidy’s drink is in front of her like magic.
It’s the first time in hours Morgan’s complimenting my arm instead of shooting me a dirty look. But I don’t have time to notice. Like me, the crowd is here to see Celine and they’re going wild.
A lot of Jake’s newer girls are into hardcore rap and techno. Cees mixes it up. Lately, she’s been into sultry throwback singles. The crowd’s demographic is skewed to men in their late thirties and early forties. This is the last music they heard before preschool television theme songs took over their playlists. She’s smart enough to work their egos into a frenzy, with flashbacks of when they were studs instead of duds. Um, I mean dads.
The audience is sure when she shimmies off her shiny raincoat there won’t be much underneath. I’ve seen this number before. Cece’s pulled out a few stops from the Intuition video, including Jewel’s short, slick red skirt with the loose yellow firefighter suspenders.
She reaches high to hang the coat from a hook, dragging her hands down the pole until she’s bent in half and the skirt’s ridden up to reveal a yellow plaid thong and the soft skin of her thighs that belongs to me.
I chuckle under my breath, wondering how much of a mess I left Celine to clean up. I’d hose her off now to see the tight wife-beater she has on soaked through. I’m enough of a man to admit I fantasize about Cece wearing clothes as much as her not wearing anything. It might be because it’s a stretch to say she’s dressed whenever we’re in one another’s company.
The music crescendos, booming louder. It’s about to hit the note where Cece grabs the center of the shirt, ripping it in two. She lifts a leg high, prancing around the pole, and a man she’s cautious when flirting with reaches out to touch the strappy boot tied up her calf. The strings come undone. It’ll be tough to hit the marks on her footwork without falling after she tosses the tank into the crowd. Cece bends, making a coy show out of lacing the boot. It throws off her rhythm for half a beat, but she yanks the top in two and lands every mark.
Yet for me, before the songs even ended, the situation sent the needle scratching across the record with a screech. It’s normal for customers to seek Cece’s attention when she’s out on the floor or by the bar. It also drives me up a fucking wall.
We had a blow-up about it a year ago when whatever it is we’re doing first started. The disagreement is the most words we’ve spoken to one another. I was coming from Jake’s office and saw a drunk guy getting handsy. The look of annoyance flashing across Cece’s face got the best of me, and I interjected by clenching my fist around the guy’s collar. Before I’d gone too far, Celine unwrapped my fingers from his shirt, comped the douche a drink on the house, and dragged my ass out the back door to the parking lot.
“I had it under control,” she seethed, poking her manicured fingernail into my chest. “I can take care of myself.” Her brown eyes were dark and stormy. “Do not overstep and pretend we are what we’re not.”
She didn’t give me a chance to defend my actions, and I swear had I followed on her heels back into the building, lightning might’ve blinded me she was so furious.
But I was mad too. After that, I fucking sought her out until what we were doing was part of her routine and if I didn’t appear in the bathroom for too many days in a row, she’d almost look at me across the bar as if she missed me.
This time she could have broken her ankle. Then what? Miss her party? Get her diploma on crutches?
For the second time in as many hours, I’m done with nobody knowing about us besides us. It is my problem. And I’m about to change that.