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“Thank you,” he says, pushing to his feet before pulling out three more bills and handing them over to me.

I frown down at the money he’s placed in my hand, then look up into his face. What the fuck? So the stack was merely for permission to record me. I guess the three hundred is for the dance.

“Thank you,” I say, keeping my voice sexy, my expression sultry, and wait until he leaves the room before locking the door and pulling the rubber band from the roll to double check.

Holy fucking shit. There is at least a grand in this stack. That’s thirteen hundred from one man.

He might very well have just funded what I need to finally get out of my roach trap of an apartment.

I’m practically on cloud nine as Brody walks me out to my car and waits until it’s started and I’m on the road before stepping back into the club.

My money is stashed in my duffel bag sitting on the passenger seat. I tucked it and the tips I’d earned while dancing under my clothes so as not to garner too much attention from the other dancers. I’d love to say none of them would steal from me, but I’m pretty sure a couple of them are dancing to support their drug habits and wouldn’t hesitate to rob me blind if it got them a couple beans or lines.

I can’t take all this to the bank, but any apartment worth renting will require some form of identification and a bank account. Maybe they’ll accept money orders. I won’t know until I make a few phone calls.

Not that I can afford much, but anything is better than my one room studio apartment with paper thin walls. I’ve even seen a mouse on a couple occasions, along with insects that I refuse to think about. I’ve sprayed, set traps, but it doesn’t seem to matter,not as long as the neighbors all around me leave trash outside their door attracting anything and everything.

And the smell…there aren’t enough candles in the state to cover that stench.

Pulling my car into the only open spot in the parking lot, I hitch the straps of my duffel over my shoulder, lock the door to my POS – though I have no idea why anyone would want to steal it – and hurry to the front door of my section of the complex. It’s best not to linger outside at this time of night around here.

Even if the local criminals don’t target you, there are always at least a few junkies looking for a handout or someone to rob.

Once I’m through the building and behind the locked door of my apartment, I let a smile stretch across my face. Holy shit. Thirteen hundred dollars from one client. Twenty-six hundred total tonight.

If only every night was like that. Then I could not only get a nice place but a nicer car that didn’t break down at least once a week. I’m pretty sure the damn thing is barely held together with duct tape at this point. Seriously. Even the right brake light is nothing more than red plastic taped over the light to keep from getting pulled over.

Dropping the duffel onto the bed, I make sure my blinds and curtains on my first-floor apartment are all closed before I strip, tossing my dirty clothes into the hamper before hurrying into the bathroom.

I scrub at my skin and rinse off, forgoing shaving for the night, then wash my hair. The water pressure sucks, but at least it’s hot. I can’t count how many times I’ve come home after a long night of work to barely lukewarm water.

Once all the glitter, sweat, and makeup is washed away, I drag the threadbare, scratchy as fuck towel over my skin, brush out my nearly waist length hair, then braid it so I don’t have to spend the time blow drying it.

I just want to stash my money for the night and sleep for the next twelve hours. Or fourteen. Either one works for me.

Wrapping a scrunchy around the end of my braid, I flip off my bathroom light, step into my bedroom to pull on some panties and a t-shirt and scream when my eyes land on a shadow in the shape of a man in the corner of my room.

Please let me be seeing shit. It’s got to be a coat rack, right?

Except I don’t own a coat rack, and I’m butt ass naked. I’m literally a lamb offered up for slaughter if this is some crackpot from the club, some stalker who followed me home thinking he has a chance in hell to fuck me.

“Get the fuck out! There’s nothing here for you!” I yell. Not that a single one of my neighbors will bother coming to my aid if they hear me.

I have no idea whether this person is here for me, for cash, or maybe he was here looking for drugs or something to pawn before I got home and I simply hadn’t noticed him in the dark.

Reaching behind me, I flip the bathroom light back on, hoping at least a little light might…what? Not like it’ll help me win a fight against the behemoth across the room. He looks like his head is mere inches from the ceiling, but that could be the fear and adrenaline making him look larger than life, making him look like the boogeyman in the flesh.

The light doesn’t do much. His face is still cast in shadows, but I can see the width of his shoulders, his barrel chest, his dark button down and pants, and dark tattoos running down his hand and fingers.

“I don’t know what you want, but I have nothing of value here,” I lie, because it’s none of his business. I keep myself from glancing toward the duffel bag, needing to keep his attention off it.

Because the second this beast of a man makes a move toward it, I’ll jump on his back like a fucking spider monkey and go fullHAM on his face. It might be like a flea on his back, but I worked hard for that money, and no fucking way will I let it be taken by some asshole thief.

Instead of replying or moving toward me, he continues to stand there and stare, a deep, rumbling chuckle lifting in the air from his direction.

The sound makes my nipples tighten and the hairs on the back of my neck and arms stand on end.

I cannot stand here and face off with this dude completely naked. It’s one thing to strip to nothing on stage when men are throwing their paychecks at me. It’s completely different to be in this state when there’s a possibility I could be fighting for my life.