Page 19 of A Wreck, You Make Me (Bad Boys of Bardstown #3)

Chapter Seven

“He’s here again,” Lively’s sing-songy voice cuts through my thoughts.

She’s standing at the threshold of the locker room, and I look up from my seat on the bench.

My shift is about to start and I just got off the phone with my sister—yes, she’ll be in bed by the time I want her to and she’s taken all her meds and no, she still won’t look at the brochures.

But at Lively’s declaration, my heart starts pounding.

Because I know who she’s talking about. Still, I pretend I don’t know as I get up and stow my cell phone in my locker. “Who’s he?”

Lively gives me a look. “Like you don’t know.”

I snap the door shut and walk toward her. “I don’t.”

“You so do,” she says, wiggling her eyebrows. “One of these days you’re going to have to tell me what you did.”

I walk past her and leave the room. “You know what I did.”

As in, she partially knows what I did. I told her I spilled my drinks on him, and he got really mad. But I apologized and all was well. No mention of the back room and what happened there. Or that he crashed my date last night and then I ran away from him.

I come upon the mouth of the hallway that overlooks the dim lit floor, with Lively following me. “Well, whatever you did, it looks like he wants more.”

Yeah, I figured. That he’d come for me. I knew it the moment I ran from him last night.

For the record, I wasn’t going to. I did everything he wanted me to—made an excuse about my sister needing me at home; plus I told Joe that his soccer idol got a phone call and had to leave as well.

But when the time actually came to walk through the doors and get into his truck, I panicked.

I took the back exit and called a cab to get home.

And now, here he is.

He sits in one of the booths, sprawled and relaxed, his thighs spread, one of his arms thrown on the back of the seat.

He’s in direct view of the hallway, making me think he saw me leave through it and was waiting for me to come back.

That’s the only explanation as to why his eyes lock on me the second I come out of it.

And those eyes, God. They’re dark and shiny. They’re saying something to me.

Just one word: mine.

My knees shake as soon as I hear it. It only gets worse when I notice a waitress stop by his table, probably asking after his order. But without taking his eyes off me, he shakes his head, dismissing her. Like he doesn’t want anyone else but me. Like no one else would do but me .

I take a deep breath and walk toward him then.

It’s not like I have a choice anyway. He won’t leave until I give him whatever he came here to get.

And as if my eyes are talking to him back, telling him he wins, satisfaction flickers through his frame and he sprawls on the seat even more.

His chest swells with a long breath, and his brawny thighs splay wide.

When I reach him, he takes me in from the top of my head to the bottom of my heels, before murmuring, “Nice uniform.”

“I’m going for the sexy schoolgirl look,” I tell him, my heart racing in my chest.

His eyes flash. “Good thing I’ve been known to teach a few lessons.”

I swallow, my throat dry. “I probably shouldn’t have run.”

He shakes his head once. “No, you shouldn’t have.”

“Are you here to chase me then?”

“I’m here to catch you.”

I bite my lip. “Maybe it’ll be easier if I just do as you say and pay my dues.”

He glances up at my mouth for a second before saying in a tone that makes me clamp my thighs, “Nothing I do to you, Little Strawberry, is going to be easy. But I’m glad you finally see the light.”

My breaths are all choppy now, but I manage to utter, “Just so you know, you’re a toxic snake.”

He hums. “Yeah, but when I bite it hurts so fucking good you can’t help but want more.”

A spasm goes through my body, and I have to curl my toes at that. Then, I reach inside my skirt’s pocket and retrieve the credit card he left for me last night. I put it on the table before straightening up. “This belongs to you.”

He looks at it for a second before glancing up. “You use it like I told you?”

I swallow. “Yes.”

I didn’t like using it. Or more like, it felt strange. It felt like… I belonged to him. In a way that I’ve never belonged to anyone. But then again, I haven’t, have I? So what do I know what belonging feels like?

Except when satisfaction passes through his features again, it makes me feel good. It feels even better when he says, “Good girl.”

I have to squeeze my thighs again and with a heart that’s beating on my tongue, I say, “Not here. In the back room.”

He watches me a moment, his eyes dark and glittering, his features sharp and arrogant. Then, he reaches for the card, puts it in his pocket and says, “Lead the way.”

We take the same path as before, through the crowded floor and busy tables, and by the time we reach our destination, I’m a mess of broken breaths and sweaty skin.

Like the other night, he reaches the knob before me and pushes the door open.

I enter the room, taking my place at the pole, and like before, I don’t turn around until I know he’s taken a seat at the booth.

When I face him, I find that he’s already on the edge of his seat. Like he knows what’s about to come. He knows and he can’t wait. His body is thrumming with intensity, with impatience. A dark energy that makes me even shakier. It makes me hot and bothered, my thighs clenching, my belly fluttering.

With shaking hands, I reach up to get rid of my halo but when I go to take off my heels, he goes, “Leave them on.”

“I—”

He jerks his chin up at me. “I don’t like the idea of you being a muse. Definitely not a bard’s or anyone else’s. But I like those heels.”

I fidget where I stand. “But the heels?—”

“And you like them too, don’t you?” he rasps.

My toes curl in them. “How did you?—”

“You wear them a lot,” he says, his eyes penetrating. “You wore them last night when you ran from me.” I open my mouth to say something, but he doesn’t give me a chance. “You wore them the night you ran from me six months ago too.”

My eyes widen. “At The… Horny Bard?”

“Yeah.”

He remembers what shoes I wore on a night six months ago?

That’s… I don’t know what that is except I have to fist my skirt and press my spine against the pole to keep standing.

Then, swallowing, I blurt, “I love dancing.” His eyes flare slightly as if with interest. “Always have, and I can dance in heels. I-I can run in heels too. But I… I dance better with them off.”

Especially when I’m so nervous , I add silently.

And as if he heard me, he shakes his head slowly. “Not really my problem, is it?”

No, it’s not, and I don’t know why I thought he’d care. So steeling my spine, I say, “Fine. Whatever. If my moves suck, it’s on you. Now?—”

“This is a lap dance, isn’t it,” he cuts me off.

I frown, suspicion laced in my tone. “Yes.”

“In a strip club.”

“Yeah,” I state, but my unsure tone makes it sound like a question.

“So I think,” he goes, looking even more intense if possible, “we should do things the right way.”

“The right way?”

His eyes flick over me, slow and deliberate. “Speaking of, aren’t you a little overdressed?”

I think all I do is stare at him for several seconds and rewind his words in my head, trying to make sense of them.

Because I do not think I’m overdressed for anything.

In fact, I’m underdressed . On purpose, no less.

To get more tips, more than I usually make.

Because my landlord texted me about the rent.

Again . I was a few hundred dollars short last month and I told him I’d pay him the difference in a few days.

But it’s been more than a few days, and I haven’t been able to because I had to get Snow her new textbook.

And God, school textbooks are freaking expensive.

Imagine how expensive they’d be when she goes to college.

So while I convince Snow to look at colleges and search for loan programs and try to pay my rent, I really need to let go of my hang-ups and dress as scantily as possible so I can make bigger tips.

Which is why tonight I have on a shorty-short, pleated skirt that comes dangerously close to revealing my ass cheeks, and a white crop top with the thinnest spaghetti straps you could find that leaves my belly bare.

Plus knee high socks with lace at the top to complete the look of a slutty schoolgirl you’d want to spank. Or in my case, give big tips to.

So again, no, I’m not overdressed. He’s just a big fucking asshole. It’s bad enough I’m forced to give him a lap dance, now he wants me to do it naked. My stepbrother wants me to dance naked for him. What the…

“Today, Strawberry,” he prods, breaking into my thoughts.

My fists are clenched at my sides, and somehow, I manage to not sound completely unhinged when I say, “Aren’t you forgetting something, Toxic ?”

His eyes flash at my nickname for him. “Why don’t you tell me?”

“I’m not a fucking stripper,” I almost snap. “So no, I will not be taking my clothes off, thank you.”

He studies my features, which I’m sure are flushed and heated. “Again, not my problem.”

Of course it isn’t. It’s mine. All of this is my problem. He is my problem. And you know what, fuck him. He wants to see me take my clothes off, fine. I’ll show him.

Without taking my eyes off him, I reach up and around my neck.

I loosen the blood red tie I’m wearing—another thing to complete my schoolgirl ensemble—and take it off.

I hook it with my finger and, reaching my arm out, drop it on the floor as I say, “There, are you happy now? A piece of clothing has been taken off . But that’s all you’re getting. You don’t like it, there’s the door.”