“Yeah.”

“Well, go and act like you’re trying to seduce your sexy, gorgeous, rich, untouchable boss. He can be a prop, like your wig.” She snorts. “Could be fun.”

There’s a chance I just got myself fired.

I don’t know why I listened to Ginger. Probably because I was desperate. And stripping for Cain would be enjoyable. Ideally, not with a hundred other men watching. And, truth be told, it did make being on that stage a little easier.

The fact that Cain apparently “enjoyed” watching me last night spurred a need in me to please him again. But the fact that he has already asked me not to take my clothes off for him should have stopped me.

Maybe he didn’t notice what I was doing? By the cool, hard expression on his face, and the way his body shifted until he was standing stiffly, I’m seriously doubting that.

When he approaches me tonight, I’ll deny it, of course.

But he doesn’t approach me after the show. He leaves immediately after I get off the stage and no one sees him out there again.

And so I finish my shift, pushing the reality of stripping into a tiny, neat box. I tuck it away into the recesses of my mind, as just something I have to do, for now. Just like what I do for Sam.

It won’t be forever.

Chapter thirteen

CAIN

Show Number Three

I thought it was my imagination yesterday. Just my dick’s wishful thinking.

I came out to watch Charlie perform. Call it a gut instinct. More like a groin instinct, if I’m being completely honest. Either way, I came out to see if her second night would be as good as the first.

It wasn’t.

It was better.

Because her eyes were on me the second she stalked out. And they kept stealing passes on her way around, sliding over mine intimately, as if sharing a secret.

And each article of clothing that came off was done facing me, so I got the full impact of the reveal, her br**sts springing out to greet me.

So did every other guy in my vicinity, but f**k them.

My dick told me that was all for me.

So of course I needed to come out here tonight, just to see if my dick was playing tricks on me before.

I think Charlie just winked at me.

I shouldn’t be enjoying this but I can’t help myself. I am. Too much.

I need to stop coming out here when Charlie dances.

Chapter fourteen

CHARLIE

Show Number Seven

I’m playing the role of a stripper who’s taunting her stoic boss. That’s all this is.

And I must be doing it very well, because there’s no doubt in my mind that Cain is enjoying it. I can tell by the way he leans forward, the way his mouth parts, the way his hands grasp the railing so tightly that the tension ripples up through those arms . . . By the very fact that he’s out there, watching. Night after night.

I take a deep breath and roll my hips with the slow guitar twang of Head of the Herd’s “By This Time Tomorrow” as I reach up to loop my finger through the tie of my bikini top. Baring my br**sts like this still feels like a punch to my stomach. The only thing that makes it easier is ensuring that I’m facing Cain when I feel the cool air hit my skin and I toss the small scrap of sequinned material down. I don’t mind Cain looking at me like that, and it helps block out the random catcalls and hoots of appreciation from the real customers.

I do that again now, as I have every night since my second show, slowing my hips and locking eyes with his as I toss my top in his direction. Normally I’ll catch his eyes drop to my body for a second before lifting to my face again.

Tonight, though . . . Cain’s hand slides off the railing to reach down and adjust himself. I’m not sure if he meant for me to see it. It would be the first time he’s done something so visibly sexual. I can’t help my jaw from dropping for a split second. When my eyes snap back up to his face, I see his usual indecipherable mask and I assume he doesn’t realize that he did it.

Until he winks.

The simple act sends a jolt through my body, right down to my thighs. Taking a deep breath, I’m unable to suppress my smile as I dive into an invert.

It appears that I’m not the only player in this little game anymore.

“Oh, come on. Like you weren’t trying to make those drinks unpalatable,” Ginger mutters, pouring a round of Guinness as her hips bop to the music. Ginger doesn’t stand still. Ever. “Who doesn’t know how to mix a Harvey Wallbanger?”

My third night here, Ginger decided it would be a good idea to move me on from pouring straight shots and pints of beer to mixing cocktails. Without instruction. The customers didn’t seem to mind, especially when she announced my “de-virgining” was on her.

After my first creation twisted a customer’s face so sickly that DeeDee ran for a bucket, it quickly became a game. Ginger makes me do at least one foreign-to-me drink per night, awarding my concoction with a new name based on her mood and what that brave customer’s face looks like the instant his taste buds get assaulted.

The names usually make my jaw drop.

Ginger has a surprisingly foul imagination.

I raise one hand to cheek level. “Clearly, me.”

“Oh, still so much to learn,” she murmurs, winking at me as she slides the drinks over the counter. “I swear I’d think you never partied a day in your life before Penny’s.”

Do high school house parties with cases of beer and Smirnoff coolers count? Sam was strict about only a few things, and drinking was one of them. He said it was dangerous, that you end up saying things you shouldn’t say and getting yourself into a lot of trouble. Well, I sure didn’t want to slip about anything I was doing, so I avoided alcohol for the most part, nursing a drink all night just so I wouldn’t be empty-handed. So I’d fit in.

I’ve been working at Penny’s for over a week and, as shocking as it is to admit, I don’t know that I’ve ever had more fun in my life. Hanging out with Ginger and DeeDee on the bar all night is entertaining, the nights go by quickly, and I’m making good money. Not as good as what I’d be making in the V.I.P. rooms, but Cain hasn’t allowed it yet. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t relieved about that. And dreading the day he gives his okay.

Because then I’ll have no valid excuse.

Stripping onstage is still a horrendous, nerve-wracking four minutes, at best, but my mind no longer has to wander off to the mountains and the beach and all those other places I imagine myself going when I’m finished being Charlie Rourke. It keeps getting stuck in a dimly lit room, alone with Cain.

In his office.

In a V.I.P. room.

In the walk-in beer cooler.

Really . . . anywhere.

Ginger has created a monster.

And what feeds these illicit thoughts is the fact that Cain keeps coming out to watch. There haven’t been any more cock-adjusting, winking moments. He’s made no effort to speak to me since hiring me. The few times I’ve crossed paths with him in the back hallways, I’ve gotten nothing more than a nod.

But while I’m on that stage, I feel those dark eyes on me, like those of a predator stalking his prey, while the music vibrates through my body, and my limbs coil around the cool brass, and my hips swirl and curl and dip and bend.

I really am a fantastic actress.

And Cain is an even more fantastic distraction.

Show Number Thirteen

I’ve become bold. I’ve switched up my short shorts because, despite what he said, I don’t want Cain getting bored. So I’ve adopted this little short-skirt–bikini-bottom combo that is more revealing but not completely. Like a skimpy bathing suit, I tell myself.