“Don’t even try to tell me you didn’t like that. Lezbehonest, you like a little spanking and hair grabbing every now and again, don’t you? Get over there and get that man to pull your hair and make you howl like a bitch in heat,” she tells me, holding up her hand for a high five.
I ignore her hand as I try to straighten a few wayward strands of hair that have come loose from the updo Ariel gave me.
“Stop messing it up,” she complains.
“I can’t mess up something that already looks atrocious.”
“It’s called a messy bun for a reason. It’s better than having your hair pulled back so tightly you almost give yourself an aneurism. You look hot. Get over there and getchya some,” Ariel adds with a laugh.
“I’m not getting some of anything. I’m going to go over there to talk business. Pick his brain. Show him that we’re serious about this,” I remind her as I quickly do my shot, hand her the empty glass, and start walking in PJ’s direction. His eyes are still boring a hole right through me.
“And I’m serious about you going over there and riding his frickle! Ride that frickle, Cindy! Ride it all night long and loosen up!” Ariel shouts after me as I push my way through the crowd of people toward the booth where PJ is sitting, letting the outfit I’m wearing and the little bit of liquid courage I drank give me some of that confidence I was looking for.
We’re intelligent, and we have a good business plan started. I can do this. Once I’m finished with him, PJ will have no choice but to see how important this is to us and want to help. It’s not like I’m actually thinking about doing what Ariel suggested. I’m not riding any frickles tonight, no matter how good the man looks who owns said frickle.
I’m wearing sexy clothes and I’m in a strip club. That’s about all the loosening up that’s going to happen tonight.
Chapter 13: Just Sit There and Look Pretty
“So, once we get the website set up and running, and word-of mouth gets around, I think this will really take off. Right now we just really need to concentrate on the actual stripping part,” I finish, giving PJ a smile after twenty straight minutes of rambling on and on about our home stripper-party business while he just sat quietly, taking it all in.
I have to say, I’m quite proud of myself for remaining professional and talking in a clear, concise manner to this man when he’s done nothing but sit a few inches away from me, with his arm still flung over the back of the booth, brushing against my bare shoulders every time one of us would shift in our seat. Even when his eyes would leave mine and stare at my mouth as I spoke, or would subtly glance down at my legs when I would cross and uncross them, I never once tripped over my words or giggled like a fool. Even though I wanted to. I really, really wanted to let a nervous laugh fly out of my mouth and cover it up by snuggling in closer to him so I could take a nice big whiff of his cologne. Every time he shifts in his seat, that spicy, woodsy scent hits my nose, which is the cause for all the crossing and uncrossing of my legs. I’ve never been turned on by someone’s smell before. But I’ve also never sat so close to a man who couldn’t take his eyes off me as I spoke. Having someone so interested and invested in what I was saying was a huge turn on.
Brian always interrupted me when I’d talk about things that excited me. Or he’d stare down at his phone the entire time, half-listening and distractedly muttering words that had nothing to do with what I was saying, just to pretend he was paying attention.
It’s refreshing and it’s invigorating to have a businessman like PJ so fascinated with what I’m telling him. It also doesn’t hurt my confidence that he just won’t stop looking at me. Even when half-dressed strippers wander by our table to say hello and wave at their boss, his eyes never leave mine when he politely responds to them.
I hold my breath when he opens his mouth, unable to contain my excitement at all the praise he’s going to give us about our business idea, but letting out a frustrating huff when a waitress stops by our table and interrupts all the wonderful things he was about to say.
“I’ll have another one of those,” PJ tells the scantily clad waitress, pointing to an almost-empty glass of amber liquid sitting on the small table in front of us. “And Cynthia will have . . . a glass of Moscato.”
The way he studied me for a few seconds and immediately decided I should have a glass of sissy, girly wine is like a bucket of cold water tossed over my heated skin. Of course I love Moscato, and a nice, cold, refreshing glass of it sounds wonderful right about now, but it’s the principle of the thing. Who is he to just take one look at me and decide I need a sissy, girly drink?
“Excuse me, Jennifer?” I call to the waitress, who has started walking away to fill our order. “Forget the Moscato. I’ll have what he’s having.”
She gives me a nod before hustling away through the crowd. I turn my head back toward PJ to find him staring at me again, one corner of his mouth tipped up into a smile.
Leaning over without taking my eyes off of him, I grab his drink and swallow down what’s left of it, my eyes immediately filling with tears and the burn . . . oh, sweet lord the burn . . . it’s like someone just lit a match inside my throat.
“My apologies. I didn’t take you for a Johnnie Walker lover.”
PJ’s lips twitch with the need to laugh while I do my best to blink the tears out of my eyes and remember how to swallow as I smack the empty glass back down on the table.
Whiskey. Disgusting. It’s no wonder I want to throw up right now.
“Of course, I’m a Johnnie Walker lover. Who isn’t?” I tell him with a raspy voice, wanting nothing more than to break down into a coughing fit to make the pain go away.
As I settle back against the leather seat, PJ slides closer to me until our thighs our touching and the heat from his chest radiates against my arm when he leans into me. For just a few seconds, I forget about my need to cough. I forget my own name, and I forget where I am as PJ sits close, staring into my eyes. He smells so good I want to do something completely out of character, like straddle his lap and bury my face into the side of his neck.
And then he has to go and open his mouth and ruin everything.
“I’m just saying, there’s no shame in ordering something more your speed.”
I immediately pull away from him and narrow my eyes.
“More my speed? What exactly is that supposed to mean?”
With a sigh, he pulls his arm out from behind me and runs his hand through his hair.
“Why are you here, Cynthia?” he asks softly.
I curse myself a hundred different ways because I like the sound of my name coming from his mouth, all soft and sweet. It’s a shame he has to be such a judgmental jerk.
“You know why I’m here. I just told you why I’m here. We have a good business idea. No, scratch that. We have a great business idea. Excuse me for thinking you could be a decent human being and give us a few pointers or steer us in the right direction.”
I forget all about manners and being polite. He doesn’t deserve my manners.
“I’m not trying to be mean; I’m just trying to understand. Ariel, she could possibly make it work. She’s got the confidence. I just don’t think she’d be able to shut her mouth long enough to not insult paying customers. But you and Belle? Taking your clothes off for money?”
He’s lucky he didn’t end that question with a chuckle, but his words sting just as much as if he’d thrown his head back and had a nice, hearty laugh.
“What’s wrong with Belle and me being strippers? You don’t even know us,” I mutter angrily, trying really hard not to cry because he thinks it’s so preposterous that someone like me could be a stripper.
All of my confidence leaves me in a rush, and I cross my arms in front of me, my shoulders drooping as I practically curl into myself, wondering if he thinks it’s absurd because I’m not pretty enough to be a stripper. He lives in this world. He runs a very successful business in this world. He knows good strippers from bad strippers. He knows what
type of women are beautiful enough and sexy enough to entice people to throw all their money at them. He’s spent a handful of minutes with me and doesn’t know me, but he isn’t blind. I’m a thirty-two-year-old mother of a teenager whose husband left her for a much younger, much prettier woman-child. He doesn’t need more than a handful of minutes to take one look at me and know I don’t have what it takes to turn a man on and empty out his wallet. The idea that he’s thinking this as he sits here staring at me, hurts a thousand times worse than the day I walked into my house to find divorce papers and my whole world came crashing down around me.
Sure, I lost hope for a little while, but I picked myself back up. I came up with a new plan and I figured out how to fix things. You can easily fix money problems if you set your mind to it; you can’t easily fix whether someone thinks you’re sexy or not, even when you have a crazy friend who gives you a makeover.
“Stop those wheels from turning in your head right now,” PJ finally says softly, grabbing my chin and forcing me to look at him. “I might not know you very well, but I’m pretty good at reading people, and your face is an open book.”
He drops his fingers from my chin and cocks his head to the side.
“I didn’t mean that you don’t look the part. I haven’t been able to take my eyes off of you since I saw you walk through the door. You look beautiful and sexy. Stunning, actually,” he tells me quietly, taking a minute to slowly look me up and down to reinforce his words. “But you aren’t comfortable wearing these clothes. I’ve seen you fidget with your shirt and your shorts more times than I can count because you aren’t comfortable in them. You aren’t comfortable being in this club. Two dancers have already gone on stage, and you never once looked in their direction.”
“Because I was busy talking to you!” I argue, even though I know he is one hundred percent correct.
As soon as I heard the first stripper being announced through the sound system, I spoke faster and louder, doing everything I could not to turn my head and look at the stage on the other side of the club. I could feel my face growing red with embarrassment for the stripper, and I didn’t know her or even get one look at her. I wanted to watch her dance. I wanted to take mental notes of all the moves she made and how much or how little eye contact she had so I could go home and practice it in the mirror when I was alone, but then I became mortified at the idea of looking at her and having PJ watch me look at her. It felt too intimate. I felt too exposed.
And that brings me right back full circle to what PJ is saying. I should be bolstered by the fact that he thinks I’m stunning and sexy, when I haven’t heard those words from a man in too many years to count. Actually, I’ve never heard those words. My ex would barely look at me when I’d come down, dressed to go out. He just mumbled, “You look nice.” Every time.
But the compliment doesn’t make me feel good, and it doesn’t encourage me. I can fake the sexiness, but I can’t fake the confidence. I don’t know how to get past that. I don’t know how to throw caution to the wind and just act on something without thinking about it and analyzing it to death, making graphs and charts and lists of pros and cons. I don’t know how to be spontaneous. I don’t know how to be fearless. I don’t know how to shut off my brain and just do something wild and reckless without worrying about what people will think of me, or hearing my mother-in-law’s voice in my head telling me a lady would never behave that way. And I need to be able to do all of those things to take off my clothes in front of strangers.
“I do think you have a solid business plan. It’s genius, actually, and I wish I had thought of it myself.”
PJ’s voice interrupts me from my self-deprecating thoughts, and once again, the deep timbre of it makes me squirm in my seat.
“I just think you, and especially Belle, might do better behind the scenes. Running the business, handling the paperwork, things like that. You’re a very intelligent woman, Cynthia. I just don’t think you’re cut out to take your clothes off for money, or comfortable enough to move your body, no matter how sexy it is, the way my dancers do. And there’s nothing wrong with that. Not everyone is cut out for something like this. Every business needs a smart person to make it successful. You should be proud of the fact that you three came up with this idea, and that it’s something you’re passionate about.”
Our waitress interrupts us once again to set our drinks down, and I don’t even care anymore about trying to look like I enjoy whiskey just to put PJ in his place.
“Jennifer, I changed my mind. Could I have that glass of Moscato? You know what, just bring the entire bottle,” I tell her with a sigh.
She quickly puts my glass of Johnnie Walker back on her tray and walks back to the bar to hopefully bring me the largest bottle of wine they stock here, while I glance around the room, looking for my friends so I can go cry on their shoulder with my giant bottle of wine.
PJ is still talking, but his words fade into the background when I spot someone on the other side of the club. He looks familiar from the back, and I start to get nervous, hoping no one I know from Anastasia’s school or the neighborhood is here. How mortifying would it be if her school principal, whom I’ve had many one-on-one meetings with, were to show up here, tonight of all nights?
“Please, don’t be offended by—”
“Oh no. Oh my God . . . ,” I mutter, cutting PJ off when the man across the room turns and starts heading in our direction.
“What’s wrong?”
He looks over to where I’m staring with wide eyes, and I’m thinking now would be a good time for a natural disaster, like a tornado or possibly a deadly explosion. I’d much rather die by being sucked out of the roof and tossed three states over or in a gruesome, tragic inferno than be sitting here right now.
“This is not happening. Oh my God. I need to hide. I can fit under the table, right?” I ramble, sliding forward on the bench as I contemplate curling up into the fetal position under the tiny table in front of us, although its barely big enough to hold a couple of drinks and a candle.
“Cynthia, are you okay?”
I ignore PJ’s concerned voice as I realize it’s too late. He’s too close. Thank God he’s busy talking to people as he walks our way and hasn’t seen me yet, but as soon as I stand up, he’ll see me. I can’t leave and I can’t fit under the table.
And I absolutely cannot see or speak to my former father-in-law—who hates me—for the first time since Brian left, in a strip club, with my breasts practically falling out of my shirt and my butt hanging out of my shorts. Especially when he already thinks I know where all of his money went, and that I’ve been frolicking around town spending it all.
He’s going to take one look at me and believe it’s true. He’s going to see me sitting here dressed indecently, and think I’ve spent all his money making it rain at strip clubs.
When he’s a few feet away, and I only have a second to decide what to do before my world comes crashing down around me without warning for a second time, for the first time in my life, I act without thinking.
Faster than I’ve ever moved in my life, I fly off of the bench and right onto PJ’s lap, straddling him, resting my knees on either side of his thighs, as I wrap my arms around his shoulders and do what I’ve been fantasizing about all night. I bury my face into the side of his neck and breathe him in as I slam my butt down right onto his lap.
“What the hell—”
“SHUT UP!” I whisper-yell, moving my face away from his delicious-smelling neck and pressing my lips against his ear lobe. “Whatever you do, do NOT tell that man who is two seconds away from stopping at our table who I am! I’m just a stripper, giving you a lap dance. It’s just a normal Friday night for you. Just sit there and look pretty and pretend like you’re enjoying what I’m about to do to you.”
Closing my eyes and pressing my face back into the side of his neck, I pray for a miracle as I slowly start to swivel my hips in PJ’s lap, too worried about all the ways this spur-of-the-moment decisi
on could go wrong to realize PJ’s hands have grabbed onto my hips and he’s pulling me more snugly against him.
Chapter 14: Chlamydia Eye
“Mr. Charming, just the man I was looking for,” Vincent Castle, my former father-in-law, speaks from behind me as I continue slowly moving the lower half of my body around on PJ’s lap.
“FYI, that’s my former father-in-law. He doesn’t like me because my ex is a lying, cheating, waste of space. If you do this for me, I’ll never, ever ask you for help again or bother any of your strippers,” I whisper frantically in PJ’s ear.
His hands tighten their grip on my hips, holding me close as I press my cheek against his, keeping my mouth right by his ear, wondering why I’m not completely grossed out by the fact that I’m dry humping a man a few feet away from the man who walked me down the aisle because I didn’t have a father to do the honors, and who was in the delivery room when Anastasia was born.
“Mr. Castle, it’s nice to see you again,” PJ says over my shoulder, and I can feel the grin on his face against my cheek that’s still pressed up against his.
I should probably also be disgusted by the fact that PJ clearly knows my former father-in-law, which means he’s a regular here. Vincent Castle, pillar of the community and happily married to his high-school sweetheart for forty-five-years, is a regular at a strip club. While his wife is most likely at home, fast asleep after taking her nightly dose of Ambien, her husband is out carousing around half-naked women. Typical.
And yet I can’t bring myself to feel even a tiny bit of revulsion. I’m too busy wrapping my arms tighter around PJ’s neck, pressing my breasts against his muscular chest, and grinding myself against him.
“I wanted to talk to you about a possible investment opportunity, but I see you have your hands full,” Vincent laughs. “She’s got a great ass. I wouldn’t mind taking her off your hands when you’re finished.”