Four Seconds to Lose

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 breasts 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.

And I don’t bother to hide what I’m doing anymore. I face him head-on as my fingers curl around the fabric of my top and peel it off. As I offer him a wink. I see his lips part slightly and his ghost of a smile as his eyes rake over my body, shamelessly. Even from here, I see the fire in them.

I love the feel of his eyes on me.

Although the possibility of him being my pimp has faded, I still don’t know what the hell to think about Cain. At night, when I’m lying in bed, relieving myself of this pent-up frustration so I can actually fall asleep, I’m still picturing him as an unemotional, demanding man.

Only now, it’s in a very appealing way.

I’m not sure how accurate Ginger was when she called him “safe.”

This is my boss.

But, while I silently wait to escape my life, this is also one hell of an intoxicating game.

chapter fifteen * * * CAIN

“Cain!”

“Two and a half weeks for a simple background check! What the fuck am I paying you for, John?” I’m glad I had the good sense to install a sound barrier in the walls of my office. It doesn’t completely drown out the throbbing music in the club, but I can at least have a phone conversation without shouting.

A horn blasts in the background and I picture my P.I.’s round belly pressed up against the steering wheel of his nondescript black sedan, tailing someone’s cheating spouse or a fraudulent insurance claim through the streets of L.A. He spends most of his days doing just that. And they’re long-ass days from what he tells me. John works more than I do. After his third wife left him, he figured out that marriage and his career don’t mix.

I met John ten years ago, when he was still a cop. He’s well connected, fast, trustworthy, and—most important—he’s as discreet as they come. He’s also expensive, but it’s worth it. I use him for all of my employee history checks. He finds things that no typical background check would ever uncover, and I can usually get answers