Four Seconds to Lose

rendition of Mean Girls.

Of course, there was no cock talk in that performance.

But Charlie Rourke can adapt to any situation.

A loud eruption of whistles and catcalls fills the room, followed by slaps on my legs. I guess that means I’ve officially joined the inner stripper club. Unfortunately, the raven-haired viper staring at me with an icy gaze right now isn’t rolling out a welcome mat.

* * *

I watch Ginger with interest as she accepts a twenty and throws a suggestive wink at a customer. It’s fascinating—the way she flirts with these men, I’d never in a million years guess that she’s not interested in anything but their tips. And, by the beaming grin that explodes on the man’s face, neither would he.

“Hey,” Ginger says as she adjusts one of her messy spikes that has lost its height and is now falling over her eye. “When’s your birthday?” It’s late and the bar has finally slowed down, allowing us a chance to chatter.

“February fourteenth,” I automatically answer as I dump the limes and ice out of the dirty cups.

“Valentine’s Day?” she exclaims, excited.

I freeze. That’s not Charlie’s birthday. That’s my real birthday. Dammit! I grit my teeth, angry with myself for the slip-up. I’m normally so good at keeping my stories straight. Ginger has a way of relaxing me, though, of making me forget why I’m here in the first place. Charlie’s birthday is September twenty- third, but it’s too late to correct it now. As long as she never sees my ID, I should be fine. “Why?”

She shrugs. “Just thought I should know. I see you every single day, after all. Wouldn’t want to be sitting around, talking about . . . I don’t know . . .,” she pauses, searching for something no doubt appalling, “Brazilian waxes and toe fungus, when I should have baked you a cake.”

I wrinkle my nose in feigned disgust, while inside my head, I’m doing the math. I should be gone by next February, so I won’t have to worry about it. I’ll be completely alone in the world to celebrate the day. The thought brings a pang of sadness to my chest. Given our proximity at home and work and Ginger’s forceful nature, we’ve become close friends in a short period of time.

I’ll miss her.

“Well, mine’s December twenty-fifth, by the way. So we both have easy birthdays to remember. Start thinking about an awesome gift for me now.”

“Huh. You’re like baby Jesus.” I mentally make a promise to send Ginger a card every year, no matter where I am.

“Didn’t you know? I’m the second coming. Commence bowing now.”

I launch a straw at her head instead, earning a wink.

“Or maybe I should be bowing down to you.” She begins scrubbing the counter, avoiding my questioning look. “Cain should be out shortly.” She shoots those cat eyes at me with a pointed glare, adding in dry tone, “Again.”

Of course.

“Something you want to admit, Charlie?”

Passing through the entry of the bar and rounding the corner to wipe a spill over the counter, I can’t help the grin from stretching across my face as a thrill courses through my body. It makes the denial that’s about to come from my mouth sound completely dishonest.

“Oh, just forget it!” Ginger snaps, her hand waving me away.

I’m giggling when I hear, “Hey, beautiful.” A tall, lanky middle-aged guy leans into the bar next to me. I’ve seen him here before. He’s a regular on weekends. He’s careful not to rub up against me, for which I’m thankful. “Weren’t you up on that stage earlier?” His eyes drift down to my chest and my mind automatically converts his question to, Weren’t those breasts up on that stage earlier?

I’m getting used to this. It happens every night. The fact that I’m not available for private dances seems to make me that much more appealing. I offer him a tight-lipped smile—the same one I offer to all the guys who approach me at the bar, while I wait for a bouncer to chase them off—and shrug. “Maybe.”

By the crooked curl of his lips, he must think I’m playing coy. “Well, maybe you could give me a one-on-one reenactment. I know the going rate’s six for an hour, but seeing as I heard you don’t do private shows,” he says as he starts to pull his wallet out, “I thought a grand might change your mind.”

I fight to keep my eyes from bugging out. I could make a thousand dollars for an hour tonight if I could just do what I do onstage, in a private room? Well, there’d be more to it than that. Ginger explained exactly what’s involved with a “full-friction” dance. My eyes drift to the row of five tequila shots that DeeDee’s pouring. Maybe if I down all of them right now . . .

A protective hand lands on my shoulder. “I think Mercy—the blond in the red dress over there—is available to give you that dance,” Ben announces, wedging himself between me and the guy, squashing the proposition like a bug. The lanky guy quickly vacates the bar area with a nod and a sheepish smile.

“Thanks, Ben,” I offer. Ben is usually the one rescuing me.

He flashes those dimples at me. “Beating guys off you is my job.”

“And beating off is your hobby. Hey! Ho! . . .” Ginger sings, following it up with a silly arm-waving dance, earning chuckles from the patrons around us.

I roll my eyes but laugh. “Well, either way. Can you believe he offered me a grand?” I peer up at Ben’s pleasing face with incredulity. We’ve ended up chatting a bit over the last couple of weeks, enough that I might call him a friend. An attractive, funny, sometimes offensive friend who would have his pants undone in under two seconds if I invited it.

But still a friend.

“I’m not surprised in the least.” His eyes slide down for a split second and I know he just stole a glance at my cleavage. Ben’s a boob guy. And a leg guy. And an ass guy. “But I’m glad you’re not taking it.”

“Yeah.” I shift my body slightly to wipe up the rest of the beer with my cloth. Why is that, again?

“How’s everything out here tonight?” the familiar smooth male voice behind me asks, and a blip of nerves spikes in my stomach. Turning, I find Cain flanking my other side, one hand resting on the bar, the other sitting in his pocket.

Oh, that’s right. Because my sexy boss—who allows everyone else to—won’t allow me. Ginger said his reasoning doesn’t make sense. It’s busy enough that, if I were to do one or two private dances a night, none of the other dancers would get her feathers in a bunch over it. Except for China, of course, but she’s pissed with me no matter what.

“All handled,” Ben mutters, taking a step back, a mixture of annoyance and amusement on his face. “Just another guy who finally grew a set and approached Charlie. Probably comes here every night to watch her dance.”

A rare flash of anger sparks in Cain’s eyes, but it quickly vanishes at the sound of Ginger’s voice. “Cain! What a surprise!” The playfulness in her tone is impossible to miss.

Those two have no shame when it comes to teasing their boss. Then again, apparently neither do I. Only, I’m doing it in a very different way.

Cain ignores them, turning his focus on me. “How are things going for you, Charlie?”

My mouth opens but I falter for a second. “Uh, good . . . Good.” He’s talking to me. It’s been weeks and he’s actually talking to me. Peering up into that gorgeous face as his eyes settle on me, I feel heat instantly rush up my thighs. Thanks to the unconventional and completely unfulfilling foreplay between us, I’m feeling all kinds of awkward right now.

His gaze drifts down to my chest and then snaps back up. I let a satisfactory smile touch my lips so that he knows I caught him. Could Cain actually be attracted enough to me to do something about it? It’s impossible to tell. I’ve spent time studying him: his face is usually without expression, regardless of the situation. Like mine. I wonder if he comes by it naturally—like me—or if he has consciously trained himself to be so unreadable. His hands remain still when he talks, and when he’s listening to others speak—which is often, because Cain seems to prefer listening—he’ll absently trace the rim of his glass with his fingertip.

He has no issues with eye contact, though. Those dark brown eyes drill right into you. You get the feeling that he’s mentally trapping your words for future reference.

He has only a few habitual moves. The most common is when his hand absently rubs the side of his neck,