“It looked like you were shaking your ass up there for every Tom, Dick and Harry to see.”
She shrugged. “I’m a stripper, Greyson, that’s typically how it works.”
I flattened my tongue against the roof of my mouth to temper the string of curse words I wanted to let rip. “Don’t you mean adult entertainer?”
She rolled her eyes. “Let’s not play games. Now tell me why you’re here.”
Wasn’t it obvious? I figured she understood by now that this place was for lonely men without any real connections in their lives. I was here to forget about the miserable day I’d spent at work, and because I wasn’t ready to go home alone to an empty house. “Isn’t everyone here for the same thing? To drop about fifty bucks and go home with a raging boner…” I grinned at her.
“Git up there and get nekkid, doll face,” a man called from the crowd.
I whipped my head around to glare at him. I was going to break that motherfucker’s mouth for talking to her that way. But before I could do anything to shut him up, Finley pulled my attention back.
“I can’t talk to you right now. My boss is right over there, and he expects me to be working.” Her eyes flitted over to a bald man in an ill-fitting thrift store suit. His scowl etched a deep line across his forehead.
“Fine. Then I’ll buy a lap dance. How much?” I pulled my wallet from my back pocket and watched as Finley’s gorgeous pink lips parted in surprise.
Stand the fuck down.
“Forty, but there’s no way I’m …”
“Here’s eighty. Take it.” I shoved the money at her, but she took a step back.
“I’m not taking your money, Greyson.”
“Well, then it looks like we're stuck, because I'm not leaving here without you answering a few questions. For starters, how’s the baby?”
She let out a heavy sigh and shoved a hand into the mass of honey blonde curls tumbling down her shoulders. “You’re incredibly annoying.”
“Just a couple of minutes. You don't even have to actually do the dance.” My cock begged me to reconsider, but I firmly told it to shut up. I was trying to strike a bargain here. Helping Finley was more important than feeling her delicious ass grinding into my groin...dammit, the things I do for friendship. “Consider the eighty bucks a fair trade for putting up with my questions.”
“But my boss will—”
“Your boss can't bitch if you’re getting paid. If you need an excuse, tell him I wanted to buy you a drink and complain about my day.” That wasn't totally out of the ordinary—I knew at least one coworker who treated strippers like therapists. I motioned to the plush velvet lounge chairs across from us. “Come on. Those shoes have got to be killing your feet.”
Her eyes cut over to the seating area with longing. “Fine. Two minutes...and I'm starting the clock now.”
Once we were seated, it was nearly impossible to keep my eyes up on hers. It was like they were being pulled by a magnet down to her beautiful naked chest. Maybe forgoing the lap dance was the best move after all—I was already struggling to keep my blood in my brain, just from the sight of her. I probably couldn't string two sentences together if that incredible body was writhing against me. And something told me she knew how to move, and grind, and thrust ...
Fuck.
Finley was clearly just as uncomfortable, but in a much less enjoyable way, fidgeting on her seat and barely resisting the urge to cross her arms over her breasts. Not that she had anything to hide – she was perfection. But she'd been so bold just a few minutes ago, arguing with me by the stage. I didn't like the idea that merely being alone with me was enough to rattle her nerves. I wanted her to trust me, or at least get back on speaking terms.
She was watching me expectantly. Shit, I forgot to actually start talking. Fucking hell. If I had any hope of surviving this conversation, she needed to cover up her chest. Immediately.
“Here, take my shirt,” I said, unbuttoning the top few buttons on my dress shirt.
Finley rolled her eyes. “I can’t wear clothes out on the floor. That’s not how this works, you ass. I’m sure you’re smart enough to know that much at least.”
Last I knew, Finley had been widowed after I fucked up the mission Marcus and I were on – our last as Navy SEALs. She should be home raising her infant daughter and baking cookies, not tucking singles into her G-string and giving lap dances. It made me want to punch something.
Forcing oxygen into my lungs, I fought to clear my head. “Fine. Please just tell me what in the fuck you’re doing working here?” It wasn’t even a nice place. It was a fucking truck-stop strip club off the highway. Had it been a low-key gentleman’s club where she served cocktails in a skimpy outfit, I might have let it slide. No, fuck that, not even then. I didn’t enjoy the thought of another man’s eyes on her.
Her gorgeous green eyes narrowed. “You’re the last person who should be judging me.”
I nodded once. “Fair enough. I’ve fucked up plenty, and I’m not trying to judge you, I’m just … a little thrown off here.”
She swallowed and looked down at her hands. I noticed the simple gold wedding band had been moved from her left hand to her right, like she couldn’t quite part with it, but couldn’t keep on like everything was normal either.
“Since …” She took a deep breath and started again. “It’s just a job, I needed the money, and …” She stopped herself.