need to get them on paper.”
A delicate red eyebrow arched over an eye alight with challenge. “What’s wrong? You don’t want to see Val?”
“This has nothing do with him.” If anything, she wanted to see him very much. Her body was warming and softening in all the right places just thinking about seeing him again. “I don’t go to the club with you just to see him. I go because you’re there, and it’s fun.”
“So get off your butt and let’s have some fun! It’s Saturday night and three, count ’em, three of the cage dancers are going to be wearing your designs.” She snatched the sketchbook out of Samair’s hands. “You have to come!”
“I have nothing to wear.”
“Bullshit. You have a ton of clothes, and I have a surprise for you that you’ll only get if you come out with us. Be sure to wear something of your own, too.” By the time she was done talking, Samair was next to the bed, rooting around in the closet they shared.
13
T hey used the back entrance to the club since Joey was a few minutes late. As soon as they were inside, she disappeared into one of the cages and Samair was left to wander the club floor. She clutched the silver business card holder that Joey had presented to her on the cab ride over and tried not to think about Val.
Not only was the case itself a gift, but it was full of shiny new business cards with Samair’s name and cell phone number on them. Samair’s throat tightened and she thanked God that she had Joey in her life. A friend who accepted her as she was and encouraged her to chase her dreams. Sweetheart that she was, Joey’d had the cards printed as a gift. Not only that, but the card holder was engraved with one word.
Trouble.
Just knowing that the thing people had always considered her to be was the same thing that was going to make her a success brought forth vital energy from deep within. The pulse-pounding music and atmosphere seeped into her veins and Samair fought the urge to dash into the middle of the dance floor and start handing a card to every person there.
What the hell? Why fight the urge? Trouble was the name, and the crowd was her target clientele.
J oey waved at Rob and Tara, who were sharing the main cage, as she climbed into number four. Tara had her new outfit on and was looking hot and sassy next to Rob, who wore only leather pants. His shirtless chest gleamed in the colored strobe lights and she wondered how he could dance all night long in leather pants.
Joey’d done it once, and swore she’d never try again. Sure, she’d made almost three hundred bucks that night, but the pants had chafed so badly, her inner thighs were raw for a week.
Okay, time to switch gears. She closed her eyes and focused on the music. In seconds her blood was humming and she was shaking her ass in time to the frenetic beat. When she danced it was all about feeling. Her mind went blank and thoughts of screaming kids who didn’t want to be in a dance class, and the parents that made them attend, floated away on the music.
In her mind she was one with the music; it told her how to move, how to entertain, how to seduce. It told her that everything was going to be all right. All she had to do was believe, and never give up. It told her that one day the dream would be real and she’d be dancing on stage in a movie, in a video, on tour with Beyoncé.
Anything was possible as long as she never gave up.
A tingle of awareness made the hair on her arms stand up and she looked around, spotting a lone man about fifteen feet away who was watching her.
He was dressed in dark gray slacks and a silver button-down dress shirt. Not a typical outfit for the crowd at Risqué, but it suited his slicked-back hair and trimmed goatee. People watched her all the time; she loved it, thrived on it. But this guy’s gaze was different. More intense, and slightly creepy. The music changed again, shifting to a medium tempo, sing-along song, and Joey
A delicate red eyebrow arched over an eye alight with challenge. “What’s wrong? You don’t want to see Val?”
“This has nothing do with him.” If anything, she wanted to see him very much. Her body was warming and softening in all the right places just thinking about seeing him again. “I don’t go to the club with you just to see him. I go because you’re there, and it’s fun.”
“So get off your butt and let’s have some fun! It’s Saturday night and three, count ’em, three of the cage dancers are going to be wearing your designs.” She snatched the sketchbook out of Samair’s hands. “You have to come!”
“I have nothing to wear.”
“Bullshit. You have a ton of clothes, and I have a surprise for you that you’ll only get if you come out with us. Be sure to wear something of your own, too.” By the time she was done talking, Samair was next to the bed, rooting around in the closet they shared.
13
T hey used the back entrance to the club since Joey was a few minutes late. As soon as they were inside, she disappeared into one of the cages and Samair was left to wander the club floor. She clutched the silver business card holder that Joey had presented to her on the cab ride over and tried not to think about Val.
Not only was the case itself a gift, but it was full of shiny new business cards with Samair’s name and cell phone number on them. Samair’s throat tightened and she thanked God that she had Joey in her life. A friend who accepted her as she was and encouraged her to chase her dreams. Sweetheart that she was, Joey’d had the cards printed as a gift. Not only that, but the card holder was engraved with one word.
Trouble.
Just knowing that the thing people had always considered her to be was the same thing that was going to make her a success brought forth vital energy from deep within. The pulse-pounding music and atmosphere seeped into her veins and Samair fought the urge to dash into the middle of the dance floor and start handing a card to every person there.
What the hell? Why fight the urge? Trouble was the name, and the crowd was her target clientele.
J oey waved at Rob and Tara, who were sharing the main cage, as she climbed into number four. Tara had her new outfit on and was looking hot and sassy next to Rob, who wore only leather pants. His shirtless chest gleamed in the colored strobe lights and she wondered how he could dance all night long in leather pants.
Joey’d done it once, and swore she’d never try again. Sure, she’d made almost three hundred bucks that night, but the pants had chafed so badly, her inner thighs were raw for a week.
Okay, time to switch gears. She closed her eyes and focused on the music. In seconds her blood was humming and she was shaking her ass in time to the frenetic beat. When she danced it was all about feeling. Her mind went blank and thoughts of screaming kids who didn’t want to be in a dance class, and the parents that made them attend, floated away on the music.
In her mind she was one with the music; it told her how to move, how to entertain, how to seduce. It told her that everything was going to be all right. All she had to do was believe, and never give up. It told her that one day the dream would be real and she’d be dancing on stage in a movie, in a video, on tour with Beyoncé.
Anything was possible as long as she never gave up.
A tingle of awareness made the hair on her arms stand up and she looked around, spotting a lone man about fifteen feet away who was watching her.
He was dressed in dark gray slacks and a silver button-down dress shirt. Not a typical outfit for the crowd at Risqué, but it suited his slicked-back hair and trimmed goatee. People watched her all the time; she loved it, thrived on it. But this guy’s gaze was different. More intense, and slightly creepy. The music changed again, shifting to a medium tempo, sing-along song, and Joey
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