Jackson: A Sexy Bastard Novel (2 page)

I
t’s surprisingly
warm on the stage—certainly warmer than I would have expected. But I guess that makes sense when all the performers are taking off their clothes.

A lot of the girls out there are already down to their thongs. I see their butts grinding up and down shiny chrome poles and I’m a little grossed out, but I have to believe what Missy told me.

“Girl, you ain’t never seen nobody cleaner than a stripper. Us girls would bathe in battery acid if it wouldn’t damage our skin. You have all them nasty dudes breathing on you all night? You’d take four showers a day, too.”

So I guess, all things considered, the poles are pretty clean. And it’s not like I’m about to lick them. I don’t think I am.

A buxom blonde with three nipple rings and a neon green thong—made of lace, of course—does a final split at the edge of her stage. Then she collects the singles that didn’t make it under the straps of her thong, stands, and saunters in my direction.

I wonder yet again if this is such a good idea. But what could possibly happen? No one’s allowed to touch me, and I’m perfectly at home onstage. Well, on a theater stage, anyway. Still, a performance is a performance, whether you’re wearing clothes or not.

“Your turn, Daisy Dukes,” Babs murmurs as she brushes past me. Up close, I can see the sweat on her brow, beading atop her thick makeup. I resist the urge to touch my own face, which, except for lipstick and a little eyeliner, is as bare as the day I was born. It was one of the many concessions my friend, Missy, was forced to make when I accepted her dare to get up on this stage tonight.

“Them lights are damn bright, girl,” she’d said emphatically. “Gonna wash you right out.”

“That’s fine. I don’t need to impress anyone. Well, anyone except you.”

Missy laughed. “Long as you don’t chicken out or get booed offstage, consider me impressed. Only rules I’m settin’ are you gotta use the pole, and you gotta strip down to your knickers.”

As if getting a few men to look at me with no clothes on could possibly be harder than performing a grand jeté in front of an audience of thousands.

Tentatively, I take one step out from the curtain. The heels they gave me are higher than anything I’ve ever worn, but they’re sturdy and well built. And after decades in pointe shoes, anything that doesn’t require me to stand on my toes feels like a cakewalk.

I take another step, and then another, and suddenly I’m out, exposed. The women performing on either side of me don’t pause, but I see their eyes flicker in my direction. Watching. My heart pounds, and I can feel the blood rushing to my face, my fingers, my toes. My body is primed. I never feel as alive as when I take the stage, and even without tulle at my waist, the feeling is the same. Pure exhilaration.

“Don’t look at their eyes,” Missy had warned me. “Look at their collars, or their receding hairlines, or their wedding bands if you have to, but avoid their eyes.” When I asked why, she gave me a look of pity. “Because, babe, you’ll just get distracted. It’s a rookie mistake. Don’t do it.”

Following her advice, I gaze out beyond the heads of the men clustered at my stage. The lights black out the rest of the room, so all I can see are vague shapes, with the occasional flash of silver here and glitter of gold there.
Come here
, I beckon to all of the suited, shaven, money-laden men.
Come watch. Come pay.
Because sure, the bet with Missy was to see if a traditional ballet dancer could “handle” getting up on stage and “make it in the real world.”

But I saw the looks the other girls gave each other in the dressing room. “Miss Prim and Proper thinks she’s going to show us how it’s done?” “Can’t wait to see this train wreck.” So I don’t want to just “handle” it, I want to nail it; I want to pull in more cash than any of them.

As I reach the center of the stage, I grasp the pole, aware of every set of eyes trained on me, trailing along my outstretched arm. The smooth metal surface is warm beneath my palm, and I wrap my fingers around it, relishing its solidness. A partner who won’t falter. I like it already.

“Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy” was the song Missy picked for me. A bit cliché, I thought, but it’s slow and has an easy beat to it that should be easy to move to. As soon as the tempo begins, I transform into the cowgirl of these men’s dreams.

Showtime, Skylar.

Lifting my feet, I swing around the pole, arching my neck back so my hair streams out behind me. I know what I look like: I look like I’m flying.

Watch me fly
.

My toes point instinctively as I come around the pole a second time. As I finish the turn, I let one leg extend out, gradually lowering myself to the floor in a front split. Amazingly, the cutoff jean shorts Missy lent me don’t protest in the slightest. Stripper-wear really
is
well made.

Reaching up the pole with both hands, I silently thank my mother for all of those years of gymnastics she forced on me, and I hoist my body off the floor, holding the split and swinging myself around one more time. I hear a few whistles and shouts to “come closer, baby.” The green tint of dollar bills flashes in my periphery, and my lips curl in a smirk.

Keep it coming, fellas.

Once I circle the pole, I tuck my knees and stand, doing a few hip gyrations as I unfold. A few more catcalls come from the wings, and I toss them a kiss.

That’s right, gentlemen. All eyes on me.

God, I am loving this.

My heart has calmed down to a steady bass beat reverberating through my body. Trailing my hands up my body in a caress that has them drooling, I bend backwards. The world tilts upside down as I lower my palms to the floor behind me and raise my legs into the air. I can hear the collective gasp as I slowly, painstakingly lower both legs into a side split over my head. Blood is rushing to my face, the music pounding through my palms, and I feel a giddy high course through me as more shouts ring in my ears and scratchy dollars are tucked into the legs of my shorts.

I’m doing this
, I think as I lower my legs to the stage and right myself. Missy was completely wrong about me. I’m the one in power. I’m taking their money from them, and they don’t even know my name.

But when I come up for air, I make the rookie mistake. I raise my head and look directly into the face of the man before me.

Into eyes like I’ve never seen before.

Into eyes I could fucking drown in.

H
er long
, lean legs, her golden skin, her perfect ass cupped inside tiny cut-off jeans. Fucking hell—I haven’t seen anything so hot, so arousing, in for-fucking-ever. Nothing could pull my eyes away from this goddess—nothing but goddamn Halford and his fat fucking mouth.

“Wooo-eee!” Halford slaps the stage and leans in, elbowing me in the ribs. “You see that right there?”

It takes everything in me to tear my eyes away from the gorgeous girl onstage, but I manage to do it, just long enough to see Halford pointing at a redhead hanging upside down from her pole on an opposite platform. She’s wiggling her pale breasts so fiercely that they’re nearly hitting her in the face.

“How’d ya like to get up there with her, eh?”

“She’s beautiful,” I murmur noncommittally, still unable to look away from the woman writhing around the pole just a few feet away. She’s almost graceful in her movements—like she’s a dancer or something.

“What, you got a thing against gingers?” Halford presses me.

I shrug. I know I should be paying attention to him—that’s why I’m here, after all: to woo him into thinking we’re “buddies” so he’ll fund the hospital project—but I can’t tear my eyes away from the cowgirl and her high-as-fuck heels. She’s so fluidly she could be made of mercury.

“She’s a little gymnast, that one.”

I realize I’ve been caught and force my full attention back to this grimy little man. Part of me wants to drag him away from the stage, to keep him away from this girl with the honest face and lithe limbs, and part of me is still reeling from the moment before, when she looked straight into my eyes. I’ve never felt such raw emotion emanate from a performer before.

Really, I’ve never felt such raw emotion coming from anyone, ever.

And now I feel weirdly protective of her, which makes absolutely no sense. They have bouncers here for that sort of thing, and if she didn’t want to be stared at, she wouldn’t be up on that stage.

“Hey,” I say to Halford, “did you want to head over there and chat with Black Widow over there?” I nod toward the redhead who is now right side up and appears to be groping her own ass.

“No no,” Halford shakes his head. “I see you got preferences. Like ‘em small and perky.”

His peppery eyebrows dance with glee, and for the third time tonight, I must physically restrain myself from getting up and heading for the door. Instead, I reach for my wallet.

“I was actually going to go get us another round.”

I do not need a refill; in fact I haven’t taken more than a few sips of the whiskey I’m holding. But I push my still-f glass out of view and rise, asking, “You want anything?”

“Sit down, Jackson.” Halford pushes me roughly back into my chair and stands. “Tonight’s on me. We’re gonna be partners, right? You designing my shopping plaza, me funding your hospital thing.”

I force another congenial grin, another tip of my glass to his, but he’s not paying attention; his eyes have already wandered back toward the redhead.

“At least let me pay for the drinks—a Guinness for me this time.” I press a twenty-dollar bill into his palm, but he pushes it away.

“Keep your money, Jackson. Better yet, shove it down the panties of that little minx behind you.”

He winks at me, then staggers away. I turn my attention back to the stage. Thank fuck the girl is still dancing—only now the tiny shorts are gone, and her skin is completely bare but for a thin strip of navy blue lace. She has one leg wrapped around the pole in a way that instantly has me imagining that leg wrapped around me, tight, smooth, clenched. Slowly, seductively she bends herself backward, revealing a pair of perfect, milk-white tits spilling up out of her bra-cups. Her white-blond hair brushes the floor, and I see that her eyes are closed, mouth pursed in thrilled concentration. I immediately want to touch that mouth, run my tongue over those lips.

But then her face is gone, the muscles of her back rippling as she pulls herself upright and spins to the ground in a tangle of limbs and pole. Compared to the other girls in here, she is a nymph, a sprite, tiny and light on her feet, but holy shit, is she sexy.

As if she can hear my thoughts, her eyes open. Blue-green, like the ocean, like sea glass. And then, all of sudden, she’s coming toward me on her hands and knees like a sleek pale panther. I want to move, to lean forward, to speak to her, but I’m locked into her sights. I can’t remember the last time I took a breath.

When she reaches the edge of the stage, I discover that I still have that twenty-dollar bill clenched in my hand. It’s crumpled and damp with sweat from my palm, so I try to smooth it out, readying myself to reach for that bit of lace and—

“You are so fucking beautiful.”

The voice comes from my right, and when I turn, I see a man with his entire body bent over the stage, reaching for her. It happens in slow motion: his hands making contact with the soft flesh of the girl’s ass, her eyes widening.

“Hey!” I yell, and lunge for the man’s collar, blood pounding at my temples. I’ll kill him. I’ll pound his face into— but suddenly, it’s too late. I haven’t even touched him, and he’s collapsed onto the floor in a heaving mess, blood spurting from his nose. Everything comes to a stop as all eyes turn toward the stage. The girl is upright now, her eyes as wide as saucers, rubbing her knuckles.

The man on the floor opens his eyes and lifts his head.

“What the fuck?”

Everything roars back to life as the man leaps to his feet and charges at the stage. A cascade of red streams down the front of his shirt. He lunges. I lunge. Sensual base music fills the room. Oxygen rushes into my lungs.

“That fucking bitch broke my nose!”

M
an
. Well, wonders never fucking cease.

I’m sitting outside Lace, on the curb, inspecting the damage. I barely remember what happened. All I know is the sight of that man reaching for her a second time made me basically lose my mind.

I touch my face, prodding the various cartilage and bones. Everything seems more or less intact. I don’t even know what I did in there, but by the state of my shirt, I must have gotten up pretty close and personal with his bloody nose. Either that, or I’m actually bleeding from somewhere and I just haven’t found the wound yet.

I roll up my sleeves and unbutton my top few buttons, then yank off my tie. Fuck this corporate uniform shit. I know that the uniform is sort of a given, but I feel like a goddamn Bible salesman in this get up.

Glancing around, I see the same asshole in his blood-soaked shirt slumped against the wall by the back door. Just the sight of his lopsided, bloodied face causes my fists to clench. Fucking creep. I’m readying myself for round two when the back door opens.

“I’m fine, I’m fine. Are
you
okay?”

The girl from the club—the nose-breaker with the amazing ass and even better tits—steps out, her back to me. Involuntarily, I stop in my tracks, my eyes following the sensual curves of her body.

“I’ll be okay when you get outta here,” another female voice inside groans. “Lord I’m gonna be in a world of trouble.”

A man’s voice shouts something indecipherable from further inside the building.

“Oh my god, Frank, relax!” the second girl shouts and then lowers her voice. “He’s back there talkin’ about calling the cops, for chrissake. Can you imagine?”

The girl laughs. The shadows mask her face, but her voice sounds like bells.

“‘Hello officer, there’s a 5’3” young woman here with a mean right hook . . .’”

Both women laugh again.

“But I win, right?” The bells have stopped and her voice is serious.

“What?”

“I win. I was already stripped down to my—”

“Yes! Dammit, Sky, you win. You’re fuckin’ fearless.”

The door slams shut, and the girl turns toward me. As soon as she sees me, her body tenses and she drops her knapsack, raising her fists.

“Hey, hey!” I bring my hands up, palms open. “Peace. I come in peace.”

She squints and then shades her eyes with one hand. I try again, shooting her my most charming smile. Or at least, attempting it.

“I’m the guy who
didn’t
grope you.”

A smile slides across her face, and she lowers both hands. Picking her bag off the ground, she slings it over her shoulder and continues toward me.

“Hi.” She holds out her hand. “I’m Skylar.”

I know I’ve just seen this woman virtually naked, but something about the way the plaid miniskirt she’s wearing brushes against her legs has me imagining my hands lifting the material and sliding my hands around to cup that perfect, luscious ass . . . .

I give myself a shake and hold out my hand, but then immediately pull it back.

“So, am I allowed to touch you since we’re outside of the club?” I wink, and she laughs.

“I think a handshake will be okay,” she says, her voice husky. Almost a purr.

I shrug. “I don’t want to end up like that other guy. His nose may never be the same again.”

She laughs again and I take her hand. The moment we touch, I feel something inside me flare—a flash of desire, and something more, something darker. I see it in her eyes, too. That instant attraction that is all about bodies and pleasure and
right here, right now.

“It’s great to meet you, Prize Fighter. I’m Jackson.”

We both pause, and then I release her hand.

“I guess if things don’t work out, you could always have a career in MMA. Although you might be a little too pretty for that—I think they like their women with a little more testosterone.”

“You don’t think these guns would cut it?” Skylar jokes, flexing her bicep. I reach out to give it a squeeze. Her skin is hot and smooth. I can only imagine how much hotter and smoother it gets beneath her clothes.

“The guns would make the cut,” I finally manage, “but would you really want to risk that face?”

“With these guns, nobody would touch my face.”

She starts jabbing at the air with both fists. There is mischief in her eyes, and I’m hyper-aware of how short the distance is between my body and hers. All it would take is one step, and I could easily thrust my hands right up that flimsy little skirt of hers.

But considering we’re in a strip club parking lot in the middle of the night, it’s probably not the best first impression to make.

Finally, she looks away and readjusts her knapsack. I can feel the moment slipping, but my brain is too many beats behind my body to catch up.

“Is there any way I could convince you to get a post-fight meal with me?” I ask her. When her heated gaze lands back on mine, my entire body feels like it’s on fire. All I can think about is getting my hands all over this girl.

“Uh, yeah,” she says slowly. “Sure.”

I can’t help but chuckle at her obvious hesitation.

“Look, gorgeous, I promise you I’m trustworthy, but if you’re uncomfortable, we can skip it.”

I raise a brow in her direction and a small smile spreads over her lips.

“No, I’m in. I’m starving.” She steps forward and looks up at me with those wide aqua eyes. God, this chick is phenomenal. I force myself to look away as I reach for my keys.

“I’m parked out front. It’s just a block or so from here.”

As we circle the building, I discover how tiny she really is: her head barely reaches the top of my shoulder. The realization makes me want to tuck her into my side, to figure out a way to shield her from the outside world. When we reach the front of the building, she stops and waits.

“Here.” I step around her and pull the keys from my pocket. Headlights blink one row away.

“Oh my god.” She runs through the cars and stops inches away from mine. “Are you for real?”

In reply, I reach around her to unlatch the passenger door.

“Seriously,” she squeals, diving headlong into the car. “I cannot believe this is your car!”

Her enthusiasm charms me, particularly because I, too, am in fucking love with this car. Porsches represent everything I love about luxury cars: they’re curvy, but strong, smooth, but powerful, and just expensive enough to be coveted. The day I signed Halford’s project was the day I went to the dealership, traded in my SUV, and got this baby. Now, here she sits, gleaming softly under the glow of the streetlight, her clean, leathery, new-car smell gradually being replaced by the clean, floral scent of the most intoxicating girl I’ve ever met.

“So,” I slide into the driver’s seat and slip the key into the ignition, before turning to gaze at Skylar. “Where are we headed, beautiful? What are you in the mood for?”

* * *

T
wenty minutes later
, we’re in the last place I ever would have expected to take a chick—a seedy part of town, pulled up alongside a curb that I am 99.99% sure is not a legal parking space. A paper bag sits between us, delicious smells wafting into the air. With a flourish, Skylar unfolds the top of the bag and picks out one tinfoil-wrapped parcel.

“Here, try this one. It’s my favorite.”

I unwrap the edges to find a jumble of breaded something-or-other mixed with purple strings of what I assume is cabbage, all smeared with tiny bits of indecipherable vegetables. Frankly, it looks like shit. But as unappetizing as it looks, it does smell divine.

“And you’re sure you don’t want to grab a bite somewhere a little … nicer?” I ask.

“Oh, live a little.” She opens the foil on another taco. “I eat here all the time. It’s one of the few decent places open at this hour.”

With that, she takes a big, messy bite and grins at me with food bulging from her cheek.

“See? Not dead yet.”

I raise a brow, then take a huge bite. I chew slowly.

“Holy shit.”

My eyes pop open. The taco is a fusion of flavors: tangy and salty and spicy all at once. The crust on the cod is tender and the cabbage is crunchy. I take another bite.

“This is amazing—I’m shocked.”

“Right?” She swallows, and I resist the impulse to wipe a smear of sour cream from her upper lip. “You’re not quite getting the full experience, though. Usually I sit on the curb to eat.”

She leans back in her seat and closes her eyes.

“Although I could get used to these digs.”

“So you’re a taco-eating . . . dancer?”

I’m still trying to wrap my mind around the fact that this gorgeous, graceful woman, who is so full of contradictions and complexities, is also a stripper.

But she’s unfazed by my comment. “I also have a dangerous right hook.”

I wink at her. “And you accept rides from strange men.”

“You’re not strange.”

Her eyes are wide again, trained on me with an intense seriousness. My immediate impulse is to reach out and lock a hand on the back of her neck, pulling her lush mouth beneath mine. Instead, I force a laugh.

“Of course I am. You’ve never met me before.”

“You introduced yourself in the parking lot.”

“Right, okay.”

I swallow the last bite of my taco and reach back into the greasy bag.

“What’s this?” I pull out something long and flat.

“Who knows?” She waggles her eyebrows at me. “Guess you’ll just have to unwrap it and find out.”

I’d rather unwrap her: peel back the corner of her skirt and run my hands along those smooth thighs . . . Refocusing on the foil, I begin to peel it away. It’s a steak quesadilla.

“My point is that you don’t know anything about me,” I continue. “I could be anyone. And not only did you get into my car without reservation, you just treated me to the best tacos I’ve ever eaten.”

She shrugs.

“What can I say? Your car looked trustworthy, and I won a bet. Had to treat someone, and Missy doesn’t get out for another two hours.”

Her explanation is so simple and straightforward, I can’t help but laugh.

“Plus, I know lots of things about you.”

“Oh yeah?” I raise my eyebrows and take another bite.

She nods. “You’re rich, but not too rich. And you didn’t grow up with money.”

I cock a brow at her. “And why would you assume that?”

“You drive a Porsche,” she says simply. “You’re rich enough to splurge, but you’re not such a he-man that you need everyone to know exactly how rich you are. Also, based on what happened in the club, you’ve never been in a fight in your life.”

I cross my arms over my chest and smirk. “How do you know?”

She cocks an eyebrow. “Who knocked that guy out, me or you?”

“That’s just because you were too quick. I didn’t even have a chance.”

She shrugs. “You’re lucky he was so drunk or you’d have lost some of those perfect teeth of yours.”

I snort a laugh. “My sucker punch might be a little rusty, I admit. But watching you go all bad-ass was sort of worth it.”

She smiles. “It didn’t make you self-conscious?”

She casually takes another bite of taco, her lips curling into a smirk as she chews. I swallow hard. Seeing her like this: leaned back, legs spread across the car seat—
my
car seat—primes my body. It takes everything in me not to reach across the car, rip that taco out of her hand, and put my jealous mouth where it’s wanted to be all night long.

When she notices me watching her, she licks orange grease from her fingers, one by one. The last one, her thumb, she sucks extra slowly.

Holy fuck.

“No,” I finally murmur. “It didn’t make me self-conscious.”

It did make me hot as fuck, though.

“You’re staring.”

Her words are a soft, sexy observation and I force my eyes away from her, out the windshield into the hazy night. Even without looking at her, I can feel her closeness, can see her every curve in my mind’s eye.

“I can’t help it if I like what I see,” I say, still staring out the slowly fogging glass.

She makes a sound deep in her throat, almost like a growl.

“You like pretty things, don’t you,” she murmurs.

And, just like that
,
I’m leaning across the seat toward her. My body is reacting to her every move, her every word, and I can’t hold back anymore. I’m desperate for a taste of her, for the feel of her skin beneath my hands. I anchor a hand back in her thick hair and pull her mouth beneath mine.

When our lips meet, the spark when we first touched explodes into a flaming inferno. She tastes of grease and salt and the faintest tang of something carnal and purely female. I press my tongue inside her mouth, and I can feel her sharp intake of breath. I squeeze the handful of hair and she whimpers slightly as I pull a bit harder. I’m trying to slow down, to keep my other hand in check, but the best I can do is keep it away from her bare legs, splayed open on the seat. Instead, I twine my fingers deeper into her hair, devouring her mouth with even greater fervor. Her body responds, arching toward me, and I can feel the tautness of her limbs—primed and ready to fight or fuck, it’s impossible to tell which. And I don’t fucking care.