James: A College Girl Romance (2 page)

Fantasy Land
happened to be one of the more upscale “exotic dancing” locations, due to its location between two universities and the state capital. I had heard some of the servers and dancers talking about big tips from politicians and rich frat boys. Rich frat boys attending the same university I had before my life had taken its detour into living paycheck to paycheck.

The difference between the drunken frat boys at my university and me? A
whole
lotta money. Their parents had sent them off to attain degrees—usually in enology and viticulture—before these dicks trotted back home to run the family winery.

Typically, the frat boys were up front and center—loud, drunk, and waving more cash than advisable just off a lonely stretch of interstate. The politicians from the capital tended to favor spots like table ten. Empty, way in back, away from the lights. According to the girls I had talked to, if you were looking to “score” a lot of money, the back was where to find it.

I had heard at least one girl—who was and not looking to make a career change any time soon—had gotten her apartment paid for by a certain assemblyman. I wasn’t going to judge her for it. I had been late on my rent for the past several months before taking this job. At the same time, becoming a sex slave to some cheating politician didn’t appeal to me.

There was always a shudder and gag factor whenever I saw something on the Internet about some ageing Hollywood icon marrying a girl a quarter of his age. Then again, both parties were getting something out of the deal. But geriatric narcissists? Not my type. Of course, any guy I happened to notice never noticed me. It was my curse. The normal guys saw right through me, while the perverts and weirdoes flocked to me.

It was part of the reason I hadn’t slept with anyone by the ripe old age of twenty-three. Given the choice between perverts or psychos, I had chosen option three—celibacy. My theory was:
you can’t miss what you’ve never had
.

In all honestly, though, I had been so fucking wrong. Why else would I end up watching old DVDs of
True Blood
at three in the morning for the Eric and Sookie scenes? That was the problem. In this place, I was more likely to run into a goddamn vampire than I was to run into a guy I actually wanted to sleep with.

The bigger problem, though, was that I didn’t even have enough money for Netflix—and I wasn’t about to go to a pirate site and fuck up my semi-functional computer looking for free content. With
my
luck, I would get a virus that would steal my credit card number and crash my hard drive.

When I reached table ten, I stopped carefully, bent down, and set the napkin on the table, followed by the drink. Every time I bent down to deliver a drink, I imagined that the reason they made these tables so low and the servers heels so high was so the “clients” could enjoy the added bonus of getting tits in their faces while being served cheap hard alcohol and shit beer. I quickly released the glass and began to straighten to my full five-feet nine-inches—four of those inches being supplied by my platform Mary Janes.

“You don’t want your tip?” a deep male voice asked, causing my skin to prickle.

I shrugged without looking at him.

“Give it to Jenna,” I said as I turned to leave. “It’s her section.”

I hadn’t teetered more than a step away when a large hand caught me by the wrist. Anger flooded me, but I turned slowly, well aware that twisting my ankle trying to preserve my dignity wouldn’t help me pay rent.

“Do you—”

I stopped short when I looked up from the hand holding my wrist to the guy’s face. My breathing sped up. Images from
True Blood
episodes and old paperback Anne Rice novels I had stolen from my mom flitted through my head.

My eyes ticked over him without my permission. Table ten had dark, soft-looking hair and perfectly proportioned features slightly obscured by stubble that made him even sexier. Even with the facial hair, there was something too perfect about his face that reminded me of how nearly every author of vampire books described creatures of the night. He even had dark circles under his eyes, which somehow wasn’t unattractive. Again, it just screamed
vampire
.

So did his suit, his watch, the handkerchief in his breast pocket—which also screamed money and taste. I was short on both. My go-to outfit—when I wasn’t wearing this endearing schoolgirl outfit—was skinny jeans, fitted T-shirt, and ballet flats.

“Do I what?” he asked, only his eyes betraying that he was laughing at me.

My eyes moved from his lips to his eyes. His eyes. If I had needed proof he was a vampire, this was it. His eyes were so dark they were almost black, which wasn’t possible, was it? I couldn’t see his pupils at all. It was unnerving to the point where I was having trouble finding my goddamn voice.

And
this
was the other problem with guys and me—on the rare occasion I did happen to be attracted to a guy, I turned into a mute idiot almost immediately. Like right now. Which was ridiculous, because this guy was so far out of my league that it made me wonder—what the hell was he doing here?

“Do you always fondle the servers at the establishments you frequent?” I asked, recovering myself rather admirably.

I wasn’t ashamed to admit that if I had turned around and this guy had been a sweaty, leering pig who had called me “sugar tits” right off the bat, I would not have been playing nice—or at least what I considered playing nice in a strip club.

“Hmm,
fondle
. This doesn’t really meet my definition of fondle,” he said as his thumb slowly traced the inside of my wrist.

I gasped and looked down where his hand held my wrist. His thumb continued to stroke the sensitive skin, sending shockwaves straight through me that settled low in my abdomen. Suddenly I felt like the heroine in a Victorian era bodice ripper—getting hot from one touch on the wrist.

“Mmm. I think you just made my night.”

My eyes snapped to his face just as he released my wrist. He leaned back in the booth and picked up his glass of expensive hooch, as Jerry had called it. When he lifted the glass to his mouth, his eyes remained locked on mine.

I couldn’t help staring, which only aggravated me further. He rolled the liquid around in his mouth, savoring it, and when he swallowed, my eyes traveled from his mouth to his Adam’s apple to the open buttons of his dress shirt, which exposed the top of a well-muscled pectoral region. I was surprised to note that beneath the crisp dress shirt, he was inked to hell. Unfortunately, I couldn’t actually tell what any of the tats were.

Shit!
What was wrong with me? He was in a strip club, and
I
was ogling
him
?

“So what’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?” he asked with a smirking smile.

Staring at his white, perfectly straight teeth, I thought:
Definitely a vampire
. I looked for extra-sharp canines.

“Working, which I should get back to.”

“I haven’t seen you around before.”

He was a regular. Great.

“That’s because I haven’t been here long, and I don’t intend to be any longer than I have to.”

I bit my lip. I hadn’t meant to be that blunt, but this guy seriously rattled me. It wasn’t just his looks; it was the way he was looking at me, the blackness of his eyes burning through me.

“What do you
intend
to do, then?”

“Graduate, go to law school …”
Anything but this
.

He laughed.

“Working at a strip club off the freeway to pay for tuition.”

He said it like he was reciting a joke he had heard before.

“What’s funny about that?” I demanded as I contemplated picking up the tray from the empty table next to him and smacking his perfect, stubble-covered face.

He shrugged in a lazy way that made me think of the word
insouciant
. In fact, I was pretty sure if I looked up the word insouciant in the dictionary, there would be a picture of this guy. His entire demeanor screamed, ‘
I don’t give a fuck
.’ He picked up his drink and took another mouthful.

“That would be a long story a beautiful girl like you doesn’t need to hear.”

I blushed. I couldn’t think of a single time a man—or anyone for that matter—had actually called me beautiful. More than likely, it was just a line. In fact, it was definitely a line.

Cass—get it together!
I scolded myself.

For fuck’s sake. If I was going to survive long enough to save up some decent cash, I had to have a better bullshit radar.

“I have to get back to work,” I muttered.

I cleaned up the table next to him, feeling his eyes on me the entire time. Then I started walking back to the bar, relieved that it was a slow night. Most of the girls hated quiet nights—less money—but I preferred them. There was less chance I would forget drink orders or spill something.

“Cass?”

I stopped and slowly turned around.

“How did you know—”

He held up the cocktail napkin with my name on it. I nodded, feeling stupid.

“What time do you get off?” he asked like he didn’t care either way.

Yep. Another one of
those
guys. Maybe he thought he had a better chance with wait staff than one of the dancers. On the other hand, this guy wasn’t one who would have trouble finding female company for the night, which made the fact that he was bothering with me seriously
strange
. Like serial killer strange. Did I look like an easy target?

“Late.”

He smiled, like he had expected my answer, and nodded. Then he lifted his glass in salute. I turned and rolled my eyes as I walked away. An ego case. Possibly a serial killer. Definitely not Prince Charming.

I was really starting to believe in creatures of the night.

As I cruised the tables in my area, most of the customers didn’t bother looking away from the stage when I asked if they needed anything. Most of the “clientele” ordered cheap well drinks or cheaper beer. During an Internet search, I had found out that in some states, it was legal to have fully nude dancers and alcohol. California wasn’t one of them—it was just topless dancing and G-strings.

I had read some of the studies online. Alcohol plus adult entertainment equaled increased crime. Most municipalities didn’t like having booze and nude dancers, but this particular stretch of freeway was mostly under the jurisdiction of the highway patrol. A county sheriff’s deputy didn’t even come out to this unincorporated stretch of highway. Everybody seemed to like it better when the adult entertainment wasn’t in their back yards—but remained accessible.

By the end of the night, my tips added up to maybe one unit’s worth of education, but something was better than nothing. That had been my mantra lately: something was always better than nothing.

When I was done cleaning off tabletops, I walked to the back and yanked off the platform Mary Janes. Next, I stripped off the fishnets. The rest of my “uniform” went into an empty locker. Then I changed into my requisite T-shirt, skinny jeans, and ballet flats. I had never worn skirts more than I had in the past six weeks—and definitely not ones this short.

Back in the club at the bar, a few of the dancers were counting their tips, drinking, and trading stories. I knew enough not to try to fit in. I had learned that lesson young: I didn’t fit—anywhere, really.

“
Hey
! Jerry, what’s her name?
Casey
!”

I paused. I really wanted to pretend that I hadn’t heard an approximation of my name being called. So far, I had managed to fly under the radar with Crystal, one of
Fantasy Land
’s headliners. With fried, peroxide-blonde hair, blood-shot creepy blue doll eyes, and collagen-packed lips painted a shiny bubble gum pink, Crystal looked great on stage. Plus, she had what most of the clientele wanted in a dancer—huge boobs, an impeccable spray tan, and a hungry look that said, “
For a little extra cash or drugs, sure I’ll fuck you
.”

I had watched her from a distance since starting. She flirted with the bouncers, probably gave Bob BJs in his office, and saw wait staff as subhuman. She considered the other dancers either as competition or people she could brag to. I avoided Crystal, and the last thing I needed was for her to notice me.

When she started snapping her fingers at me, I gritted my teeth and turned toward the bar, making sure to plaster a neutral expression on my face as I approached her.
Holy fuck!
Her eyebrows were terrifying up close. Well, more like her lack of eyebrows. Clearly whatever lurked above her spider-like false eyelashes had been drawn on.

I stopped in front of her and a couple of the other dancers—Brandy and Angel. I hoped Crystal wasn’t expecting me to kiss her ring or grovel, because that just wasn’t gonna happen.

“Who was that guy at table ten?” she asked with no preamble.