Shooting Dirty (7 page)

“You know what men do in this parking lot?” she asked.

“I can guess.”

“There are two main types,” she said, counting on her fingers. “The jerkoffs, and the jerkoff watchers. The watchers think they’re doing a public service by pointing out the perverts. But they’re really just looking for a show.”

Ace shook a cigarette out of his pack and lit it up. “Don’t forget the jerkoff watcher-watchers. They watch the watchers watch.”

She smiled at the joke, which sounded like a Dr. Seuss reference. Maybe he read picture books to his daughter.

He blew smoke into the cab. “How’s your son?”

“Fine,” she said. “Grounded for life.”

“No other trouble?”

She shook her head. “Is that why you’re here?”

He shrugged, taking another drag.

“Did you visit your friend?”

“He’s not my friend. But yes, I met him.”

“You think he’ll bother me again?”

His mouth twisted. “If he does, he’ll be sorry.”

She didn’t ask how he’d make Jester sorry. She didn’t want to know anything about his criminal activities. “I don’t need a watcher,” she said, gesturing toward the entrance. “There’s a bouncer inside.”

He gave her a doubtful look. Two months ago, he’d replaced her side window in this very parking lot without anyone noticing. Needless to say, security at Vixen was pretty lax.

“Tiffany walks me out every night,” she added.

“I know.”

Janelle glanced over her shoulder at Tiffany, who’d cranked up the radio in her Jeep. She was doing the robot to a techno beat. “You’ve been out here before?”

“A few times.”

“You never come inside.”

“Should I?”

She crossed her arms over her chest, unsure how to respond. Ace hadn’t been in the club since the night he paid her for a lap dance. He’d enjoyed her performance, judging by his massive erection. But he’d kept his mouth shut and his hands to himself. When it was over, he’d paid her a modest tip and left.

She was glad he hadn’t returned. She’d never date a customer. The bachelor-party boys were tiresome and loud. The regulars were sex addicts or misguided saviors. She’d make more money if she broke the rules and accepted phone numbers, but she refused to participate in that particular hustle. It would feel like prostitution.

More
like prostitution.

Ace didn’t seem like the type of man who paid for sex. Maybe he preferred to tie women up and take what he wanted.

“Before I forget,” he said, reaching into his glove compartment. He found a swath of black lace and passed it to her.

She accepted the panties warily.

“I washed them.”

She flushed, imagining what else he might have done to them. She kind of liked the idea of him having her panties. Had he smelled them, touched them, pictured her in them? Now that he’d returned the keepsake, their fantasy affair was over.

“I’m moving in with my mother,” she said, for no particular reason.

His gaze sharpened. “Because of Jester?”

“Not really. Other things.”

“Like what?”

“Finances.”

“I told you I had money for you.”

“I won’t take it. I wouldn’t have taken it from Shane, either.”

“He wouldn’t have given it to you.”

She resented this blunt truth about her son’s father, spoken so casually by his killer. Ace was a harsh person, cold-eyed and sharp-edged. During the time she’d spent as his captive, he’d told her that she’d picked the wrong brother to have a kid with. Owen would have been a far better choice.

“It’s not your fault he was no good,” Ace said.

“It’s your fault he’s dead.”

Ace didn’t look sorry. Maybe he thought he’d done her a favor. Janelle wasn’t sure why his lack of remorse bothered her. Shane had been a killer himself, and she’d wished for his demise many times, but she’d also loved him.

As bad as he’d been, she’d loved him.

“I have to go,” she said.

Ace reached out to grasp her wrist. When she frowned in protest, he released her. “Meet me here tomorrow night.”

“Why?”

He hesitated, as if he couldn’t think of a suitable answer. He didn’t understand this compulsion any more than she did. Heat flickered between them. It had sparked when he’d held her prisoner. Seeing him again had stoked the flames.

Maybe they were screwed up in the same ways, or they’d lived through a similar set of experiences. He was an intriguing mix of light and dark. She knew he wasn’t good for her, but her body didn’t care. Her heart beat faster, hammering against her ribs.

She sensed the hunger in him, and she wanted him to unleash it on her. He was a wolf, lurking in the shadows, and she wanted to be dragged down to the ground and consumed. She wanted him to take until there was nothing left.

Although she longed to give her desires free rein, she couldn’t afford to get involved with a man like him.

She was trying to escape the hole she was in, not dig herself deeper.

“I can’t,” she said in a soft voice, and walked away.

Chapter Eight

Janelle rolled out of bed with a groan.

Squinting at the bright light, she trudged into the bathroom. The mirror above the sink showed a woman with puffy eyes and ratty hair. She hadn’t slept well last night. After leaving Ace in the parking lot, she’d driven home to her trailer in Salton City. Tiffany had come over with a six-pack of beer and another joint. They’d drowned their sorrows, talked about Ace and wallowed in sexual frustration. The last thing Janelle remembered was hearing Tiffany sneak out in the wee hours of the morning.

Janelle washed her face and wandered into the kitchen, shaking her head. She always told Tiffany not to drink and drive—but as soon as Janelle went to sleep, Tiffany did just that. She waited until the coast was clear and took off.

Janelle checked her phone for a text. Sure enough, Tiffany had sent one saying she got home okay.

“Reckless,” Janelle muttered, making coffee. At times she felt more like Tiffany’s mother than her friend. Janelle was the oldest dancer at the club, so she played the caretaker role with the other girls, too. Someone had to. God knew Kevin wasn’t looking out for his employees. He was too busy screwing them in his office. Janelle never got around to asking him for the extra shifts. She felt weird about it now.

Ugh.

Her mother had taken Jamie to school this morning. Janelle was planning to pack up most of her belongings before he got home. She paid month to month, and January was almost over. Now was as good a time as any to make the change.

She took her coffee to the couch, where Tiffany was supposed to sleep last night. Janelle had given her a pillow and a blanket, which were resting neatly on the cushions, along with a few novelty items.

Janelle almost spit out a mouthful of coffee when she saw the leather collar, wrist cuffs, paddle and ball gag.

WTF?

Tiffany hadn’t left a note explaining the gifts, but Janelle knew where they were from. The dancers at Vixen often did private parties with sexy props. Tiffany had stopped performing outside of the club, so she no longer needed these things. Apparently she thought Janelle might be able to put them to better use.

She laughed at Tiffany’s audacity—and her optimism.

Sitting down, Janelle sipped her coffee and studied her new toys. They appeared unused. Janelle wasn’t sure about the ball gag and the paddle. She didn’t think she’d like getting spanked. She investigated the collar instead. It was faux black leather, cheap and adjustable. She held it to her throat, feeling her pulse pound against the stiff material. Swallowing hard, she set aside her coffee and grabbed the cuffs.

They were adjustable, like the collar, and linked together by a short chain.The cuffs could secure her wrists over her head, in front of her body or behind her back. Her nipples pebbled at the thought. She remembered how she’d felt in the shed, standing on tiptoe with her hands bound and her arms pulled taut.

Helpless, exposed, on edge.

Ace panting against her neck, his hands fisted in her hair.

She took the items to her room and tossed them on the bed, her heart racing. Why get all horny for no reason? She couldn’t tie herself up, and she didn’t trust a man to do it. She certainly wasn’t going to call Ace for help.

No fucking way.

She’d made the right decision last night. Teasing herself with twisted fantasies would only result in more frustration. She had to forget about Ace and the bad-girl ideas he inspired. She was a mother, for Christ’s sake. She couldn’t afford to get distracted. She was going to be a college graduate, and a physical therapist.

She was going to be
respectable
.

Gulping her coffee, she tugged on some old jeans and put a hankie over her hair. Then she got down to work. Most of her furniture was crap, and there was no room for it at her mother’s house anyway. She piled her clothes, shoes and bedding into large, black trash bags. She cleaned out her kitchen cabinets and took all of the canned goods to the old lady next door. Her beauty products and accessories filled a big laundry basket. She packed up the dishes and silverware, keeping only what they needed.

By midday, she’d thrown away a ton of stuff. She didn’t bother with Jamie’s room. Invading his privacy would only add insult to injury. He could organize his own things when he came home from school.

After she cleaned and vacuumed, she climbed into the shower to wash off the dust. While she was stepping out of the stall, she remembered her secret stash. She wrapped a towel around her body and walked into her bedroom.

There were two boxes under the bed. One was metal, and locked with a key that she’d tucked into her jewelry case. It was full of old photographs and letters Shane had sent to Jamie. Some were sweet, others full of rambling idiocy. One year Shane had forgotten Jamie’s birthday and she’d had a huge fight with him on the phone. She’d stopped accepting his calls. The next year he’d written, “It’s too bad your mother’s a bitch.”

She’d confiscated his letters after that.

Now that Shane was dead, she felt bad about cutting ties with him. It had been the right thing to do—Shane had jumped parole and gotten shot immediately after his prison release. She’d thought about giving the letters to Jamie after the funeral, but he’d been so angry and distant since then. She was afraid he’d hate her for keeping them from him. She hid the box in one of the bags of laundry, her stomach roiling.

It was another dark secret, like her place of work. Revealing it could blow up in her face. He wouldn’t understand that she’d done this to protect him.

The second box was a toy chest with a couple of vibrators that had seen more action than any flesh-and-blood man she’d been with over the years. They’d given her better orgasms and fewer headaches, too.

She added Tiffany’s props to the box. Everything fit except the paddle. She was about to pack the toys away when it dawned on her that she wouldn’t be using them anytime soon. Her mother’s house was a two-bedroom. Janelle would be sleeping on the couch. She’d have no privacy. She couldn’t fire up a noisy vibrator and go to town. There would only be furtive stroking under the blankets or silent sessions in the shower.

The loss of independence bothered her. She liked living on her own, cleaning when the mood struck and letting the dishes pile up when it didn’t. This trailer wasn’t much, but she was the queen bee here.

She picked up the paddle and thwacked it against the bare mattress a few times, enjoying the sound it made.

Yes
,
mistress
.

The bed looked different with no pillows or sheets. It was stark and severe, like a place someone might get punished—or held against her will.

Janelle’s throat went dry at the thought. She let the damp towel drop at her feet and stood naked in the empty room. Her nipples pebbled and her skin tingled with awareness. She smacked the mattress again. It jiggled against the bed frame, drawing her attention to the slatted headboard. She saw herself lying there with her arms stretched over her head, bound and still. Waiting to be touched.

On impulse, she set the paddle aside and grabbed the cuffs. They had Velcro straps. She secured her left wrist, letting the other cuff dangle. Then she selected her best vibrator and climbed on the worn mattress.

Getting situated was tricky. Lying flat didn’t work; the vibrator wouldn’t stay put. She sat up with her back against the headboard. Turning on the vibrator, she rested it between her legs, letting the pink head buzz against her clit.

Oh
,
yes.
Right there.

Shivering with anticipation, she played for a minute, sliding the device over the pouty lips of her sex. Then she sank it deep inside. The toy wasn’t huge, but she felt very full. She imagined Ace’s fat cock stretching her wider.

God
.

She licked her fingertips and circled her clit for a few seconds, smothering a groan. She was already close to orgasm, so she moved her hands to her breasts, squeezing them together and pinching her hard nipples.

Sufficiently warmed up, she removed the vibrator from her slick pussy and propped it against her clit. The fleshy tip continued to stimulate her even after she let go of the base. She tucked her hands behind her back, securing them to the slatted headboard. She could free herself by releasing the straps. The point was that she
felt
restrained and helpless.

Her vibrator buzzed against her swollen clit, persistent. Pressure built between her legs and her breaths quickened. This was dirty and depraved. Who masturbated like this? Weirdos who accidentally hanged themselves, that’s who. She wondered how the leather collar would feel, snug around her neck. Would the ball gag fill her mouth? She’d rather have a cock there. Ace’s cock, shoving inside and pressing against the back of her throat.

Gagging her. Just a little.

Jesus
. She was going to come.

Usually her mind drifted during sexual activity, floating away to a safe space. She felt pleasure from a comfortable distance. The cuffs seemed to hold her in place, grounding her to reality. Tethering her to her body. The sensations were sharper and more exquisite. She felt the air on her tight nipples and heard the fan whirring in the other room. The vibrator hummed, delivering pure pleasure. Her thighs started to shake and her stomach quivered. Her clit was like a hot bead, throbbing with life, the center of everything. She pictured Ace’s tattooed hands skating over her taut belly.

His callused fingertips, stroking her wet pussy.

She arched her spine, straining toward climax. Almost there. The constant vibration was so good, and the cuffs bit into her wrists, creating a tension she’d never experienced before. She shifted her hips and...

Oh
,
fuck
.

The vibrator slipped down a notch.

She ripped off her right cuff and grabbed the toy, desperate to reinstate the sensation. The instant it touched her, she exploded, her legs splayed wide and her body shuddering with ecstasy. The orgasm unraveled with a force that made her toes curl.

Damn
.

When it was over, she turned off the vibrator and lay there for several moments, panting. The pleasure had almost been too much to bear. She could only imagine how it would feel with Ace at the reins. Uncomfortably arousing. Deeply satisfying.

Pussy-wrecking.

Yeah, she didn’t need that much sexual intensity. She was already afraid of him, afraid of the feelings he inspired. The idea of letting him get her off this good was scary. She didn’t trust any man enough to bare herself completely to him.

The abuse she’d endured as a young girl had left her broken. She’d developed a number of defense mechanisms, like avoiding relationships and separating her mind from her body during sex. She could enjoy herself at a distance. But she couldn’t be present and vulnerable at the same time. That level of intimacy was beyond her.

In some ways, she was lucky. At least she enjoyed sex. She’d had coworkers who couldn’t stand to be touched. Others invited contact from everyone and couldn’t seem to say no. Some were dead inside, enduring mistreatment as if they deserved it.

Many, like Tiffany, engaged in self-destructive behavior and looked for love in all the wrong places.

Janelle couldn’t say she hadn’t done the same, from time to time.

Not every dancer had emotional issues or a history of abuse, but it was a struggle to stay well-adjusted in this business, even if you started out that way. Sexual harassment ran rampant. Married customers offered a skewed view of men and relationships. It was difficult to transition from stripping to other low-paying jobs.

On the other hand, Janelle had really come into her own on the stage. She’d gained confidence and learned to set professional boundaries. She’d made some great friends. She genuinely enjoyed dancing. Although she was ready to move on, she couldn’t wallow in regrets. She’d done what she had to do to support herself and Jamie.

She rose from the bed and got dressed. She rinsed her vibrator in the sink and tossed all of the sexy props in the bottom drawer of her dresser. Throwing the stuff away would be wasteful, but she couldn’t take it to her mother’s. She also didn’t want to be reminded of Ace, and all the dirty things she shouldn’t crave. Maybe she’d give the items back to Tiffany.

Janelle spent the next hour loading up her car. She’d just sat down to drink a diet soda when Jamie walked in. He dropped his backpack on the floor by the door. She’d asked him not to do that a thousand times.

“What the hell is this?” he asked, gaping at the mostly empty space.

Here we go.

“We’re moving to your grandma’s.”

“Why?”

“To save money.”

He crossed his arms over his slender chest, his mouth and nose twitching with displeasure. In the past six months, he’d grown several inches. He had Shane’s looks and height, with her wild, thick brown hair. He was a handsome boy. Someday soon, he might be getting phone calls and attention from girls.

Janelle felt a little sick at the thought.

“Are you quitting your job?” he asked.

“No. I need to work more and save enough to pay for a different physical therapy program.” They’d have to move again, farther away, when the time came, but she didn’t say that. No need to drop that bomb yet.

“Grandma’s house sucks,” he said, kicking his backpack.

Janelle took a sip of her soda. “It’s only temporary.”

“Can I keep playing soccer?”

Shit. She hadn’t considered this complication. His practices took place here in Salton City, but the games were all over. She’d have to ask her mother to drive him back and forth, or put him on the bus.

“I don’t want to go,” he yelled, startling her. He clenched his hands into fists and his face turned bright red. He looked like a bull. A heavy-breathing, skinny-armed boy-bull. Full of rage and ready to charge.

Janelle rose to her feet. “Calm down, crazy legs. You were drunk two afternoons ago, remember? You’re on restriction for a month. If you don’t shape up, I won’t even consider registering you for next season.”