Ten Tiny Breaths (8 page)

“And here’s Cain’s office. Don’t worry.
You’ll fit in here,” she whispers as she pushes through the door. I
give the back of her head an arched brow. She thinks she
knows
me. She thinks I’ll fit in with silicone and booze and
vajayjays or whatever I’m supposed to call them. I’m
second-guessing how smart Storm really is.

“Come in!” A harsh voice calls out and my
back tenses up.

Inside is a small office with floor to
ceiling shelves on all four walls, lined with more cases of booze.
Tons and tons of booze. On the back wall is something that looks
like a weird chemistry experiment—a bunch of upside down liquor
bottles with a mess of hoses flowing from their spouts, down into
the floor. My nose catches a faint scent of cigar smoke, cedar, and
whiskey lingering in the air.

“That’s the bar well,” Storm explains in a
whisper. “All the basic liquor. It controls how much goes out. You
hit a button behind the bar and it gives you one ounce. You hit it
twice, two ounces, not rocket science.”

“So I can’t reenact my favorite scenes from
Cocktail
?” I mumble, picturing twirling bottles like a
baton.

Storm chuckles. “You can, but it will be with
the pricey bottles on the shelf and they cost a lot when you break
them.”

A man with slick black hair and a navy dress
shirt sits behind a giant mahogany desk with his back to us. Cain,
I presume. He’s on the phone with what sounds like the beer
distributor. By the way he barks out ‘yes’ and ‘no,’ I’d say he’s
not happy. He slams the phone down and spins around and I prepare
myself for a painful conversation.

But then his coffee-colored irises settle on
Storm and they instantly warm. He’s a younger man—early
thirties—with attractive features and a sense of style. Definitely
good-looking by anyone’s standards. But he’s a strip club owner and
that equals dirt bag in my book.

“Hello, Angel,” he drawls, giving Storm a
slow once-over. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle. I’m not
going to like this guy. Not. One. Bit.

Storm ignores the leer. Or maybe she enjoys
it. Frankly, I have no idea. I don’t know her well enough either.
“Hey, Cain.” She cocks her head toward me. “This is my friend,
Kacey. For the bartender position?”

My gut tenses as those dark irises turn to
appraise me but it only lasts for half a second. He bolts out of
his chair and strides around the desk, extending his hand with a
professional air. “Hi Kacey. I’m Cain, the owner of Penny’s.
Pleased to meet you.”

And here’s where my little phobia makes life
so damn awkward. I can’t get around shaking the boss’s hand when he
offers it to me. Not unless I tear out of here right now but then
I’m out of a job. One I’m not sure I want, but a job nonetheless.
My only real choice is to grit my teeth and hope I don’t pass out
from an anxiety attack when his fingers curl around my own, shoving
me back into that dark place I keep trying to crawl out from.

I look at him, I look at his hand, I look at
Storm. But most of all, I hear Livie’s voice saying
try.

I reach out …

Black spots fill my vision as his bones and
muscles and gristle wrap around my hand and squeezes. My other hand
blindly paws the air for support and I make contact with Storm’s
elbow. I grab onto it. I’m going to pass out. I’m going to keel
over right here on this floor and do the funky chicken like an
idiot. Nate the gargantuan will drag me out while Cain hollers,
“thanks, but no thanks, nut job” and then I’ll be back to Starbucks
and Livie will have to eat cat food and …

“Storm’s told me a lot about you.”

With a start, I realize Cain has let go of my
hand. My lungs deflate. “Has she now?” I say in a shaky voice,
stealing a glance at Storm

He smiles warmly. “Yes. She said you’ve
helped her out a lot. You’re smart and you’re in need of a job.
You’re stunningly beautiful. I can see that now, firsthand.”

I choke, my tongue disappearing into the back
of my throat.

“Have you ever worked in an adult
establishment?”

“Uh … no … sir,” I answer and silently pray
to God that Storm hasn’t told him otherwise. I don’t know why, but
I find suddenly that I
want
to impress Cain. He carries an
authoritative air to him, like he’s much older and wiser than his
appearance suggests, like he’s a caring human rather than
unscrupulous strip club owner.

My answer doesn’t seem to bother him. “One of
my bartenders is pregnant. She and I both agree that a gentleman’s
club isn’t the best place for her so … how many nights can you
commit to?”

I look at Storm and shrug. “All of them?”

Cain’s head tips back as he laughs
whole-heartedly, revealing a tattoo beneath his left ear. It reads,
’Penny.’ She must be someone special if he named his club after her
and tattooed her name on himself. “Don’t sign your life away,
Sweetheart. Five or six nights will do.” His eyes skim my arms now,
skittering over the white scar snaking down the outside of my
shoulder, and I silently chastise myself for not covering them.
They probably frown upon disfigured women working in adult clubs.
“You have a fighter’s body,” he says instead.

“No fighting. Just staying fit,” I answer
quickly.

He nods slowly. That seems to impress him.
“Good. I like a woman who can take care of herself.” He settles
behind his desk again, saying, “you’ll train Kacey, right,
Storm?”

Storm is grinning ear to ear. “Yes,
Cain.”

He looks up at her again, and I see the look
for what it truly is. Adoration, not lusty animalism. Like he
worships her. I wonder if they’ve slept together. I wonder if he
sleeps with all his staff. I’m sure he could if he wanted to. Will
he try to sleep with me? I don’t have time to think about it
anymore because Storm leads me out the door in a daze.

“Come on. We’re opening soon. I need to get
you comfortable.”

***

The night goes by in a blur. Storm and I work
the main bar together—Storm on the more complicated drinks, me on
beer and straight shots while she teaches me the basics. The place
is nothing like I expected. It’s huge and three stories high in the
center with a low ceiling around the perimeter, allowing sleek
alcoves for the bars, shiny black high top tables, and a hallway to
the V.I.P. rooms. Apparently Cain is strict about what happens back
there. Nothing illegal, he tells all the girls. “I don’t go back
there,” Storm says with a serious look that says “don’t go back
there, Kacey
.
”

On a raised stage in the center, the girls
dance. There are three dancing at all times, each with their own
little stage jutting off the main one to accommodate the group of
leering men in front row. A blue light shines down over the entire
space, creating a mystical ambience. The rest of the place is dark,
the air heady with booze and testosterone and lust. Music throbs
through my body, its beat guiding the dancers every move on
stage.

Storm and I joke and chatter casually back
and forth as we serve, and I can’t help but start to relax around
her. The place is busy, but people aren’t climbing over each other
at the bar to get a drink like the night clubs I’ve been to. She
introduces me to three girls who she promises me I’ll like. Ginger,
Layla, and Penelope. They’re all drop dead gorgeous, giggly, and
friendly. Everyone there seems to be gorgeous, giggly, and
friendly, and I can’t help but wonder for the hundredth time why
Storm would think I’ll fit in here. But I say nothing, nodding to
them all, making sure I’ve got two full hands so I avoid all
contact. No one seems to notice.

I get a bunch of “new girl” comments from
customers who are obviously regulars, but I ignore them. I keep my
head down and I work hard so Cain doesn’t have any reason to expand
my job description to lap dances and V.I.P. room customer support.
I take orders, I make drinks, I collect money without touching
anyone’s hand. In that order. Still, I feel eyes on me—drifting
over my curves, sizing me up, even with plenty of flesh to look at
in this place. Asshats.

The bar is my fortress. I am safe behind this
half wall.

***

“So, how are you making out so far?” Storm
asks during a two minute lull late in the night. “Think you can
handle bartending in a strip club six nights a week?”

I shrug. “Yeah, no big deal. Just a lot of
boobs and ass cheeks and I avoid the stage so I don’t see …” My
attention drifts to the stage where an Asian girl wearing nothing
but a piece of silver floss wraps her legs around her neck. “That!”
I jerk my head away. “How can she do it?”

“That’s Cherry. She’s into hot yoga.”

I roll my eyes. “No, I don’t mean how. I mean
…
how
!”

“Everyone’s got their price,” is Storm’s only
response as she dispenses another round of Jim Beam.

“I guess so,” I mutter, silently wondering if
Storm has set a price.

“Okay, so now that you’re familiar with the
bar, Kacey,” Storm begins, “you can start smiling any time. You do
know that if you smile at the customers, you’re likely to get
bigger tips, right?”

I smirk. “Why would me smiling make them give
me more money when they can save it for the person humping their
leg? Are they idiots?”

“Just … trust me.” She sighs patiently,
moving back to serve a customer, hollering over her shoulder,
“You’re the shiny new red-haired toy and you’re forcing them to use
their imagination.”

Great. That’s what I want to be. Some guy’s
wet dream.

To prove her wrong, I give the next three
customers the widest grin my face can handle without splitting in
half. I even wink at one. Low and behold, the tips double.
Hmmm.
Maybe we’re on to something.
If only smiling wasn’t such a
drain.

A middle-aged cowboy with an oversized hat
and Wrangler jeans leans forward over the bar, his mouth twisted
like he’s chewing on a piece of straw, but there’s nothing there.
“Ain’t you a pretty sight, all toned and natural,” he says,
lingering too long on my cleavage. Why, I don’t know. I look like a
ten year old boy next to every other female in this place. When he
sneers, I see that his teeth are stained yellowish brown by years
of tobacco.

I swallow my revulsion and force a smile.
“What can I get you tonight, sir?”

“How ’bout a Tom Collins and a private
show?”

“One Tom Collins coming up. I’m fresh out of
private shows.” I keep my smile, all the while my level of
annoyance climbs, anxious to get rid of this guy. When I slide the
drink across the bar to him, and reach for the twenty dollar bill,
his paw closes over my forearm, his fingers coarse and impolite. He
leans in and I catch a whiff of stale tobacco and booze on his
breath. “How ’bout you take your break now and show me that tight
ass of yours?”

“I just bartend here, sir,” I force through
gritted teeth, my body shifting into defensive mode. “There are
plenty of girls here who can give you what you want.” And I’m not
exaggerating. Everywhere I look I find ass cheeks and nipples and
worse. I played a lot of sports in high school so I’ve seen my
share of naked bodies in showers after games. Heck, I labeled Jenny
the “Grand Rapids Exhibitionist” because she had no qualms with
stripping down to buck in front of me. This place is different
though. They’re wandering around, peddling their wares.
Selling
their bodies.

“I got money! Name your price.”

“You don’t have enough, trust me,” I growl
back, but I can tell he’s not listening, his other hand
disappearing below the bar, likely to adjust his growing arousal. I
want to gag. I imagine he’ll be rough when he finally corners a
poor, desperate, and obviously blind woman. “I’d let go if I were
you … sir.”

From my peripherals, I see Nate and Ben’s
looming frames moving in to save me. The idea of that bothers me
for some reason. I don’t need them to protect me.

I don’t need anyone.

And I want to hurt this guy.

I half-lean, half-jump forward to hook my
free hand around the cowboy’s sweaty neck. I yank down hard and
fast. He grunts as his face slams against the bar. I hold it there,
my fingers digging into the base of his spine. My heart is
hammering against my ribs as blood rushes to my ears. This feels
good. I feel alive. “How do ya like this tight ass now?” I
hiss.

Nate’s hands slam over his shoulders and I
hear his low rumble over the music as he drags the cowboy away,
bleeding from a cut to his bottom lip. “You’ll have to leave now,
sir.” The guy’s also got a bright red mark on his forehead.
Definitely a bruise tomorrow. He doesn’t resist though. I doubt
even the Incredible Hulk would resist Nate.

Ben hangs back to ask,“You okay?”

“I’m fine,” I assure him as Storm sidles up
to my side with a worried look. My attention trails after Nate and
I cross glances with Cain sitting at a table off to the side. A
sinking feeling settles over me. He must have watched the entire
scene unfold. It dawns on me that maybe he doesn’t want his
customers’ heads slammed against the bar. Maybe I just got my ass
fired.

Cain gives me a thumbs-up sign, and I release
a huge sigh of relief.

“I told you to smile, not get yourself into a
bar fight,” Storm jokes, nudging me in the ribs.

“He wanted a private show,” I explain, my
adrenaline still pumping blood through my body. “I gave him a
public one instead.”

Ben leans forward, elbows resting over the
bar, an impressed smirk on his face. “You sure know how to handle
yourself.”

“I was raised by wolves. Had to fight for my
food.”

His head tilts back and a throaty laugh
escapes. “Sorry if I was a douche bag earlier. I’m just used to
seeing pretty, fresh girls come in here and leave worn and jaded. I
hate it.”

“Well then it’s your lucky day. I’m already
jaded.” I give him the once over. “And maybe you shouldn’t work in
a strip club.”