Chapter 4
The second my last class lets out I’m running for my car. Although the sun is still high and it’s barely dinnertime, business at Mirage will be going strong as ever. There’s always a steady flow of patrons when booze and naked bodies are on the menu.
Opening the trunk of my sun-bleached Toyota Camry, I toss the tote full of books and tonight’s homework inside and exchange it for the black mesh bag that holds tonight’s costume. A secret smile tugs at my lips as I picture it. For a brief moment, I allow myself to wonder if my mystery man—erm, Professor Scott—will show. If he does, I wonder what he’ll think of the black, men’s dress shirt and emerald green tie and thong I’ll be sporting. I wonder if he’ll know that I’m wearing it for him.
As I maneuver through the parking lot, I catch sight of a familiar figure. He’s standing in front of his own car, a shiny silver BMW, staring into the open hood with a look of consternation. He’s stressed—I can see it in the firm set of his shoulders, and when he ruffles his dark hair and the frown grows deeper, I decide to pull over.
“Do you need some help?” I ask.
Professor Scott turns the full weight of those onyx eyes on me, and I shiver at the same time I flinch. He’s not just stressed, he’s pissed. In his hand, he grips his cell phone, and he lifts it, using it to point at the car. “The piece of shit won’t start. It just keeps clicking,” he growls.
When he recognizes me, his eyes narrow, and I hope it’s just the glare of the sun that incites that reaction. Although, I know better.
“That’s the first time I’ve ever heard of anyone refer to a BMW as a piece of shit,” I quip, choosing to ignore his attitude. “Have you called anyone to come out and take a look at it?” The question is rhetorical. Obviously, if he’s holding a phone, he would have already called someone.
“Of course,” he snaps, giving me a look that says just how dumb he thinks the question is. “I pay almost two hundred a year and they tell me I have to wait an hour and forty-five minutes for the truck to arrive.” He curses and the colorful language makes him somehow less a professor and more a person. More the man I am accustomed to.
This aggressive side reminds me of our last night together. Of the hard door abrading my back and the bruises he left behind on my thighs from where his fingers dug into my flesh—I feel a needy ache blooming between my thighs at the memory.
Staring at the open hood for a minute, I weigh all the options. If I stick around, I’ll be late for work. If I go, I’m pretty sure that makes me a dick. Even though he ticked me off earlier when he kicked me out of his room and attempted to humiliate me in front of the entire class, I don’t really get the impression he intends to be such a jackass. In fact, I think intense is just part of who he is. But he seems really freaking vulnerable right now. Maybe if I pull the Good Samaritan card, he’ll let me lay low for the rest of the year.
With that little spark of hope simmering inside my head, I put the car in park and open the door. Professor Scott eyes me as I step out of the car as if it’s the first time he’s ever looked at me. That’s absurd, since he’s been watching me strip bare on a stage for months, and stripping me bare in private for nearly as long.
His is a slow perusal that starts at my face and works its way down to my feet and back up again. When he lingers on my chest longer than necessary, I glimpse that telltale spark that lets me know he likes what he sees.
I can’t really fault him for it. I witness that same look in the men at the club every day. It’s classic visceral attraction. The man likes what he sees, but he doesn’t really know me, so that’s where it ends.
Unless one of us decides otherwise.
Perhaps this newness is due to the change of scenery. Outside the walls of the club and the hotel, I’m a real person. Not some fantasy that he can fuck and set aside for later, like some kind of porcelain doll.
I stand a little taller feeling that infusion of power that usually only comes when I’m working the stage. “You said it clicks when you try to start it?”
“Yeah, it just clicks.”
Brushing past him, I walk around to the driver’s side and slide into the buttery black leather seat. This car is a luxury in both price and style, and I take a moment to commit the elaborate dashboard, hand stitched leather and chrome details to memory. Hell, even the little tree, that smells of men's cologne and hangs from his mirror, holds a special place in my head. Through the windshield, I see the professor blink hard and collect himself.
Right, time to teach him a little about who I am.
Although the car won’t start, I try turning the ignition anyway so I can hear it for myself. It clicks once, and I watch for any signs of life from the dashboard. “Did it try to turn over the first time you attempted it?”
Crossing his arms over his chest, I can’t help noticing how the material of his shirt pulls at the shoulders and around his biceps. I had my hands on those last night, I think, smiling to myself.
“The stereo lit up for a second, but it stopped working. Everything stopped working.” His eyes narrow as he watches me get out. He tracks my movements, pivoting out of the way as I brush by him again to get a look under the hood. I know what he’s thinking. What does this girl think she knows about fixing cars? The answer: more than him.
My ’92 Toyota, a car that should last forever, is a lemon. The constant cost of repairs was eating up money as fast as I could make it, so I’d taught myself a few things. For instance, I know exactly what is happening to the professor’s overpriced hunk of metal.
“Your starter is bound up,” I say, looking over my shoulder at him.
His eyes widen in surprise, but then narrow into suspicion. “Let me guess, your dad or brother taught you a few things growing up.”
Again, he’d know the answer to that if he’d ever taken the time to get to know me. I can see this is about to turn into a crash course for him.
“My dad’s dead and I’m an only child,” I say casually, though I can see, by the way he drops his arms down to his sides and takes a step back, that he is shocked and regretting that last statement. “What I know about cars, I taught myself. Your starter,” I say, pointing at the car, “is shot. It’s a relatively cheap fix, especially if you can do it yourself.” I scan his fancy clothes critically. “But something tells me you’re not up for the challenge.”
He glances down at his clothes, as though trying to find something wrong with them. When he looks back at me, I see that my words have sparked something in him. Professor Scott reaches up to grip the top of the open hood. “And you are?” He treats me to the same look I gave him, eying my black tank top, white skinny jeans, and peep-toe pumps with contempt.
Smirking I say, “I don’t mind getting a little dirt under my nails. Unfortunately, I just put a new coat of lacquer on them this week and I don’t have time to redo them. What I can do, though, is drop you off if there’s someplace you need to be.”
I have to say, I am enjoying this. Turning the tables on someone who is always in control has got to sting. Payback for the sting I experienced when he so callously booted me from his hotel room.
I watch him closely, waiting patiently for his answer, but the clock is ticking. I can’t afford to be late for work.
Professor Scott doesn’t look very happy with his options, but thankfully, he doesn’t take long to think them over. With a rough sigh, he slams the hood shut and retrieves his keys from the ignition. With very purposeful strides, he heads toward the passenger side of my car. “I’m meeting someone at the River Front Plaza. Do you know it?”
I should, considering it hosts the most upscale restaurant in the city, is a block away from the club, and he fucks me every other week at the hotel next door. Pointing this out to him, though, seems trivial. Of course, he already knows this.
Playing off the note of relief that it was on my way, the slice of disappointment that whoever he’s meeting isn’t me, and the excitement that I get to spend a little extra time with him, I climb behind the wheel and start the engine. “I’m familiar with the area,” I say shortly.
Clipping his seatbelt, I notice that Professor Scott doesn’t seem overly enthusiastic about the way his day is going. I, on the other hand, see a golden opportunity that has just fallen into my lap. As I ease up to the parking lot exit, I see the evening rush beginning to take hold, and at the first opportunity that presents itself, I shoot out into traffic.
“So business or pleasure?” I ask him as I speed up to beat a red light. We float through the busy intersection, just beating out the flash of the red light cameras that were installed last year. Beside me, the professor has a death grip on the door handle, and I chuckle to myself.
“What?” he says, his voice strained. I almost have to laugh, because this is the only time I have ever seen him outside of his comfort zone. Usually, he has all the control, and I am the one at his mercy. The feeling of power is heady.
Frankly, my driving is terrifying. I know this because Annie has told me many times, which is why whenever we go anywhere together, she drives. The problem isn’t that I’m reckless, though. I’m aggressive. Not a lot of people can give up enough need for control to handle my driving, which is why it impresses me that he has been able to keep his comments to himself this long. But the sickly pallor suggests he might be on his way to an early heart attack, so I ease up on the pedal.
“Business or pleasure?” I repeat.
As the color returns to his face, Professor Scott pries his eyes from the road long enough to glance at me. “What do you mean?”
“Are you meeting a friend? Business associate? Your wife?”
“Pleasure, I guess.”
I nod, pretending as if the information didn’t just suck all the oxygen from my lungs. “So wife?”
He gives me an odd look, and I wonder if he’s picked up on the strain in my voice. “You’re my student, Josephine,” he reprimands. “I’m not going to tell you that.”
“That’s fine,” I say quickly, hardly fazed by his cool tone. “I already know you’re not married. I’m going to guess girlfriend.”
“And how do you know I’m not married?” he asks, turning to face me with one eyebrow arched.
Reaching over, I tap the third finger on his left hand. “No ring.” It was the first thing I checked the night he’d handed me his business card and asked me to meet him outside the club. I may be many things, but I am not a home wrecker.
He looks away, out the window, and to my disappointment, the conversation ends before it begins. Pulling up to the restaurant, I take a moment to soak it in. I’ve never been inside, but the sheer size and grandeur of this building always takes my breath away.
I release a low, long whistle of appreciation as I lean over the steering wheel and peer up at the steel skyscraper. “Swanky.”
Professor Scott chuckles softly and shakes his head. “That it is,” he says, reaching for the door handle. “Thanks for the ride, Miss Hart. I owe you one. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”
He’s gone in seconds, and I pull away wondering just how he intends to pay me back. But as I enter through Mirage’s back door, less than five minutes later, to the thick blanket of darkness and the pungent smell of perfumes, alcohol, and faint mildew that envelope me, the reality, that he was meeting with someone else, strikes me. Our time together has come to an end.
It shouldn’t feel like someone has died, but I feel the familiar ache that followed my parents’ passing like a knot forming in the center of my chest. Acid burns in my stomach and I have to remind myself that I knew this day was coming. I just didn’t think it would be this hard to walk away.
“You’re late, J.” Kota, the owner of the club, enters the dressing room without knocking and leans his shoulder against the wall as he watches me change into my outfit.
His unwavering stare was creepy when I first signed on as one of his dancers, but as with most things in life, I got used to it. It helped to realize that Kota doesn’t give two shits about how much skin is on display. He’s been working the business long enough that one set of tits is the same as the next. He’s more concerned with the bottom line.
“I had to help out a friend,” I say vaguely, because less is more around here. The only thing Kota or anyone else needs to know about me is what made it into my paperwork. “I’ll work extra tables to make up for it before I go on.”
“No tables,” Kota says, his bald head shining as he shakes it. “I need you on the floor tonight.”
I shrug and nod apathetically. All the girls have to trade off throughout the week, so since I’ll be working the floor tonight it means someone will have to work the floor for me somewhere down the line. I guess this means I’ll be changing my outfit tonight. “Who called off?”
“Christine. She’s got the flu or some shit.”
“Hope she isn’t prego,” I say with a laugh, but then I catch the scowl on Kota’s face letting me know the joke wasn’t appreciated, and it evaporates. Getting pregnant is the kiss of death. It’s a guaranteed boot in the ass. Another incentive for me to keep it in my pants, so to speak.
Straightening his posture, Kota throws open the door, allowing the pounding music to flow inside. “Light a fire under it, Pussycat. It’s going to be a busy night.”