“If you’re sure.”
“I’m positive. I don’t want you sleeping in a house with a leaky roof, especially with more storms in the forecast this weekend. Besides, I want to interview you for a character I’m considering writing. Did you pack a bag?”
“Yes, it’s in my trunk. It’ll be late tonight when I get there.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be up. With Rose Marie to take care of, I’ve found that a lot of my writing gets done late at night. I also wanted to talk to you some more about offering that little extracurricular activity at The Pony on a weekday afternoon.” Grace winked at her, and Camilla chuckled.
Grace had asked her earlier that afternoon if she’d be interested in offering striptease lessons on the big dance floor before the club opened. They hadn’t approached Ethan and Ben with the idea yet. Camilla had a feeling that Ben might get a little pissy about it if she asked him right then.
Neither Ben nor Quinten had said anything about it, but she knew that neither of them favored her outfit for that night—Indian princess in skimpy tan short-shorts, a matching bra top edged with long fringe, and her headband, with her standard cowgirl boots.
“I’ll see you when I get there. Bye, Adam.”
Camilla watched as the couple made their exit, Adam’s arm wrapped around Grace’s shoulders. For a second she wondered what it must be like, being loved by three men. Heat simmered through her body as she imagined being bookended by two men who adored her. She remembered how nice it had felt being between Ben and Quinten the night before, even though nothing had happened, beyond her giving them an idea what a lap dance from her would be like. Her cheeks warmed as she recalled wishing that she could actually take her clothes off for them. Then the tequila had hit her and she’d gotten so sleepy. She hadn’t given it a second thought as she’d cuddled up with Quinten and drifted off. They both felt so safe to her the night before.
But ever since she’d arrived for work that evening, she’d been catching them eyeing her more frequently, and watching the male customers she was serving from behind the bar like they were a pack of ravening wolves. Ben and Quinten had always been protective but never so grouchy.
She’d caught them watching her so many times it was giving her the jitters. But that’s not because you like them watching you, is it? She’d never felt as jumpy walking half naked through the Dollhouse as she did working under their watchful eyes.
Another wave of heat sizzled up her spine, and she turned her head in time to catch Quinten staring at her. A year ago, if she’d caught him looking at her, he’d make some sort of goofy face or do his trademark “you and me” gesture, signaling that with the end of a busy night they’d share a shot together. Tonight, his riveting blue eyes didn’t flit away but instead held her gaze.
Tom Barton got her attention from where he sat talking with Bill Duggan and held up two fingers, signaling that he wanted a double bourbon. She nodded and turned to the mirrored wall where all the bottles were displayed and reached for the top-shelf bourbon.
A tingle went up her spine when Quinten scooted behind her, brushing against her ass. He stopped to reach for the bottle she needed and the full length of his torso brushed against her side. Her mouth watered as she got a whiff of his manly scent, a mix of soap, spicy bodywash, and manly musk.
She remembered kissing his throat the night before and the memory caused heat to creep through her body, centering in her pussy. She was on a slippery slope if she kept reacting to him like that. He handed her the bottle of bourbon and she noticed he seemed tense. He glanced at her short-shorts and opened the cash register drawer. She was beginning to feel a little pissy herself. If he had something to say, she wished he’d just spit it out. She glanced in the mirror before she turned and caught Bill admiring her ass.
He was one of her sweet regulars and made a habit of teasing her but never made passes or propositioned her like some assholes did, especially if they knew she’d worked as an exotic dancer. For some idiots that equated to her being a whore. That was their problem, but she felt she would’ve been a hypocrite if she let every little comment offend her. As long as they kept their hands to themselves, she didn’t let it bother her.
Sitting next to Tom, Bill Duggan sighed, rested his chin in his hand as he braced his elbows on the bar, and appreciatively said, “If I was thirty years younger I’d give you a run for your money, sweet cheeks.”
She giggled as she poured two shots of amber-colored twelve-year-old bourbon into a rocks glass and placed it on a paper napkin in front of Tom. “If you were thirty years younger I might let you, Bill.”