With A Twist(19)

He says that to every girl though.

Outside of those brief interactions, I haven’t had a single conversation with Raze. He watches me dance… every single time, but then he watches all the girls dance unless he gets called away to a problem in one of the VIP rooms. He’s there to keep his eye on things, and while he has plenty of bouncers to do the heavy work if the patrons get rowdy, he’s always there for every one of my performances.

As I said, I let my mind drift away when I’m on stage, but once… just last night as a matter of fact, I happened to lock eyes with Raze. My blank eyes had passed around the club, vaguely tracking the men waving the money and dutifully bending when appropriate at the edge of the stage so they could slip ones, fives, tens, and sometimes twenties in my garter. My eyes passed right over Raze and for a split moment, kept right on moving. But then a jolt went through me, and I looked back at him.

He was standing in a corner, leaning one shoulder against the wall, with his arms folded over his chest. He was watching me dance with glittering eyes and a hard line to his jaw. Our gazes melded and held firm, and for several seconds, I was dancing just for him. I saw him suck in a deep lungful of oxygen and hold it while he watched me.

My skin started tingling, and my nerves hummed. He was across the club, yet I could feel the intensity of his presence as if he were inches away from me.

It was easy to get lost in that feeling. Get lost in Raze’s stare. Or was it Wyatt’s stare I was succumbing to, because while he was putting on an act, I knew his true identity. I knew he wasn’t a slimy, flesh-peddling scumbag.

I know he is dedicated and loyal, and if I’m going to go ahead and lay all of his golden attributes at his feet, I might as well admit that he is freakin’ gorgeous and sexy as hell, and he makes me long for something that I know I have no damn business longing for.

I’ve thought that from the moment I laid eyes on him.

It was reiterated to me when I had my audition dance. While I played the part for Simon’s benefit, and I focused my eyes on him, I couldn’t help but pour every ounce of sexiness I possessed into my performance. I did that not for Simon, but for Wyatt.

Yes, Wyatt.

Not Raze.

Wyatt.

For some compelling reason, I wanted him to be attracted to me. I wanted him to get that raging hard-on I threatened him with. I wanted his eyes to be fevered as they gazed upon me, and I wanted him to succumb to lustful thoughts.

I did all of that, knowing it was wrong, knowing that it didn’t have a damn thing to do with my job, and knowing that it was dangerous to let those feelings flow.

But I did it anyway.

And all of those feelings overwhelmed me last night as I held his gaze while I danced, and he watched me from a darkened corner with something other than a law enforcement partner’s interest. I felt it straight down to my toes.

After the dance, I tried to analyze my feelings, and then I thought of David. He was the love of my life… or so I thought, and yet in the almost eighteen months we had been together, I don’t ever recall having such an electric connection to him such as I felt when Wyatt was watching me dance. That was fascinating to me, and the mere fact that I don’t have a shred of guilt over that connection makes me wonder if I’m beginning to finally accept that David and I are really through.

Padding down my short, narrow hallway that houses just my room on one side and a small, dingy bathroom on the other, I start pulling off my clothes… micro-stretch denim skirt, off-the-shoulder rayon shirt, slutty red bra. By the time I reach into the shower to turn on the water, I’m ready to shimmy out of the matching, bright red panties and wash the heavy layer of scummy job off my body.

The water is pleasant and soothing, but I make quick work of it, as the hot water doesn’t last more than five minutes. Another ten minutes and my body and face are moisturized and my hair is dried to a sufficient level of dampness that I don’t mind going to sleep on. I cross the hall into my bedroom and slip on a pair of cotton pajama shorts and a matching white camisole, then turn toward my bed for some much-needed sleep.

Just as I reach out to pull back my blanket, I hear a knock at the door. Instantly, I go on high alert, because there shouldn’t be anyone at my door. Best-case scenario—it’s a neighbor needing a poorly timed cup of sugar; next best—a potential rapist; and worst-case—it’s Simon Keyes, who has found out that I am not Nikki O.

I walk softly toward the front door, pausing at my couch, where I reach under the cushion and pull out my Glock 22 .40 Caliber handgun. A quick pull on the slide to chamber a round, and I have it cocked.

There’s no safety on this gun so I hold it loosely at my side, my forefinger grasping around the stock rather than the trigger. I walk to the door and curse to myself that there’s no peephole.