Bad Nanny (The Bad Nanny Trilogy #1)(92)

“Be good,” I say as I bounce up the stairs and into Brooke's room to change. Can't go looking like a complete loser, right? Snot and blood all over my shirt is not exactly what I'd call sexy.

I put on black slacks and dark purple Docs, a white button-up, and a black suit jacket covered in pins. I brought it with me in case Rob wanted to go out to a family dinner or some shit. He likes to do that, have formal dinners out. Before he married Mercedes, he used to come down to Vegas and take me out. But I don't do suits, not like a normal person anyway.

I leave the top few buttons undone to show off my tattoos, and slick up the left side of my hair. The right gets a fresh shave and some spray on color to turn it purple. Yeah. It looks totally f*cking sick.

I shove the arms of the suit jacket up and stack my arms with bracelets before heading down the stairs to find the children engrossed in a PewDiePie video. Gross.

The knock at the door doesn't even draw their attention—just a horde of barking chihuahuas and one ugly gray rat dog.

“You kids behave, okay?” I say as I open the door and use my boot to sweep miniature dogs aside. “Come on in.”

Monica squeezes past me, putting as much space between us as is humanly possible. Tonight she's wearing more reasonable looking clothes, like she learned her lesson last time. Jeans and a t-shirt will help with these kids a hell of a lot more than a designer dress or a pantsuit.

“Have no idea what time I'll be back,” I say before the woman gets out a single word. This Monica chick, I know her type. You start letting a person like this talk and they won't stop. Best to just smooth my agenda right on through without any commentary. “Make sure the little shits are in bed by nine.” I cup my hands around my mouth. “Love y'all! Later!”

I slip out the door and over to the minivan, climbing in and driving over to the nearest ATM to make a quick withdrawal before I head to the club.

When I get there, I park in front and head inside to a dimly lit interior with gold and green carpets and a faux wood paneled bar that's probably seen better days. It's not too seedy or gross, but I wouldn't exactly call it high -class either. In Las Vegas, a place like this would never make it. But up here, in the middle of the butt-f*ck-nowhere-forest, this is the only strip club. I well remember my days of trying to sneak in here as a kid with a fake ID.

I make my way towards the stages, scanning them quickly for Brooke. Either I just missed her set, or she hasn't performed.

When I take a seat, a blond woman in nipple tassels and a short wisp of a skirt saunters over to me to take my order, letting me know about their dollar titties special. Huh. I look at her smiling at me, and I can't help but feel sick to my stomach.

I don't want my woman working here.

That that's the first thought that skitters through my brain in a sea of topless women grinding their G-strings against metal poles scares the f*ck out of me.

My woman? How the hell is Brooke mine? First off, that's like so totally sexist. And anyway, I can't stay here. I hate Eureka. Hate it. And I know from experience how quickly relationships devolve. One minute, you think you can't live without a person and the next, you sort of wish they would just up and die.

Why can't I let this thing with Brooke just stay beautiful?

I sigh and rake my fingers through my hair.

“Can I just get a beer?” I ask and the woman nods, moving away towards the bar. And when I say towards, I mean she has to stop three times for dollar titties and shake her shit in front of a bunch of drunk horny losers.

Fuck.

I start biting my lip, tapping my fingers on the armrests of the chair I'm sitting in, when my eyes wander over to the booths in the corner, to the women in shiny silver and gold heels, G-strings just barely covering up their cunts. Lap dances are going full force back there, three different ones at the same time.

As I stare at these women grinding their bodies on the clothed laps of their customers, I feel sick. And like a complete piece of shit. It's not like I've never had a lap dance before. But when I look at it like this, from an outside perspective, and imagine Brooke in those girls' places, I want to put my fist through a wall.

Maybe coming here wasn't such a great idea?

I tap my boot on the floor and consider leaving before Brooke sees me, but then the song changes and the woman onstage in front of me disappears into the shadows. I settle back as the waitress drops my beer on the table next to me and leans down to take my money between her tits. I loosely stuff a ten in and withdraw my hand, watching the darkness of the stage with a strange hopping sort of anticipation in my gut.

I'm starting to get the feeling that when I see Brooke onstage, I'm going to lose my shit.

The lights dim and then burst bright on Brooke's curvy form as she saunters down that stage like it's a catwalk in Paris, her heels tall and pink and the color of bubblegum. I want to f*cking eat that shit all the way up.

I find myself leaning forward, my elbows on my knees as my cock solidifies into a substance that's a hundred times harder than diamond. Ouch, baby. Ouch.

Brooke's wearing this tiny lace nightie in pink, a pair of heart pasties visible on her nipples beneath the barely there fabric, a tiny thong the only piece standing between the crowd and the smooth, shaved expanse of her *.

I lick my lips and lean back, taking my beer in my hand so I have something other than my cock to grab onto. Two halves of me war: one part that wants to enjoy the show and the other part that wants to sweep her off that stage and out the door, promise her that she never has to work a night here again.