Move (Club Kitten Dancers #1)(3)

We do a few stretches using our poles, then Haley teaches us a short routine. To my surprise, the entire thing forces me to use muscles I didn’t know I had while making me feel like a sexy, sexy superstar.

Maybe it’s because Haley keeps telling us how hot we all look or because we take turns showing off the routine at the end of class, but by the time Kasey and I walk out of Club Kitten, I’ve got a stupid grin plastered on my face.

“I know that look,” she teases. “You’re hooked.”

***

A few weeks after I join Club Kitten, a job opens at the coffee shop next door and I jump at the chance to work so close to where I play. My interview goes perfectly and I start work that same day. By the time I get home, I’m sore, tired, and happy.

“How was work?” Kasey asks when I walk inside.

“Good. Long. Can’t believe I finally have a job again.”

“Me neither. I was starting to get tired of having a mooch for a roommate,” she smiles, and I know she’s joking. Luckily, I had some savings, but even if I hadn’t, Kasey would have helped me out while I was between jobs. I hate the idea of having to depend on her for cash, but I know she looks out for me.

I drop my bags in my room, then grab my English lit notebook and come back into the living room. Kasey is on the faded brown garage-sale couch we bought a few months ago, and I join her. The cushions are falling apart and the springs are a little bit painful, but we bought the sofa with cash and it suits us just fine. We don’t need anything fancier.

“Homework for Professor Asshole?” Even though my mother has been dating my professor for over a month now, I still refuse to talk to him about it. Kasey, luckily, doesn’t push.

“Yep. I should have switched sections, but it was too late. Apparently, if you want to switch halfway through the semester, you just have to drop the class.”

“And you don’t get your money back.”

“That, too. Sometimes I wish I was a trust fund baby.” I reach for one of her chips and munch on it.

“Me too, hon. Me too.”





Chapter 2


Bailey



“What kind of milk would you like with your mocha?”

Words.

Remember to make words.

That’s what mouths do: they make words.

My mouth can make big words or little words or sometimes in-between words, but today, it seems this bodily orifice has forgotten how to function.

Fuck.

Me.

Silly.

I’m staring at a tall man in uniform, though, and I can’t quite remember how words work. One of the perks of working at Drinks on Me is that it’s close to Forrest Air Force Base, so all of the airmen come here to get their drinks.

One of the downsides to working at Drinks on Me is that it’s close to Forrest Air Force Base, so all of the airmen come here to get their drinks.

“Regular milk is fine,” the airman doesn’t seem to mind that I’m gawking. If anything, he seems amused. Are his eyes twinkling? They must be twinkling. I can’t be imagining that. There’s no way I’m imagining that.

“We have skim,” I say helpfully.

“That’s fine,” he says.

“Three-fifty,” I manage to squeak out.

He hands me cash and I make his change, trying not to touch his hand when I give it back. Of course, this means that I touch his hand extra weirdly and awkwardly, and he flashes me another smile.

The man moves to the side and I take the next person’s order, but she has to repeat it twice because I’m so completely out of it while I’m eye-f*cking the airman. Seriously, it should be illegal to be so damn beautiful. His hair is cropped short, of course, and it’s Monday, so he’s got his blues on.

All the baristas at Drinks on Me love Mondays. There’s some sort of morale program where the airmen have to wear their fancy uniforms – the blue ones – on Mondays. Apparently, they all hate this, but everyone else loves it. I don’t know if the blue uniform is supposed to encourage them to love their country more, but it sure as hell makes me proud to be an American.

When his mocha is ready, I stare at it for a minute, then hand it over the counter to him. The man twists it around and looks at it.

“Is everything okay?” I ask.

“No,” he frowns and hands it back.

“Um, what’s wrong, sir?” I’m genuinely confused. I swear I got it right. I even put in the skim milk.

“You forgot to write your phone number,” he smirks, obviously proud of himself, and I raise an eyebrow.

He hands me the cup.

“Does that line usually work for you?”

He nods. His smile doesn’t falter.

I write my phone number and hand the cup back.

“What’s your name?” He asks.

“Bailey.”

“I’ll call you,” he says, and I cock my head.

“Not a text?”

“Not for you, Bailey.”

He walks away and I stare as he leaves the shop. The door jingles as he walks away, blues and all. He slides his cover on his head once he’s outside and I can’t help but wish I’d said something more clever. Anything. I should have said anything.

“Wow,” a voice says dreamily. It’s the woman who ordered after him. She’s probably in her mid-50s and looks like she’s on her way to a professional business meeting. Maybe she’s a lawyer or a CEO. Still, she’s looking at the airman the same way I am. “No wonder you got my order wrong. He’s something else.”