Four Seconds to Lose (Ten Tiny Breaths, #3)(44)

But Charlie Rourke is not putting up with this bitch. She has enough to put up with. “I’m sure if the new girl were interested, she’d have his cock in her hands in under two seconds,” I answer sweetly, as I pull my shirt over my head. I silently thank my sophomore drama teacher for casting me as Regina George in our school’s modified rendition of Mean Girls.

Of course, there was no cock talk in that performance.

But Charlie Rourke can adapt to any situation.

A loud eruption of whistles and catcalls fills the room, followed by slaps on my legs. I guess that means I’ve officially joined the inner stripper club. Unfortunately, the raven-haired viper staring at me with an icy gaze right now isn’t rolling out a welcome mat.

■ ■ ■

I watch Ginger with interest as she accepts a twenty and throws a suggestive wink at a customer. It’s fascinating—the way she flirts with these men, I’d never in a million years guess that she’s not interested in anything but their tips. And, by the beaming grin that explodes on the man’s face, neither would he.

“Hey,” Ginger says as she adjusts one of her messy spikes that has lost its height and is now falling over her eye. “When’s your birthday?” It’s late and the bar has finally slowed down, allowing us a chance to chatter.

“February fourteenth,” I automatically answer as I dump the limes and ice out of the dirty cups.

“Valentine’s Day?” she exclaims, excited.

I freeze. That’s not Charlie’s birthday. That’s my real birthday. Dammit! I grit my teeth, angry with myself for the slip-up. I’m normally so good at keeping my stories straight. Ginger has a way of relaxing me, though, of making me forget why I’m here in the first place. Charlie’s birthday is September twenty-third, but it’s too late to correct it now. As long as she never sees my ID, I should be fine. “Why?”

She shrugs. “Just thought I should know. I see you every single day, after all. Wouldn’t want to be sitting around, talking about . . . I don’t know . . .,” she pauses, searching for something no doubt appalling, “Brazilian waxes and toe fungus, when I should have baked you a cake.”

I wrinkle my nose in feigned disgust, while inside my head, I’m doing the math. I should be gone by next February, so I won’t have to worry about it. I’ll be completely alone in the world to celebrate the day. The thought brings a pang of sadness to my chest. Given our proximity at home and work and Ginger’s forceful nature, we’ve become close friends in a short period of time.

I’ll miss her.

“Well, mine’s December twenty-fifth, by the way. So we both have easy birthdays to remember. Start thinking about an awesome gift for me now.”

“Huh. You’re like baby Jesus.” I mentally make a promise to send Ginger a card every year, no matter where I am.

“Didn’t you know? I’m the second coming. Commence bowing now.”

I launch a straw at her head instead, earning a wink.

“Or maybe I should be bowing down to you.” She begins scrubbing the counter, avoiding my questioning look. “Cain should be out shortly.” She shoots those cat eyes at me with a pointed glare, adding in dry tone, “Again.”

Of course.

“Something you want to admit, Charlie?”

Passing through the entry of the bar and rounding the corner to wipe a spill over the counter, I can’t help the grin from stretching across my face as a thrill courses through my body. It makes the denial that’s about to come from my mouth sound completely dishonest.

“Oh, just forget it!” Ginger snaps, her hand waving me away.

I’m giggling when I hear, “Hey, beautiful.” A tall, lanky middle-aged guy leans into the bar next to me. I’ve seen him here before. He’s a regular on weekends. He’s careful not to rub up against me, for which I’m thankful. “Weren’t you up on that stage earlier?” His eyes drift down to my chest and my mind automatically converts his question to, Weren’t those breasts up on that stage earlier?

I’m getting used to this. It happens every night. The fact that I’m not available for private dances seems to make me that much more appealing. I offer him a tight-lipped smile—the same one I offer to all the guys who approach me at the bar, while I wait for a bouncer to chase them off—and shrug. “Maybe.”

By the crooked curl of his lips, he must think I’m playing coy. “Well, maybe you could give me a one-on-one reenactment. I know the going rate’s six for an hour, but seeing as I heard you don’t do private shows,” he says as he starts to pull his wallet out, “I thought a grand might change your mind.”

I fight to keep my eyes from bugging out. I could make a thousand dollars for an hour tonight if I could just do what I do onstage, in a private room? Well, there’d be more to it than that. Ginger explained exactly what’s involved with a “full-friction” dance. My eyes drift to the row of five tequila shots that DeeDee’s pouring. Maybe if I down all of them right now . . .

A protective hand lands on my shoulder. “I think Mercy—the blond in the red dress over there—is available to give you that dance,” Ben announces, wedging himself between me and the guy, squashing the proposition like a bug. The lanky guy quickly vacates the bar area with a nod and a sheepish smile.