Curveball(4)

“It’s only an associate professor position at Strickland University, not Harvard.”

“Strickland is still a prestigious school. Give yourself some credit. Not too shabby for your first teaching gig. And it beats the hell out of the public defender’s office.”

I shrug, nonchalant, even though I know the position is the opportunity of a lifetime. “You’re acting like I scored a job as a department head. I will still be here, shaking my ass next to you, until I have my freedom back.”

She grabs a bottle of water from the vanity and holds it up. “To freedom and making money. I’m so happy for you, Liv. Professor Ford has a nice ring to it. Professor Olivia Ford. You sound very official.”

Her comment brings a smile to my face. “Thanks, D. I guess you can say, teaching is in my blood.”

“I bet your dad was a good teacher. He can teach me quadratic equations any day.” She licks her lips and winks at me.

“Gross!” I throw a tube of lipstick at her, laughing. “That’s my dad you’re talking about. He’s retired and…just ew.”

She shrugs. “What? He’s cute for an old dude.”

I grew up in a middle-class neighborhood in Northeast Philadelphia with parents who were both schoolteachers. My dad taught high school mathematics and met my mom shortly after when she applied at his school to teach English. I’m a little bit of each parent, good with both numbers and words.

Instead of teaching, I went to law school and landed myself a job at the public defender’s office after I passed the Pennsylvania Bar Exam right out of school. I had offers from top firms in the city, but I chose the life of a civil servant because I wanted to help people. Too bad the job paid shit. With all the loans and credit cards I had racked up while I was in school, the pittance of a salary I made wasn’t enough to keep food on my table, a roof over my head, and the collection agencies off my back.

I loved my job…until I had that one case—the one that rips you apart and tears you to pieces. Every lawyer has one client who tests their limits, their morals, and their judgment. Glen Brandis, aka the Wissinoming Park Rapist, was the straw that broke my back. I lost all desire to practice law after his case. I still lose sleep at night over what happened in the courtroom that day.

“Let’s go, ladies!” Tamara, the grouchy woman who manages the dancers, screams through the dressing room door. “You’re on again in two minutes.”

I groan and slide off my stool. “I seriously hope I won’t have to endure much more of this before I can make my escape.”

Donna laughs. “You only have to slum it a little bit longer, Teach,” she says, calling me by my dancer name.





Chapter Two





Mark





House music—the real techno shit that gets my pulse pounding—cranks through the speakers suspended from the ceiling of Club Rave. The bass vibrates beneath my feet, sending a tremor up my legs that goes straight to my balls. Or maybe it’s the half-naked girls dancing on the bar in front of me. Coyote Ugly-style, six girls are shaking their asses for the crowd. Each one is wearing a different role-play outfit, looking sexy and scantily clad while fulfilling every man’s fantasy. Mine included.

We have the slutty referee in black thigh-high boots, a schoolgirl with pigtails and all, a cowgirl, a nurse, and a cop. But the girl holding my attention is the same one I managed to catch before she fell off the bar. Standing in front of her as she dances, I can see the tight black booty shorts riding up her ass underneath the gray skirt that could pass as underwear.

She makes direct eye contact with me during the entire song, grinding and gyrating against the pole connected to the bar and ceiling. Her bra top shows off nice perky tits that spill out as she works the pole like a pro. A pair of black knee-high socks and heels complete her outfit, revealing subtle muscle definition in her toned legs.

I lick my lips at her, and the corner of her mouth curls up into a tiny smile. Taking a sip from the highball glass in my hand, I suck down the last of the whiskey before setting it down on the bar.

Dirty Dan, my fraternity brother, taps me on the biceps with his elbow and holds up his beer, raising it toward the bar. “I’ll take the Catholic schoolgirl. Which one do you want?”

I try to suppress a laugh but fail. “I hate to break it to you, bro, but you don’t have enough game to get that girl. And, after the bouncer found Sawyer again and threw him out of the club, there’s no way you’re getting anywhere near the girls.”

He shrugs. “We’ll see about that.”

Dan got his nickname because the dude is downright dirty. He will fuck anyone and anything, and on top of that, he’s the biggest slob in our fraternity house.

To celebrate the initiation of our new fraternity brothers, my best friend and president of Delta Sigma Phi, Luca Marchese, suggested we take the guys out for the night. For once, we’ve ventured off the Strickland University campus, located in downtown Philadelphia, and to a club on the Delaware River, known for good music and hot dancers.

We normally go to Scores, a sports-themed strip club down the street. Owned by the Marchese family, the joint is a front for the Philly Mafia, nothing more than a hangout for Luca’s older brothers who help run the organization along with their father. They serve food as banging as the girls, but tonight, the club is hosting a private party for some hotshot hockey players, forcing us to actually pay for our own drinks for a change.