Destined for the Dom (Masters of Submission, #2)(3)
“Holy shit, Zo?. I’d never have thought Mike was like that. He always seemed such a nice guy.”
“Yeah, well, when he used to pick me up, let’s just say he was on his best behavior.” Zo? had grown tired of defending Mike’s drunken rages. Enough was enough. While he was out at work one day, she changed all the locks, packed his belongings, and threw it all in the street. He hadn’t been happy, but then neither was she. He was frustrated by life the same as she was, but she was tired of being his punch bag. Let him find someone else to vent his anger on.
Looping a band around her beautiful golden locks, Karen put the finishing touches to her hair. After drawing it into a ponytail, she stood up. “Well truth be told, I’m glad the bastard’s gone. I never liked him anyway. I never thought he was good enough for you, doll.”
“But I thought you liked Mike?”
“Zo?, he was your man, and I respected that, so I’d never do him down to you, or any of the other girls at Les Belles. But now he’s history, I can tell you I never trusted the creep.”
“Well that makes two of us now, Karen.” She laughed.
They made their way out front where the action was, squeezing each other’s hands as they parted company. The heady music throbbed and pulsated, easing away Zo?’s worries and insecurities. She switched off her emotions. Nothing could hurt her when she was in the zone. Here at Les Belles she was no more than a mannequin, a doll to be studied and observed. Men never wanted to know the true Zo? Leighton. They were quite happy to accept the facsimile of the woman she presented to them. At Les Belles she could be anything she wanted to be. Tonight, she’d imagine she was a beautiful young girl waiting to dance naked for her sexy man. It was her defense mechanism, a way of surviving the soul-destroying business she found herself in. Zo?’s coping strategy had served her well these past twelve years.
As she scanned the faceless men before her, she wanted more than anything else for her time at Les Belles to become just a distant memory.
She watched Karen climb onto the stage, before placing her bottle of mineral water on the floor. She then began dancing to the beat, whirling her sexy body around the chrome pole.
Zo? moved to the bar, and ordered herself a drink. “An orange juice please, Frank.”
“Coming right up, Zo?. How’s life treating you, honey?” He shook the bottle, then tipped the contents into a glass.
“Fine, Frank. Getting by in the shitty world we find ourselves in.”
“That’s all we can do, honey. Ice as usual?”
“Please.”
He topped her drink with crushed ice, then added a sparkle and handed it to her. “You’re the prettiest girl out there, honey.”
She smiled. “Thanks, Frank, you make my day as always.”
Completely in a world of her own, Zo? never once looked at the guys in the audience. In her mind they just didn’t exist. She watched Karen, gyrating around the pole. Her lithe, athletic body flowing from one sinuous movement to another. She was such a beautiful girl, she soon had an audience of men willing to slip ten-dollar bills into her G-string, taking a long, lingering look at what lay inside. When a fat guy beckoned to Karen, she moved across and leaned provocatively forward, pushing her breasts together as he tucked money inside her bra.
Jocelyn, the floor manager, came across and whispered in Zo?’s ear, “The guy sitting at table eight wants you to dance for him. Shouldn’t be a problem, Zo?, he’s a real looker. If I were ten years younger, I’d be tempted to do it myself for free.” She laughed.
Zo? smiled at Jocelyn’s humorous comments. She grabbed her orange juice and wound her way through the tables. It seemed her sexy man awaited. She hoped he was as fit as Jocelyn had made out, and not an ugly four-hundred-pound guy with halitosis. Table eight was hidden in a discreet alcove. Sometimes it was deliberately chosen by customers, aiming to get the girls to do more than just dance.
As she squeezed into the alcove, she glanced quickly at the man. There was an air of danger about him. Each of his well-developed forearms sported large tribal tattoos. “Hi, I’m Chantelle.” At Les Belles they never used their real names. She made direct eye contact with him. Men loved this. It made them feel special and important. Dumb jerks. Dressed in jeans and a denim shirt, he somehow seemed familiar. His dark-blond hair appeared streaked by the summer sun. The thick texture caressed idly around his collar. His vivid blue eyes held hers. The familiarity of this guy unnerved her. She shook the unsettling thought from her head. Most probably she’d danced for him before, although she couldn’t remember when. “Would you like me to dance for you?”
“No, just sit down. I prefer to talk.”
Zo? looked at him again. Just who is this guy? I feel sure I should recognize him, but I don’t. Is he dangerous? His shoes were well polished, and he wore an expensive watch. He didn’t seem like the average jerk that frequented the club. “Sir, I’m happy to dance for you, or just talk, but nothing else. I hope I make myself clear.” She pulled out a chair and sat down at the table.
She heard him let out a long, slow breath. “You don’t recognize me do you, Zo??”
Her body stiffened when he used her real name. “How do you know me? How do you know my name?”
“It’s me, Zo?, Hunter. Surely you remember me?” His voice was deep and strong, and reminded her of safety.