God, I feel so naked and trashy. Clear-heeled fuck-me shoes don’t help the situation. I put my own clothes back on over the slut-wear so I can feel less exposed.
“Let’s go.” The man claps, and we all get into a waiting truck. The cake is surprisingly small, just big enough to hide a crouching woman.
I don’t know how much time passes. My heart beats erratically, and I can’t seem to track anything. Sweat wets my hands, and I surreptitiously wipe them on my skirt.
Now that the time has come, I can’t help but wonder what the hell I’m doing. I mean, the money’s great—and I need it—but do I really want to go this low to get it?
Shut up. It’s just one night.
But isn’t that what my dad thought too when he started his crazy scheme? My head hurts. Who knows what he was thinking when he decided to cheat everyone in Lincoln City so he could live big? He died before anybody could get any answers.
My pulse is in my throat, and the canned tomato soup I had for dinner sloshes in my belly like a waterbed.
“Hey, you gonna be sick?” one of the guys who worked on the cake asks.
I shake my head.
“We’re almost there.”
I nod, breathing through my mouth.
When the truck stops, its engine cuts off and my stomach no longer churns. I get out and fresh air settles my belly.
“Get in. We gotta finish it up,” the driver says to me, gesturing at the cake.
The white thing looks like a prison, and my legs stiffen.
Think about the money. Think about what it means.
Curling my hands into fists, I take off my shirt and skirt and climb inside the cake. It has small steps built in, so I can enter and exit without ruining it.
The workers glue a couple of thin tissues around the top of the cake to cover up the opening.
“Yo. You in the cake,” the man who opened the warehouse door says. “When it’s time, you just jump out. Just push on the top.”
“Okay. Got it.”
Despite the cooler night temperature, the inside of the cake feels stuffy. Low voices murmur around me, and I swallow.
I hear a ding, and then feel the mild pressure of an elevator rising.
“Don’t forget to wish him happy birthday and sing him the happy birthday song,” one of the guys says.
I have to sing too? Caroline never said anything about that, but I don’t think it’s the time to argue. Besides if singing can delay the inevitable stripping, I’ll sing. “Okay.”
“And don’t forget to give him whatever he wants. He paid for the works.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“But his guests—”
“They’re up to you.”
Oh my god. What the hell? Caroline totally screwed me over by omitting that important fact! “I’m not a hooker!”
“’Course not,” the man says, his voice bored. “You’re an escort.”
“What?”
“Honey, just make the birthday boy happy, and you can clear two grand.”
I reel. For that much money, the “customer” must be expecting a helluva lay. But I’m just not that into sex. I can’t even fake it like those girls on Elliot’s sex tape.
There’s some muttered discussion outside the cake. Then, “He won’t try anything except vanilla stuff. It’s in the contract.”
Thanks for making me feel better. “Isn’t this illegal?”
A pause. “Who the fuck you gonna tell? You trying to get yourself into trouble?” More muttering. “Now stop fucking around. Count to sixty and then come out.”
I count slowly and steadily. I’m shaking all over, but it’s too late. He’s right about me telling people. Cops tend to pick and choose who they’re going to listen to. Didn’t I experience that firsthand?
There’s no reason to panic. I can just do the happy birthday part, then if he asks for sex, I’ll just have to tell him singing’s what I was told to do for him. He can take it up with Caroline’s “Madame G.” if he wants, but I’m not having sex with some random guy no matter how much money’s at stake.
When I finally reach sixty, I jump up. The tissue papers tear with ease, and I spread my arms wide, baring my teeth in what I hope is a sexy smile, and yell out, “Happy birthday!”
I hide my wince at how shrill my voice sounds. At least my breasts stay put, although they do bounce quite a bit when I jump up, knocking aside the top of the cake. Maybe everyone’s too busy staring at my boobs to notice the way I shrieked the announcement.
As my eyes adjust to the brightness in the room, I quickly look around to see how many people are in there. And I don’t see anyone, or anything, except…a door.
Oh crap. I’m facing the wrong way.
Slowly I turn, bracing myself. A man rich enough to throw so much at a stripper for his birthday party must be planning something crazy wild.
But I only see a beautifully appointed contemporary penthouse—maybe a suite at a hotel?
Then I spot the birthday boy…and my eyes almost bug out.
Elliot Reed.
An inky black button-down shirt and slacks of the same shade mold to his large, muscular frame. Right now he’s sprawled on a snow-white couch and the contrast is breathtaking. The top three buttons of his shirt are undone, revealing a strong throat and a bit of hard chest. He’s even more stunning than I remember, every chiseled line of his face and body on stark display.
My heart thuds, but I can hardly hear it over the deafening roaring in my head. A prickling sensation spreads over me, my nerve endings vibrating with anticipation.
He tilts his head and studies me. Long dark eyelashes frame his unreadable eyes.
My throat’s so parched, I don’t think I can do much more than croak. But I’m supposed to sing, so I slowly climb out and croon in a low voice.
A dark eyebrow rises for a fraction of a second before returning to its previous position. Nerves and tension leave me quivering, and my breasts shudder as I draw in a shallow shaky breath.
The song fizzles like a wet firecracker.
His eyes glide over me, face to toes, then lazily back up. I feel his gaze like a slow physical stroke. Fire seems to follow everywhere he looks, and he lingers at the apex of my thighs and my belly. He isn’t doing anything except looking, but something hot and slick floods me down there until I’m swollen and aching between my legs.
He raises his head just a fraction. My nipples bead until they almost hurt, and I gasp at the sharp sensation. I swallow again. How many guests are here? I should check that out before I make my position clear on sex, but I can’t seem to tear my gaze away from his face. Finally he meets my eyes, and I feel like I’m sinking into something warm and decadent, like a pool of melting chocolate.
“Have to admit…I didn’t think this was the direction you’d take when I said stripping wasn’t your calling.”
His voice skims over me like the most luxurious silk. It takes me a while to process what he’s saying. Once I do, anger and humiliation explode in equal parts.
“I hate to break this to you,” I shoot back, “but your input has nothing to do with my career choices.”
“Is that so?”
“I’m not even supposed to be here.”