Stripped Read online

A fist pounds on the dressing room door. “Come on, Grey,” Timothy shouts. “Time to work the floor. It’s a busy Friday—we don’t have time for your emotional bullshit. ”

  I splash water on my face, touch up my makeup, and work the floor. I hate this part as much as dancing on stage. I’m face to face with raw lust.

  I make a killing, which is good since tuition is due soon. The end of my shift nears, and the club begins to empty. I do two more stage numbers, and I cry after each one.

  I leave the stage after my last dance, cry, retouch my makeup, and hit the floor for a few last table and lap dances. It’s almost three in the morning, and the club is mostly empty, except for a few scattered guys by themselves or in small knots. I’m about to clock out when a man gestures to me. He’s young and good-looking, dressed in what was a fancy suit, except now his jacket is off, and his dress shirt is unbuttoned and the tie removed. His torso is bare between the edges of his expensive shirt, tan and hard-looking and rippling with muscle. His eyes are glazed and unfocused, he’s sweating and his hand holding his beer shakes slightly. He eyes me hungrily, gaze lingering on my chest and hips. I unconsciously re-tie the knot in my shirt to make sure my br**sts stay in place; his gaze narrows at the gesture.

  I stop a few feet away from him. “Five bucks for a table dance, ten for a lap dance. ”

  He pulls out a twenty, folded into fourths, and extends it between his index and middle finger. “Jus’ dance for me. Bring it over here. ” His words are slurred, but his gaze is sharp and dangerous-looking.

  A chill runs up my spine as I force myself closer to him. I suck in oxygen and make myself shimmy a little. He watches, lifting his beer bottle to his lips at frequent intervals. I make it sexier, swaying my hips, bending at the waist to give a glimpse down my cle**age. I force myself closer, and he smiles.

  “Turn aroun’,” he slurs.

  I turn around and shake my backside at him in time to the beat of the pop song on the house speakers. I arch my back and lean forward, pushing my bottom at his face. I feel his hands touch me, and I shift away from him. “Ah-ah. No touching. ”

  He doesn’t answer, just smiles with a leering curl of his lip. “Take off th’ shirt, babe. ”

  I smile back at him. “That’s only for stage dances. This is what you get on the floor. You want that, I can bring Candy or Monica over for you. ”

  He digs in his hip pocket and brings out a wad of hundred dollar bills and counts out ten. He rolls them up, and tucks them into the back pocket of my shorts, shoving the wad back into his pants pocket. “I said…take it off. ” He hisses the last part clearly and lucidly, and my skin crawls at the threat of violence in the sound of his voice, in the anger of his gaze.

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  I withdraw the roll of money and hand it back to him. “I’m sorry, sir, but that’s not what I do. ”

  He sneers at me, then pulls out the wad of cash again. He shoves it all at me. “You’re greedy, huh, bitch? ’S almost four grand there. Now. Show me your tits. ”

  I back away from him. “I don’t think so. ” I let my voice harden and glance around for Hank, the bouncer. He’s watching from the chair by the entrance and stands up when I wiggle my fingers at him.

  The customer watches Hank rise to his feet, all six-foot-six of him, and then back to me. “What kinda f**kin’ stripper are you, bitch? Won’t even take off your shirt for a lap dance? Shit. It’s not like I asked you to blow me or some shit. I come to a strip bar expecting to see some tits. You’re gonna turn down four grand to do what you do anyway? Stupid bitch. ” He climbs unsteadily to his feet, drains his beer. He fumbles with the wad of money, then curses under his breath and tosses it on the table. “Fuck it. Fuck it, and f**k you. ” He stumbles toward the door, with Hank trailing behind him. He stops in the doorway, wavering, turns back and stares at me, and something in his gaze makes me afraid. Hank gives him a gentle nudge out the door, and then he’s gone.

  I gather the wad of money off the table and count it; there’s $3,900 in hundreds and fifties. I glance at Candy, Monica, and Iris, who are counting their own tips at the bar while drinking margaritas. Candy is still naked except for her thong, her huge br**sts brushed with glitter of some kind. Monica and Iris are in dressing gowns open to their navels. I’m the only one of the girls who works at the club who stays clothed…except for when I’m dancing on stage. Not that the shirt counts as clothed, necessarily, since my br**sts are basically bared.

  All three women pretend not to watch me. Candy is working to keep a roof over her and her teenaged son’s heads, Monica has a severely autistic son with special medical needs, and Iris is like me, working her way through school. All of them are as desperate for cash as I am.

  I recount the money, adding a hundred from my tips, dividing it evenly four ways, then deposit the stacks of a thousand dollars in front of each of the other girls. “I didn’t really do anything to earn this,” I say. “It’s only fair that I spread it around. ”

  Candy shoots me a grateful glance. “You didn’t have to do that, honey. It was your table. ”

  I shrug. “It’s fine. He didn’t really mean to leave it, he was just too hammered to get it back into his pocket. ”

  The girls laugh, as we’ve all seen men leave too drunk to even know their own names. Usually, though, they don’t leave thousands of dollars lying around. The girls all hug me as thanks, finish their drinks, and cut their tips. I sit at the bar, but Brad brings me a Sprite; he knows I don’t drink. With the extra grand, I’ve pulled in more than $1,500 tonight, which means I’ll have enough to pay the university and still buy the new pair of heels I’ve been needing for the internship. Tim had left around midnight, leaving Brad and Hank to close up. The girls leave before me, so Brad’s Explorer, Hank’s F-350, and my borrowed Rover are the only cars in the lot.

  I dress in yoga pants, flip-flops, and a loose pink T-shirt that slips off the round of one shoulder. I’m grateful to have a bra on again, as spending so many hours without one is uncomfortable, given the size and weight of my br**sts. Hank walks me out because I’m parked near the back of the lot. He realized halfway across the lot that he’d forgotten his keys and headed back in. The parking lot is empty and I’m only twenty feet from where I parked so I don’t wait. A street lamp sheds sickly orange light on the edge of the lot, casting long, deep shadows. I’ve done this dozens of time but for some reason, my skin crawls. I stop in the center of the lot, considering going back in and waiting for Hank to walk me to my car, but my car is right there. I click the “unlock” button on the Rover key fob and the lights blink and turn on. As I move closer, the hair on the back of my neck prickles. My heart is suddenly hammering. I peer into the shadows, clutching the keys until my knuckles turn white. I tell myself there’s nothing to be afraid of.

  Then, as I reach for the handle of the car door, I realize there is something to be afraid of. A cold, clammy hand closes on my wrist and jerks me backward into a hard male chest. Hot breath on my ear smells of beer. Cruel fingers dig into my ribs, clutch upward, grasp my left breast hard enough to steal my breath.

  “Now…now you’ll take it off. ” His voice is an evil murmur in my ear.

  He grasps the neck of my shirt where it hangs over my shoulder and tugs it down, almost gently at first, then with increasing force until it begins to rip and pull at my neck. He lets go of my wrist to clap a hand over my mouth. His other hand darts down my shirtfront. His fingers dig into my breast, pinching and mashing. I whimper, and then find my resolve. I lift my foot and smash down on his instep. He doesn’t release me but hops on one foot, cursing. I don’t have time to kick him again before his hand leaves my mouth and curls around my throat with brutal strength. My air supply is cut off, and I can’t scream. He shoves me forward against the cool car door, hand around my throat. His other hand yanks down my yoga pants, shoving them down on one side, then the other. My panties go with them. I kick and thrash, but I
’m backwards and can’t breathe. His grip on my throat tightens.

  I hear the zzzzzrrrhhriiip of his zipper going down, and then something hard yet soft and warm nudges against my thigh. I can’t get air. My vision is blurring. I feel the thing touching my leg. I try to scream, and thrash even harder, panic welling in me. His grip on my throat unrelenting. I’m seeing spots, darkness dancing in my eyes.

  “You want this. ” He whispers it in my ear, his breath hot and foul. “I know you want it. ”

  A lucid thought strikes me: I’m being raped.

  Another thought: I’m going to die.

  His hand rips at my shirt, and it’s gone. He rips at my bra, freeing my br**sts. He’s clutching at my boobs, crushing them, and the hard, thick thing on my skin prods and pokes, and I’m trying to scream, trying to fight, but I’m dizzy and can’t breathe. My pants are around my knees, and a thigh wedges between mine, forcing my knees apart.

  No.

  No.

  No.

  I can’t stop it from happening.

  And then he’s gone, just suddenly gone, and I’m off balance, sucking in cool sweet air, stumbling. I fall, tripping on my tangled pants. I hit my head on the car door so hard I see stars. I hear sounds behind me. Thumps. Wet thwacks, groans. Pained growls. Flesh on flesh.

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  I can only writhe in agony and try to breathe, seeing stars, head throbbing.

  A voice above me: “Fuck. Fuck! Grey?” It’s Dawson.

  I can’t even moan. I’m gasping, my throat raw and throbbing. I cough, suck at the oxygen.

  I feel Dawson’s gentle hands touch me. He tugs at my pants, pulling them up. Even though it’s him, I shrink away from his touch.

  “Ssshh. It’s okay. It’s me. It’s Dawson. I’m here. You’re okay. ” He puts a hand under the small of my back and lifts me slightly off the ground, tugging my pants in place. “I’ve got you. I’m gonna put my shirt on you, okay?”

  He does something, and the remnants of my bra, which I realize got ripped somehow, fall away. I sob again, a shuddering indrawn breath, and Dawson’s palm smooths down my cheek, wiping at the tears I realize are pouring down. “It’s okay, Grey. You’re okay. ”

  My head throbs, and there’s something wet and sticky on the back of my head. “Head…” I moan. “Think ’m…bleeding. ”

  Dawson curses, and I hear fabric rustling, and then something soft that smells of Dawson is eased over my head. He takes my hand in his and gently guides my arm through the hole, like I’m a child, does the same thing to the other side. I’m dressed, now, covered, and it eases the pounding terror in my gut. Dawson saved me.

  I sob then, and Dawson’s hand touches my forehead, brushes away tears. Fingers curl tenderly under my neck and help me sit up, and I hear a whispered “fuck” from Dawson as he sees the blood. I watch him grab the ripped shred of my pink T-shirt and press it to the back of my head, and then his arm goes beneath my legs and he lifts me easily. The door of his Mustang is open, the engine idling with a noisy animal rumble. He sets me in the passenger seat, leans over me to click off the radio, which is playing the heavy metal I’ve come to associate with Dawson. I’m dizzy, seeing double, and I’m tired. I glance out into the parking lot, and I see a lump on the asphalt, dark pants, and a white shirt stained red. A pool of dark liquid glints around one end of the form. It’s him, the ra**st.

  He’s not moving.

  Dawson has his phone to his ear and he’s murmuring into it. “…Piece of shit…yeah, he’s pretty f**ked up…. I don’t know, maybe? Just take care of it, okay? Got it. ’Bye. ”

  He shoves the phone into his pocket and stalks back to the Mustang, folding his tall frame into the driver’s seat. A glance at his face scares me. He’s lost in a murderous rage, his eyes all pupil, jaw clenching and teeth grinding, all angles and anger. His eyes catch mine and go soft. He glances out his window, catches sight of my attacker, and slams the shifter into reverse, guns the engine, and we spin around in a backward circle. Another violent jerk of the shifter, and we’re rocketing forward out of the parking lot and onto the deserted street.

  I wonder if I’m the reason for his anger. He had to save me at three in the morning, when I rejected him.

  He’s driving with mad precision, hitting over ninety and a hundred miles per hour on the straight stretches of road, blowing through red lights and taking turns in wide, drifting, squealing arcs. Red and blue lights flash behind us, but Dawson drives on unheeding. He jerks us through a dizzying series of lefts and rights in a random subdivision, squeals to a stop, and reverses suddenly into a narrow alleyway, shutting off his headlights. The police car flies by, siren howling. I can only clench the armrest in white-knuckled fingers and try to breathe. Dawson is still seething, his breathing coming in long, deep gasps, as if he’s trying to contain himself and barely succeeding.

  “Dawson, I’m sorry. ” I can’t quite look at him. “You can just take me home now. I’m fine. ” I press the shirt to the back of my head, and the pressure hurts, but when I pull the cotton away, it’s only lightly blotted with blood. I press again, and it comes away clean.

  He glances at me in utter confusion. “Sorry? What?” He stares at me for a long moment before understanding. “Oh, Jesus. You think I’m mad at you?”

  I shrug. “I guess. I mean…I don’t know. You’re scaring me, though. ”

  He reaches out and places his palm on my knee. “Babe, I’m mad for you, not at you. ”

  “I don’t…I don’t understand. ”

  He frowns, and then sighs. “I’m taking you home. My home. We’ll talk there. ”

  “But…I’m okay. I’d rather go to my dorm. ”

  “Too bad. ” He pulls the Mustang out of the alley and onto the main road, and from there to the highway. Once we’re on the freeway, he puts the muscle car through her paces, accelerating steadily but evenly until the needle is buried. Going a hundred or more in a Bugatti is like being on a jet—the sense of speed is contained and dampened by the expensive hand-crafted shocks and whatever else. Going a hundred and twenty in a classic 1960s muscle car is terrifying. You feel every bit of the speed. You feel closer to the road, as if you’re strapped to a rocket that could wobble off-course at any second.

  “Can you slow down a little, please?” I ask.

  He shoots me a split-second glance, perhaps seeing that my hands are frantically clutching at the armrest and the dashboard. I feel him back off the accelerator immediately. “Sorry. ”

  I can sense the questions in him. I have plenty of my own.

  I want my bed. I want the familiar surroundings of my dorm. It’s not much, but it’s all I have.

  He’s not taking me there, though. We’re pulling up to the gate and Dawson’s waving at a middle-aged uniformed guard in the guardhouse, and then we’re under the arch and softly jerking to a stop in front of his doors. I barely have time to register that we’ve stopped before the car is off and Dawson beside me unbuckling me and lifting me from the car. I should protest but I’m dizzy, and my neck won’t support my head. I’m so tired. I lay my head on his shoulder and let my eyes close.

  Dawson glances at me, and then his voice rouses me. “Grey, no. You gotta stay awake for me, okay? You might have a concussion. You can’t sleep yet, okay?” He sets me down briefly, and I sway against him as he unlocks his front door and shoves it open, then lifts me again through the entry and kicks the door closed. I never got beyond the hallway with the half-bath the last time I was here. His footsteps echo on the marble of the foyer, and I see through cracked eyelids that we’re passing through an open-plan kitchen and into a huge but comfortable-looking living room. He sets me down gently on a deep leather couch.

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  I can’t help staring at him as he hovers over me. His jaw is brushed with dark stubble, making him look a little older and a little harder. I notice that he has dots of c
rimson crusted on his forehead and cheekbones, and on his shirt. I reach up without thinking and scrape at the blood on his cheek with my thumbnail.

  Dawson jerks away, scrubbing at his face and staring at his hand, at the flakes of dried blood. “Shit. I’ve got his blood on me. ”

  “Is he—”

  Dawson interrupts me. “He’s none of your concern. ” He moves into the kitchen and comes back with a bottle of peroxide, a wad of paper towel, and a bag of ice. He examines my head with something resembling professional tenderness, dabbing at the cut with a peroxide-dampened paper towel. I wince at the sting, but it only lasts a moment.

  “What’s Greg going to do with him?”

  Dawson shrugs. “That’s not a question I want to know the answer to. I hired Greg because he scares the f**k out of me. He used to be president of a biker gang that made the Hell’s Angels look like a bunch of tea-sipping pussies. Except Greg also has a degree in business from Brown. So yeah, don’t piss him off. ”

  I have to ask. “Do you think he’s dead? The guy who tried to—who attacked me?”

  “Do you care?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. I just—”

  “Listen, babe. He tried to rape you. He would have killed you. He nearly did, and you’ve got the bruises on your throat to prove it. Don’t think about that piece of shit anymore, okay? He’s gone, and he won’t hurt you or anyone else ever again. That’s all that matters. His blood is on me, and Greg. Not you. ”

  “But you can’t just—”

  “Grey. ” Dawson moves to sit next to me, and I want to curl into him. Let him hold me. I stay still and try to keep my turbulent feelings in check. “Stop worrying about that f**king pile of scum. Okay? Please? He doesn’t deserve your pity. If he’s dead, it’s too good for him. He deserves to suffer. ” The vehemence in his voice and in his eyes makes me shiver.

  I look away and focus on breathing, in and out. Dawson is a huge, hot, confusing presence beside me, and I’m filled with sensory memories of his arms around me and his lips on me…and then the memory shifts abruptly, and I feel again a hand clamping over my mouth and hear the hiss of his voice, and I gag.

  Dawson pulls me into his lap as I start to shake and sob, his arms curling around me. I tense initially, sure that the feeling of male arms holding me will trigger the horror again, but it doesn’t. I feel safe with Dawson. He protected me.

  “It’s okay, Grey. You’re safe. ” His mouth is beside my ear, whispering.

  Then, something odd happens: Dawson presses a soft kiss to my temple. It’s…tender. It’s a kiss designed to soothe, to comfort. Not to ignite desire or passion. It confuses me, and it makes me feel…loved. Cared for.