Chapter 11

Eleven

SCOTTIE

Four cups of coffee, a cold shower, and one biscotti later and I'm still exhausted from my nighttime adventure with a scowling goalie who irks me in every way. My hands shake too much to apply the lipstick, so I hand it to Hunter with a sigh.

"Nervous tonight?"

"Nouh," I try to answer with my mouth forming an O as she smears lipstick on my lips. When she's finished, I talk normally. "I'm tired, so I drank too much caffeine."

"You should try speed, girl," Hunter says.

Kitty pops in to defend me, like usual. "She doesn't do that stuff, and we all know it. Stop trying to pressure her."

Hunter rolls her eyes. "It was just a suggestion. Chill."

"It was a shitty one," Chastity mumbles from a few mirrors down.

Despite the stigma that strippers have, they aren't as bad as everyone makes them out to be. We all have our own story and reasons for ending up at the Cat House . Most women hate us—or the idea of us—and the men look at us like we're their next meal, but it pays the bills.

Kind of.

My bank account is a little less now that I was forced to put more money on William's books because of my visitor last night.

Chills cover my arms.

I rub at the tiny bumps on my skin and get ready for my shift, trying my best to ignore the pit in my stomach. Fear brews beneath my nerves, and it stays there for the next two hours as I move seductively, getting showered with dollar bills.

My rent is due soon, I'm living on ramen noodles, the water coming from my kitchen sink tastes funky, and I got another notice from the law firm.

"I'm fine," I quietly mutter to myself. My hands fall to the pole, and I do a back hook spin while watching Chastity disappear with a man with gelled hair and a suit that could pay my rent for the year into one of the private rooms. Envy makes itself known. If I were willing to do that, I'd make so much more money.

But I'd never.

"You are fine," a man mumbles.

Our eyes meet, and I can already tell that he's slimy.

I purposefully stay on the left side of the pole in case he gets any wild ideas and tries to touch me.

He grumbles when I don't reply. "What? No thank you?"

I smirk, and I know it comes off as flirty, but on the inside, I picture myself levitating over the bar and kicking him right in the mouth with my heel.

My long hair touches the floor of the platform when I tip my hips to the ceiling for an inside leg hang. Once I feel the pole dig into the side of my torso, I wrap my inside leg and slide my hand against the metal to spin slowly to the other side of the pole. Fire zips through me when I feel a tug on my fake auburn hair, and I nearly slip when I realize it's the man.

"There's a no-touch rule," I remind him, feeling the blood rush to my head.

He pulls tighter, burying his fingers under my hair. "None of the other girls tell me not to touch them."

This asshole.

Panic surfaces, and I fearfully search the Cat House for Chastity. She'll break this guy's arm if she needs to. Harry, my favorite bouncer, is at the door with his back to me, and shit, just let go.

Profanity threatens to slice through my pursed lips, and there's an instinct promising to show itself if he doesn't let go of me within the next few seconds, which will likely lead to me getting fired, and then I'll really be shit out of luck.

I open my mouth to try and convince him to let go of me, but before I can mutter a single word, he does so on his own. I breathe out a sigh of relief and am tempted to take his shot glass and down the liquor in it before slamming it on his head, but instead, I play nice and smile sweetly. "Thank you."

He leans back in his seat and crosses his arms over his obvious beer belly. "Now you owe me."

Emory pops into my head with the recent memory of those exact words coming from his mouth. Although I'm not proud of it, and I wouldn't admit it aloud, I keep thinking of him while I take commands from a patron that needs to be thrown out for even thinking that I owe him. Picturing Emory is much better than the alternative.

"Show me your best moves, baby."

The song changes, and I know it's my cue to climb down and take my break. I slide past him, but when his hand reaches out and slips around my waist, I stop breathing. "Want to go to a private room?"

My refusal cuts through my panic before I have room to think. "No."

"No?"

If I wasn't pissed off and trying to remain calm, I'd laugh at the audacity of this man.

"She can't go to a private room with you."

I jerk with a spin, causing the man's callused hands to rub against my bare skin. Blinking through my shock doesn't help my confusion even in the slightest. Emory stands no more than three feet in front of me with a tense jaw and a gaze lasered on the hand against my waist.

"Why can't she?" the man asks, gripping me a little tighter.

I move past Emory's death glare and try to catch the eye of Harry, but with Emory's height and broad shoulders, I can't see anything, even with heels on.

"Because…" Emory steps forward, and my heart races. "I already booked her for the night."

"What?!" I blurt.

There's a pinch on my skin from the man squeezing me tighter, and I wince. Emory's eyebrow arches, and I swear his jaw becomes as sharp as a knife. "Let go of her."

Violence edges within his tone, and the only thing that races through my head is the sports commentators' voices and how they constantly bring up Emory's arrest for assault that led him here, to my hometown.

I'm seconds from stepping on this man's toe with my heel, but he proves that he's smarter than he looks, because he lets go at the last second. I stumble forward, landing with a thud against Emory's hard chest. He snaps his hands to my forearms, gripping them roughly. Yet, for some reason, they feel safe.

I glance over my shoulder, and the man scoffs, as if he's waiting for me to refuse going into the private room with Emory.

Which, I do.

But not because I'm trading him out for the perv behind me.

I turn toward Emory. He's wearing a hat, likely because people are beginning to recognize him, but I can still see the challenge in his blue eyes. "I'm not going into a private room with you," I say quietly.

His lips twitch. "Yes, you are."

"I am not that type of woman, despite where I work." Anger heats my skin, and by the looks of it, Emory enjoys seeing me all riled up.

The breath leaves my lungs when his hands drag down my forearms and land on my hips. He pulls me in closer, and the entire Cat House disappears.

My heart races with his touch, and when he leans in closer to whisper in my ear, I black out. "You either go in that room with me, or I leave you with him, Rogue."

I have to force myself to speak. "Rogue?"

A warm gust of his breath hits the side of my face with his deep chuckle. "Yes, Rogue. You're my little swindler, Scottie, and don't forget that you owe me."

"And you think I'm going to pay you back with sex?!" I try to keep my voice down, but I'm near hysterics.

People are starting to stare at our embrace, and if I wasn't so stubborn, I'd just follow him in that stupid room and refuse there, but I'm headstrong, and that's something that will never change.

Emory tenses. "What? No. Jesus . Will you just trust me and accept that I'm trying to help you?"

"I don't trust anyone."

"Neither do I," he snaps back. "Especially you. But you don't have a choice. Your options are limited."

I peek over my shoulder once more, and it only takes me half a second to succumb to Emory. "Fine," I hiss.

Emory snorts. "That wasn't so hard now, was it?"

I roll my eyes and his flare. The muscles along his jaw flicker before a swallow moves down his throat. "Now take my hand and lead me to one of the rooms."

I do as he says but mumble under my breath. "You're so bossy."

"I'm not bossy. I just know what I want."

A totally uncalled swarm of butterflies fills my stomach as I enter a completely make-believe world of utter bullshit where a guy like Emory Olson would ever want a girl like me—one with enough baggage to weigh us both down to the point that we couldn't even move a pinky toe.

Get a grip, Scottie.

Emory obviously wants something from me, and he's already made it clear that it isn't to force me into prostitution.

I quickly shake my head at Chastity when she gives me a strange look as I drag Emory to a private room. As soon as we're inside, I drop his hand, and he shuts the door, locking it behind us.

It's the same room we found ourselves in the first time he cornered me at my place of employment. I guess that's our thing. I cornered him at the hockey arena, and he's cornering me at the strip club. What a pair.

I gulp as soon as he turns toward me. His ego takes up the entire room, and I want to beg for some space to breathe, but he doesn't even give me an inch.

"Cameras," I blurt.

He flips his hat backward and shows off each one of his stony features. "What?"

I flick my chin to the corner of the room. "There are cameras in here, so if you try anything, I'll have proof."

Emory drops his head and laughs under his breath. "You're all about proof, aren't you, Rogue?"

The insult stings because I'm not proud of what I did—or attempted to do—but it's warranted, so I say nothing.

Emory slowly stalks toward me, and I stay completely still. If I were locked in this room with anyone else, I'd panic. I hardly know Emory, and there is some hesitation lingering, but he doesn't stir up unwanted memories of being in a locked room with a stranger. I don't feel safe, but I don't feel threatened either.

"Are the cameras for your protection or for your boss to get off on his girls seducing other men?" Emory asks, standing no more than a foot away from me.

I can't help but laugh. Emory's eyebrows hitch.

"I can assure you it's the latter. Russ doesn't care about our protection."

The grinding of Emory's jaw echoes throughout the near silent room. His eyes slice to the chair in the center of the room. "Then I guess we better give the asshole a show."

He must see the protest on my face, because before I can refuse, he steps in close, grips my chin, and tilts my face to his. "You were desperate enough to destroy my career for money, so don't tell me you're not desperate enough to give me a lap dance to quiet your boss so I can tell you exactly why I'm here."

My voice breaks with obvious desperation. "Why are you here?"

Emory smirks, and I hate that it's so hot. I stand back and watch him stride over to the chair. When he takes a seat, somehow looking hotter than any man at the Cat House, in his backward hat, casual black hoodie, and jeans, he chuckles. "Dance and I'll tell you."