Page 23 of Royally Bad

Recovering from the rejection, I followed her down. Her bare feet touched the hot gravel, but it was her bones—still vibrating with the violence of my bike—that gave up. Sammy buckled sideways, her dress flipping upward as her face crashed straight toward the ground.

Faster than I had any right to be ... but I justneededto be ... I caught her by her elbow. It was like the other day in my driveway all over again. We were tangled dancers, and while no one had seen us yesterday, a confused impound worker gawked at us now.

Gentle as a breeze, I scooped her up in my arms. Sammy gasped, which was good, because it muted my subtle groan. Holding her against me was pure pleasure. Her weight was perfect, just enough to keep me grounded so I wouldn’t float into the heavens.

“Kain, put me down.”

“Nope. Have you seen this place?” Stepping over rocks and broken glass, I headed for the gate. “You don’t want to put those heels back on, that’s fine. But if you try to step on this shit with your silky feet, you’ll be seeing blood.”

“Mysilky feet?Jeez, don’t tell me you have a foot fetish.”

Chuckling, I spoke into her ear. “Was I rubbing your feet last night or your pussy?”

Her mouth went white and tight.

The man waiting by the gate stood up like we were royalty coming his way. He had no clue that one of us actually was. “Hey there,” I said, squinting at his name tag. “... Larry. My lady friend here has a car she needs to grab. Show him the paperwork, Sammy.”

Pulling her purse into her lap, she fumbled the yellow papers out, handing them over. The young man took them hesitantly, saying, “Uh, all right. Give me your key, I’ll go grab it.”

Sammy gave them up, then we both watched as Larry trucked off across the giant lot of vehicles. It was like a graveyard for cars, their bodies in various degrees of decay.

The wind kicked dust up, and on instinct, I shielded Sammy from it. Doing so pushed my face close to the top of her head. Hair strands tickled my cheeks, a sensation as nice as her fingers would have been on the small of my back.

“Kain,” she whispered.

My veins quickened. “Yeah?”

“After this ... I don’t want to see you again.”

I wasn’t ready for the torrent of brackish ice that slammed through my ribs. I couldn’t see her face; was she serious? And what was I supposed to say to that? When I’d hooked up with Sammy, I’d expected to have to turnheraway later.

When was the last time someone had turned me down?

Larry drove her car up to the gate. The second he stepped out, she jumped free of my arms. It looked like some twisted apocalyptic scene: Sammy in her dirty but clearly fancy dress, her hair flying in the hot wind.

She ducked into the driver’s seat, giving Larry just enough time to move before she peeled out through the gate. Sand billowed as she passed me—and then she pulled up short, the brakes squeaking.

Her window slid down; I approached, still unsure what to do. “Here,” she said, holding something out to me.

Grabbing the glittery heels, I stared from them to her. “Sammy—”

She jerked forward, driving off onto the road and taking the corner in a sharp swing. Just like that, Sammy was gone. There was no fanfare, no long good-byes. I didn’t get to argue my case or explain my family. None of it.

Larry stepped beside me, watching with me in the moment of silence. “Why did she give you her shoes?” he asked. “Was she Cinderella or some shit?”

His words made me laugh, and that felt good—that release was what I needed.

“Yeah. I think she was.”

Have you ever smelled stripper ass?

It’s not a bad smell. It’s just a memorable one. It’s the kind of thing no girl can recreate outside of the club, you only wear it if you’re the sort who’s busy taking off her panties and shaking it for her rent.

My eyes took a second adjusting to the dimness. Reno, by the door, nodded at me. I didn’t have to pay a cover; my family owned the Dirty Dolls, among other strip clubs. The place was huge, the second-floor balcony situated above so that you could see straight down to the stages below.

If you stood at the top rail you could watch the few girls capable of climbing to the top of the poles doing their tricks right in front of you. You could wonder why they’d risk their damn lives doing upside-down contortions when most of the money was made by hustling for lap dances—and it was a whole lot safer.

Strippers don’t get health insurance.

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