Page 1 of A Ballad of Betrayal and Beauty

CHAPTER1

Cherry Bomb

DUSTY

The only reason men are worth putting up with is their money. If I didn’t need it to survive, I’d turn around and walk out of this club in these impossible heels. But I can’t. Rent is due and while I have enough money stashed away in my dresser at home to cover my share, I still need to eat. Besides, I’m no one’s charity case. And I’ll never let myself rely on the word of a man to save me ever again—no matter what.

My head pounds, each throb made all the more potent by the flashing lights. The good mood I brought with me to work tonight is gone, and I’m dreading my stage time, even if it’s the best moneymaker around here. Hopefully security followed through because the thought of him here, watching me. Himseeingme . . . I don’t need to see pity in anyone’s eyes—especially his. It’s too painful.

I’m not ashamed of being a stripper. The money is great and I’ve made friends, and while it’s not as glamorous as it looks, it pays the bills. I survive here. But what he said crawls under my skin, and I just can’t get it out of my head.

Let me save you.

I scoff. I don’t need saving, never have. I’m twenty-three years old and know how to take care of myself. How dare he? After everything? All types of guys come in here. The jerks who believe they can own you, for a few bucks. The lonely ones looking for a girlfriend for the night. The married guys who aren’t getting it at home so they come here for a little release. And while they’re rare, there are also the ones with the savior complex. The ones who think this job is the lowest of the low and that I’m just waiting for a knight in shining armor to appear in this godforsaken strobe-lit club.

Well, news flash. This isn’t a fairy tale. I don’t need some guy who thinks he understands me to walk in and make me feel like shit. Besides, Vegas is the best place to be for a stripper. The endless supply of men willing to throw all their money at you is staggering, and the nightlife never quits. Why would I want to leave?

Let me save you.

Ugh, I feel like punching something. I push through the swing door into the back to give myself a once-over and calm down before I head onstage. Nausea rolls in my stomach and my hands shake.

“You okay, Cherry?”

I look up at the sound of my stage name, my eyes locking on Mandy in the mirror, standing behind me. I shrug. “Just some entitled prick I let get to me. That’s all.”

She comes around to lean on the counter. “Want me to tell security to throw him out?”

My red curls tumble down my back as I shake my head. “No, I handled it. He wasn’t—”How do I even explain myself?“He wasn’t getting handsy or anything. Just said something that bothered me. That’s all.”

She turns to look over her shoulder at herself in the mirror and wipes some of the smudged lipstick from the corner of her lips. “Okay, well, you’re up next, right?”

I plaster on a bright smile, fluffing up my hair as high as it’ll go atop my head. “Yup.”

She hip-checks me and heads back toward the door with a wink. “Break a leg.”

My smile falls once she’s gone, and I take a deep breath. I can do this. I shake out my limbs and stretch my neck from side to side before adjusting the neon green fishnet mini dress over my itty bitty string bikini top and thong. It barely covers my nipples and my bare butt cheeks rub against the mesh fabric of the dress in a satisfying way. I wipe away the mascara from my undereyes and reapply my red lipstick.

“Next up, gentlemen, please give it up for our fire engine bombshell, Cherry!” the announcer calls, and my stomach swoops.

I straighten my spine and give myself a hard look. “Get your money, girl.” Then I turn around and push through the doors toward the stage.

As I swing my hips, the sound of the whistling from the crowd chases my nerves away a little. At least it’s dark in here; if I focus on one face in the crowd, I won’t have to envisionhim.

My eyes are fixed on the silver pole in the middle of the stage, and I climb the treacherous stairs in my sky-high heels. The lights are warm on my glittery skin as I wrap my fingers around the pole and stick out my left leg in a pose as I wait for the music.

One face . . . just one . . .

There’s a man sitting at the very end of the long narrow stage, and I’m immediately struck by how gorgeous he is. His dark hair hangs long and thick past his shoulders, and his cheekbones are so sharp they could cut glass. I hope this guy’s got cash to burn, because I think I just found my target for the night.

“Cherry Bomb” by The Runaways starts to blast through the speakers, and I wrap my leg around the pole, falling into a slow spin. I lean forward, my breasts hanging heavily as I smile at him. He swallows hard, his dark eyes flitting over every square inch of me he can see. I run my hands up my thighs, over my breasts, and up into my hair as my inner thighs clench around the pole. I let my head fall, my back arching until I spot the man from my upside-down vantage point. He leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees, his eyes intense and ever-watchful as I dance for him.

I lift myself back up and allow the spinning pole to twist my body down onto the stage floor. Rolling over on my hips, I spread my legs right toward him as my body turns so he knows he’s the chosen one. The other men lining the stage reach forward to tuck their bills into any exposed part of me they can reach, and while I take it all, I never break my gaze with him.

He grins as I crawl across the stage toward him. My god, that kind of smile breaks hearts, I know it—and I bet he does too. When I near the end of the stage, I turn to lie on my back, my hair falling over the edge of the stage into his lap. Lifting my legs, I watch his face as he follows the way my legs point to the ceiling. How they kick and roll, then spread, and I smirk as he goes a bit cross-eyed—like he’s trying to assign an eye to each leg.

I watch him laugh at himself before he slides a twenty-dollar bill between my breasts.

His gaze finds mine, and I bite my lip. I wonder what kind of man this one is. Lonely? A jerk? Married? Hopefully, he’s not another savior.

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