Page 1 of Give In

Chapter One

Secrets

Eden

I knew I’d get caught.

It was an inevitability I’d been pushing to the back of my mind. In some regards, I was impressed.

Six months.

Not too shabby.

My first month of work, I’d thought I’d be recognized at any moment. I’d watched the door as much as possible, ready to hide if a familiar face walked in.

But I’d gotten lax.

By the time the hairs on the back of my neck had stood and I’d looked over my shoulder to see him, he’d seen me. Past the pound of makeup and glitter, he’d recognized me. And from across the crowded club, he’d glared at me.

Hard.

In my panic-inducing nightmares, it’d always been another student who’d found me. A friend or roommate. They’d rushed to spread the word while I’d struggled to run after them, my movements slow and labored no matter how hard I’d tried.

It’d never occurred to me I’d be seen by Damien Caine.

As in, Professor Caine.

MyPolitical Theory professor.

I practically choked on my heart as it raced in my throat. My head swam, a cold sweat breaking out across my very exposed skin.

Holy shit, my life is over.

I wanted to run from the stage, but I couldn’t. It wasn’t as though he’d magically unsee me. And if my academic career was about to be drowned in a vat of glitter, I couldn’t afford to lose my financial career.

Calm down.

Think this through before your shaking legs give out and you fall.

Or faint.

Or, with your palms sweating and knees weak, go for the Eminem trifecta and lose your metaphorical spaghetti all over the stage.

Okay, not helping.

Inhaling as deep as I could, I tried to be rational.

It was highly unlikely he’d say anything to me. He’d barely spoken to me, and I doubted seeing me strip would be the icebreaker.

Plus, to say he saw me would mean admitting to being there, and I didn’t see that happening.

With that logic, Ialmostdidn’t want to die right then and there.

But the song blasting through the speakers and the outfit barely covering my body ensured that urge remained.

When I’d first started working there, I’d just danced in a sexy bikini-esque outfit. But after a few weeks, one of the owners had suggested a persona change.

There were girls who danced in biker vests. Ones with leather, whips, and a demeaning sneer. Sexy vixens who owned the stage and their sensuality. Ones who looked strong and in charge.

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