Page 11 of Hitch
So that I can’t do anything, butlethim.
I bite my lip, knowing that what I’m about to do is probably a mistake, but I can’t stop this urge.
Besides, Duane hasn’t killed me yet.
I head back to the bar, when the Mortician bumps into me, cornering me between him and the wall.
“Let’s go for another dance,” the Mortician says, his words slurring. Duane and I briefly exchange eye contact over the Mortician’s shoulder. My stomach flips as I force a smile at the Mortician.
“I need to talk with an old friend,” I say. “Maybe we can talk after.”
“But you promised—”
I shush in the Mortician’s ear, letting my lips tickle his skin. “Just wait for me, baby.”
The Mortician is quiet, though he follows my vision over to Duane.
And suddenly, the world stands still.
Duane holds his half-empty beer like this is ordinary. Like he’s simply waiting for me. Like he’s confident that I’ll come running toward him, just like I ran away from him.
As soon as I’m within a few feet of his body, that earthy, musky scent swallows me up like quicksand. His ocean blue eyes hold me captive, and I gnaw my bottom lip.
Customers never make me nervous, even when they’re attractive. In the end, stripping is just an entertainment job with some brief nudity. It’s a transaction. We know the drill.
But even though Duane tipped me a hundred, he doesn’tfeellike a customer. He’s been living in my nightmares and my fantasies for so long that I convinced myself that he wasn’t real. That I imagined the entire night.
But then I had his pistol to remind me that he wasn’t a ghost.He is real.And now he’s standing right in front of me.
I huff through my nostrils.
This is a job. Nothing more.
“Todd says you want a dance,” I say.
Duane nods, the jerk of his head sharp. “Two hundred and fifty per song? Is that right?”
“Cash,” I say.
Duane straightens, then tilts his head toward the pay-per-song lap dance bench out on the main floor. Even in eight-inch stilettos, he towers over me, making me small. And I know that’s another warning.
I should run. I should tell Todd how I know Duane. I should get Duane arrested. But something stops me.
The lap dance bench is out in the open, which is a little more safe. A monster can only do so much with an audience. Like standing behind bulletproof glass, I’m safe here.
Duane angles toward the lap dance bench.
“Go on,” he says, giving me those same nonchalant words he said when he told me to shoot him six months ago. Eventually, I lead the way. He sits on the bench, his arms stretched across the back, like he’s completely at ease. We wait for the next song to start. A stripper on stage twirls around the pole like a ballerina, and as I pretend to watch her, Duane hands me a thousand dollars. I triple count the bills and mark them with a counterfeit pen. Everything looks fine, so I put the money in my clutch.
Four songs. That’s all I have to do.
Duane’s eyes trace over my body, scrutinizing every inch of me to make sure that I’m exactly who I say I am. It sets me on fire.
“Why are you here?” I ask quietly. “Why now?”
Why me?
“I’ve got needs,” Duane says, his tone deep and gravelly, the word ‘needs’ sending shivers down my spine. I straighten, not letting it show. He lifts a brow. “Perhaps I should have explained myself. That night, it was just part of my calling. I had to exert the full extent of my power. I like to hunt.”
