Page 11 of John Wilder Gets Schooled
So yeah, I was broke all the time and I worked two jobs and my house was messy and so was my life, but despite all that, I knew Gracie belonged with me.
“Daddy?”
“What is it, princess?” I swung Gracie up in my arms and sat her on the countertop, ignoring the twinge in my back.
She giggled. “I’m not a princess!”
“Yeah, you are,” I said, smiling softly. “You’re my princess.”
She grinned at me. “Do princesses get ice cream?”
“They get ice cream after they eat their dinner,” I said.
Shit, did we even have ice cream? I’d have to check and do a store run if we didn’t. I’d already learned that promising a five-year-old ice cream and not delivering could result in a meltdown of epic proportions, and I wasn’t in the mood to deal with that.
“Daddy, I’m thirsty.”
I lifted Gracie off the counter and gave her a juice box, and she skipped off happily. While I was there I checked the freezer, letting out a sigh of relief when I saw the box of ice cream bars I’d bought were still there. I wasn’t religious nowadays, but it was nothing short of a miracle that the twins hadn’t inhaled them as soon as my back was turned. Then again, they’d witnessed the ice cream tantrum last time, so obviously they were fast learners.
My phone buzzed and a glance at the screen told me it was Lauren, who was in charge of my bookings in return for a ten percent cut. It was a small price to pay—I wasn’t organized enough to deal with a second phone number.
Can you work tonight?
My back saidabso-fucking-lutely not.
But my wallet saidlet’s not make any rash decisions.
I could at least find out what the gig was before I made up my mind.
What do you need?
The dots danced across the screen, then:
Fiftieth. One number and a lap dance for the birthday girl. They want the cop.
That didn’t sound too bad. An hour, tops. And the grocery money jar was pretty empty right now. Before I said yes, though, I went and stuck my head in the door of the living room. “Hey.”
Danny looked up from where he was chasing the last few chip crumbs around the bottom of the bowl. “What’s up?”
“Can you watch Gracie tonight? I got a callout.”
He snorted. “Like you’re a surgeon or something.”
“Shut up. Can you do it?”
He waved a hand. “Yeah, you go do your thing, Doctor Sexy.”
“Thanks,” I said and texted Lauren back.
The booking wasn’t until nine, so Gracie was tucked up in bed and fast asleep by the time I left and drove over to Lawrenceville. The gig was exactly what I’d expected—a dozen cocktail-tipsy women in their fifties who greeted me with squeals and laughter when I rang the doorbell, whipped out my handcuffs, and said I’d had reports that one Louise Carter had been a bad, bad girl.
One of the ladies dragged a chair to the middle of the room and two other ladies dragged a red-faced, giggling woman over and sat her there. Then they all sat down and looked at me expectantly.
I set up my Bluetooth and started the music playing. I gave Louise a slow, easy smile, and she blushed harder while her friends all whooped and cheered, even though I hadn’t doneanything yet. It was honestly kind of a rush, having everyone watching me. When I was stripping, I wasn’t the pastor’s kid who’d fucked up, or the single dad who was always late for drop-off, or the guy who slept through his alarm.
I was the hot guy, and everybody wanted me.
I started rolling my hips in time with the music, getting into the groove and popping the snap fasteners on my fake uniform, peeling my shirt off and helicoptering it over my head. Then I sauntered over to the birthday girl and dropped into her lap. The shrieks were more deafening than that time Gracie spotted a bug in her wading pool.
