Four Seconds To Lose by K.A. Tucker
Published: November 4, 2013Publisher: Atria BooksBuy Now: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Other RetailersOwning a strip club isn’t the fantasy most guys expect it to be. With long hours, a staff with enough issues to keep a psych ward in business, and the police regularly on his case, twenty-nine year old Cain is starting to second guess his unspoken mission to save the women he employs. And then blond, brown-eyed Charlie Rourke walks through his door, and things get really complicated. Cain abides by a strict “no sleeping with the staff” rule. But being around Charlie challenges Cain’s self-control…and it’s been a long time since any woman has done that.
Twenty-two-year old Charlie Rourke needs a lot of money, really fast, in order to vanish before it’s too late. Taking her clothes off for men makes her stomach curl but Charlie tells herself that at least she’s putting her acting and dancing skills to good use. And though her fellow dancers seem eager to nab their sexy, sophisticated, and genuinely caring boss, she’s not interested. After all, Charlie Rourke doesn’t really exist—and the girl pretending to be her doesn’t need to complicate her life with romance.
Unfortunately, Charlie soon discovers that developing feelings for Cain is inevitable, that those feelings may not be unrequited—but losing him when he finds out what she’s involved with will be more painful than any other sentence awaiting her.
EXCERPT:
Charlie
The small
exhale escapes my lips before I can stop it. When I came up with this plan two
weeks ago, I wasn’t fully aware of the inner workings at these clubs. But you
can find anything on the internet. I found out that many owners charge a high stage
fee, so the girls actually earn their money working hard on the floor and in
the private rooms. Rumor has it that, though illegal, many of them do “extras,”
on top of the lap dances. The idea of stripping on a stage in front of people
is a giant pill to swallow for me. But lap dances . . .
I’ll do it.
I have to
do it, I remind myself.
When I ran
out of Sin City that day, I was sure that my plan was dead in the water. I
mean, how was I going to perform daily lap dances when I couldn’t even get
through my interview!
But Ginger
told me that Penny’s is different. That Cain is different. That no one in the
private rooms will be taking their pants off, and that doing “extras” is one of
the only ways that you get fired at Penny’s.
Cain
sounded too good to be true.
Setting my
chin with steely determination, I say, “Both, please.” Swallowing the revulsion
bubbling up in my throat, I clarify with a struggle, “I want to work the
private rooms as well as the stage.”
Cain blows
air out of his mouth, one hand on his hip while the other pushes through
perfectly styled, slightly wavy dark hair as he stares hard at me. There’s an
inexplicable look in his eyes, but I know he’s trying to read me. I wonder if
he’s deciding whether to ask me for a demonstration. My gaze drifts to the
couch again and my stomach tightens. Somehow I think giving this guy an
interview lap dance might be harder than doing one for a sleazeball.
Because if
I could get past the embarrassment and nerves, I might enjoy it.
But he
doesn’t ask me to demonstrate. Instead, he asks me, “Have you ever bartended
before?”
I shake my head, frowning.
“I have too
many girls working the private rooms right now. But working behind the bar
would bring your earnings up significantly. It’s what another stage dancer of
mine used to do.” He continues, more to himself, “Maybe we see how that works
out first.”
I came in
here expecting the worst—that I’d be grinding on guys’ laps by the weekend
because I have to. And yet, now, the relief is pouring out of me.
“Why are
you in this profession?” he suddenly asks, lifting his eyes to bore into me
once again.
One
question I did expect. I meet his stare and hold it as I explain, “Because I’m
good at it, I’ve got a decent body, and have no interest in serving French fries
for minimum wage while I figure out what I want to do with the rest of my
life.” I deliver that as I practiced it—calmly, clearly, convincingly. It’s a
good answer. One that creates no doubt.And so far from the truth. I know exactly
what I want to do with my life.
End it and
begin a new one.
He nods
slowly, his lip pressed together in a grimace. I don’t know if that means I’m
hired or not, so I bite my tongue and wait for a concrete verdict. I’m still
waiting for Cain’s decision when his cell phone rings. I watch with fingers
laced together in front of me while he answers with a gruff, “Yup.” He listens,
his free hand absently rubbing a small tattoo behind his ear. A second later he
barks, “No! I’m on my way.” Hanging up, he digs into a drawer and comes out
with a handful of papers. “Fill these out, please. Bring a copy of your
driver’s license tomorrow night with you.” Whatever gentleness crept into his
voice before has vanished. It’s all business now, as he slides the sheets
across his desk with hands that look strong and muscular but incapable to soothe.
“If the crowd likes you, you’ve got a job.” Turning those eyes my way once more
and pausing for a moment, he adds, “Fair?”
“Absolutely.
Thank you,” I say with a nod and what I hope is a courteous smile as I collect
the forms.
With that,
he turns and crouches down behind his desk. I hear something metal slam that
reminds me of my stepdad’s safe door. When Cain stands again, it’s to fit a
holster and gun on him, startling me. It’s not the first time I’ve seen a gun.
I have a gun. I’ve used a gun. But seeing Cain with one right here, right now,
was unexpected. Why does he even need one?
Throwing a
light jacket over himself to conceal it—he’ll die wearing that in the summer
heat, but concealing your weapon is a law in Florida and I guess Cain is a
law-abiding citizen—he walks over and, with one hand on the small of my back,
ushers me toward the door. It’s not exactly rude, but it’s also far from
polite. With me in the hall, he pulls his office door shut and marches out the
back exit, not turning once.
I’m left
standing alone, inhaling the faint scent of beer, my ears catching someone testing
the sound system. The one that will play music that I strip to tomorrow night.
I take a
deep breath as a rash of butterflies swirl through my stomach, the sudden urge
to let loose my bladder overwhelming.
It’s not a big deal.
Mom did this.
I can do this.
After
everything I’ve done, that I’ve been accomplice to, taking my top off in front
of a bunch of drunks is nothing. I deserve to suffer a bit.
I glance
down at the paperwork in my hand. He said he wants a copy of my license. That’s
fine. The only accurate thing on it is my picture.
About the Author:
Born in small-town Ontario, Kathleen published
her first book at the age of six with the help of her elementary school
librarian and a box of crayons. She is a voracious reader and the farthest
thing from a genre-snob, loving everything from High Fantasy to Chick Lit.
Kathleen currently resides in a quaint small town outside of Toronto with her
husband, two beautiful girls, and an exhausting brood of four-legged creatures.
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