Truth Be Told Read online

  Table of Contents

  STELLA

  COHEN

  This I Know Sample

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2018 Holly Ryan

  No part of this book may be reproduced without express permission from the author, with the exception of brief excerpts for the purpose of reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All details, including names, dates, places and events, are products of the author’s imagination, and any relation to reality is purely coincidental.

  Formatting: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing, www.unforeseenediting.com

  Editing & Proofreading: Kari Green

  Cover Design: Cover It! Designs

  CONTENTS

  STELLA

  COHEN

  STELLA

  COHEN

  STELLA

  COHEN

  STELLA

  COHEN

  STELLA

  COHEN

  STELLA

  COHEN

  STELLA

  COHEN

  STELLA

  This I Know Sample

  About the Author

  STELLA

  I swing open the door to Sapphire Gentlemen’s Club right before the stroke of midnight. The metal handle is freezing, and I pull my hand away as quickly as I can. I forgot my gloves at home today. I check the time on my Michael Kors watch and let out a breath of relief, which freezes in the air in front of me. My shift starts at twelve o’clock. It’s eleven fifty-six.

  I’ve been working as an exotic dancer on the side for almost two months now. It’s not something I particularly enjoy. The men I have to put up with in my job are generally unappealing, sometimes rude and borderline harassing, but always drunk. But I do it because, well…why does anyone put up with a job?

  “Gotta pay those bills,” moans Lorelei, coming in behind me.

  Ah, Lorelei. I’d recognize that voice anywhere.

  “Sure do,” I say. I stop and wait for her, holding the door.

  Lorelei has been working here longer than me, although I’m not quite sure how long it’s been for her. I’m weird with details like that. It’s not that I’m spacey, it’s just that details can go right over my head if I’m thinking about something else at the time. Which isn’t good, considering my line of work.

  Lorelei takes the door. “Thanks.”

  “Why do I get the impression you don’t want to be here any more than I do?” I ask as we head to our lockers.

  She shrugs. “Probably because you know me. You’re right. We’re twenty-one. We’re stripping after college. We’re two walking, sexy clichés.”

  I set my purse on one of the tables, then open my locker and start to undress. The outfit I pull out of my purse, the one I selected from my closet an hour ago, is a unique one, even considering what we’re about to do; it’s a tiny little number, black and full of sequins, and the top of the garter explodes in a pattern of black lace. “Speak for yourself,” I say as the fabric falls through my fingers.

  “Ugh,” Lorelei says. She’s taken off her pants and now she’s bent over, stroking one of her legs. “I forgot to shave.”

  I hand her one of the disposable razors that I always keep close at hand. “Use mine.” Even though I’m anything but a veteran at this, I know you always have to come prepared.

  I eye her as I finish getting dressed and reach around to buckle my bra. I’ve always thought Lorelei to be prettier than me, but I must admit that I have the better body. Lorelei has the kind of face that guys automatically go for. It’s the kind of face that shows no trace of inhibition when she’s on stage and is always done up to perfection with top-of-the-line makeup. The same goes for her hair, which today cascades down her back in perfectly-rolled curls. But she’s several inches shorter than me, and my long, muscular arms and legs beat hers any day.

  “Thanks.” She grabs it from me and uses the small built-in sink to shave herself, her cheeky bikini riding up as she lifts her leg awkwardly.

  When I’m sure she can’t see me, I reach down into the sock that I haven’t yet removed for this very reason. Swiftly, I slide out my knife.

  I clutch the cold metal, concealing it within my fist. It’s a medium-sized switchblade, and I’m not even sure if it’s legal or not. It’s not supposed to be on the premises when we’re working. I know that. I stuff it inside my locker and quickly cover it with one of my spare tops, paying special attention to tuck the fabric down around it. There’s no way I’d do this job without some kind of protection, but unfortunately, I can’t keep that knife on my body at all times – for obvious reasons. This is my routine every night: secretly pull from sock, stuff inside locker, cover until invisible. Repeat. Most nights Lorelei arrives after me, though, so I have plenty of time to make my move in private.

  I doubt Lorelei would care. Hell, I know lots of girls in this line of work carry something on themselves for protection, although ninety-nine percent of the time it’s usually just mace. It’s just that if there’s one thing the academy has instilled in me, it’s confidentiality. Because you just never know.

  She finishes up as I’m pulling another pair of fishnet stockings over this elaborate contraption I have going on. Then I grab for a long, dark grey beaded necklace, which I swoop over my head and allow to cascade down my back – my signature look. It’s something different, and the men love it. I look at her and smile.

  “There,” she says. She offers the razor back to me.

  Instead of taking it, I say, “You can put it in my bag.”

  “What would I do without you. Oh–” She stops, removing something from my purse’s depths.

  I freeze.

  “Ohh my. What is this, Stella?”

  It’s a condom. She flicks it between her fingers.

  “Hey.” I reach and miss and end up grasping at air. “What the hell do you think it is?”

  “I know what it is. Why do you have this, missy? You know what Mama May said last week. This isn’t a special services club, and we’re not even supposed to have this kind of thing.”

  The condom isn’t for me. Really, it’s not. My love life is lackluster, to say the least. And yeah, Mama May doesn’t want us to bring any of our own “sexual paraphernalia,” as she calls it, because according to her, if we’re not doing anything illegal, we shouldn’t need it. Which is pretty ridiculous if you ask me, because what if we want to do something perfectly legal after our shift? Not that that’s something I anticipate. The quality of men here is, as I said before, sorely lacking.

  I grab it from her, laughing. “Since when are you one to be so into rules?” Maybe the switchblade wouldn’t go over so well with her, after all. “It’s for Simone. She asked me to bring her one. God knows I don’t use any condoms these days, so I had some laying around.”

  Lorelei slams her locker and gives me a sideward glance. “I thought Simone was trying to conceive.”

  I slam my locker, too. “Nope. I guess not. How do I look?” I do a little twist.

  “Smokin’. Come on.”

  By the time we start, the club is packed. It’s going to be a long night. I prepare to replace a dancer named Tracy as the end of her shift approaches, and she comes down off the pole out of breath and sweating, but only after gathering up her fair share of tips off the platform floor. Most of the men around her don’t want her to leave, but a few seem to change their minds when they see me approach. They’re looking at me like I’m the next piece of meat to be evaluated on the auction block. I divert my gaze, refusing to make eye contact. Tips be damned.

  A flash of lights set to the beat of the music draws my attention. Lorelei is already working a stage opposite me. She’s past a large divider in the main room, and I have to strain to see her. I can only catch streaks of her ha
ir being tossed and glimpses of her legs over the top of the divider as she twists and twirls her money out of her viewer’s pockets. She’s giving them what they want. They won’t be left impatient, that’s for sure.

  “Come on, girl,” a man taunts, shaking a wad of cash up and down from his seat.

  Tracy has since disappeared, and I’m up. The men are waiting for me, almost-empty drinks in hand. I take the stage, taking extra care with my tall heels to not fall flat on my face on the way – it’s always been a fear of mine, although I’m lucky that as of today it hasn’t yet happened – and swing myself around the pole in one swift motion, sticking that very heel into the air. This pleases my small crowd, and the man who’d been calling to me now starts to fork over some of that cash as I continue to dance. He thumbs through the bills, the motions more for show than anything else. He’s drunk. I can see it in his eyes and the way his movements are just a little slowed. Of course, that should be a given. They all get drunk here. That’s what this place is for. It’s what I’m for. For a bunch of lonely, single (hopefully) guys to come and watch me wrap my half-naked body around a pole for a couple of minutes. I want to puke.

  But I won’t. I don’t want them to notice my slight tinge of nausea, so I try to mask it with a smile.

  I can be prone to nausea at the most inconvenient times. Ever since I was a kid, my mom used to complain about having to rush me out of the store, forfeiting her huge pile of groceries, holding my little body straight out in front of her in an attempt to avoid getting puke on her just-dry-cleaned cashmere sweater. For a while she thought it had to be some kind of medical condition, but it never amounted to anything except annoyance and inconvenience. And now is certainly one of those times of inconvenience.

  The smile works. They don’t let up their cash flow, and their expressions of glee plaster their obliviousness all over their faces.

  For crying out loud. They’re like kids in a freaking candy store. I need to get a better job, I think as I send my hair flying.

  Although, that isn’t quite true because this isn’t my main job. I should have said, I need to get a better side job. That’s all this is. A side gig that I just so happen to be pretty good at, and a side gig that just so happens to, so far, be pretty good to me in return.

  A few minutes into my dance I catch sight of a lone man sitting at a table in the corner of the room. He’s drinking a beer. Well…he has a beer in front of him. I shouldn’t say he’s drinking it, because the entire time I’ve noticed him, he hasn’t taken one sip. He’s watching me. At least…I think he is. It’s hard to tell with the way the light’s shadows are falling over his eyes, and his prominent brow creates a perfect combination of concealing his gaze.

  I might as well give it a shot. Tonight could use a little excitement, anyway. Who knows? Maybe he’s loaded and he’ll be blown away by my charm and elegant sexuality, come on over and pour out louds of cash onto me as I practically bathe in it. I roll my eyes, this time not trying to hide my expression from the watchful eyes upon me. Get over yourself. You’ve been at this for, what, two months now? You’re not the best. You’re not even the best in this room. Lorelei’s over there kicking ass, and here you are rolling your eyes and checking out the mysterious clientele lurking in the shadows.

  That’s bad. The ones who lurk in the shadows, who give off that mysterious vibe, are usually the ones you’d least want to interact with.

  There’s something about him though. Maybe it’s the way his hair falls perfectly down his forehead, over his right brow, threatening to descend over his eye, and his attitude that makes me feel like he planned the whole thing. Or maybe it’s the way he’s dressed, which would be impeccably if it weren’t for the top three buttons of his dress shirt that he has hanging open. The undone buttons expose the top of his chest, and pull my suddenly-magnetic eyes down to the very beginnings of a white undershirt.

  I try to flirt with him with my eyes, desperately trying to keep the hope alive that maybe he’ll come over and join in on contributing to my cash pool, but the longer I watch him the more disinterested he seems. Right as I’m about to give up, he rises and reaches into one of his back pockets. He pulls out some money and tosses it onto the table, then walks away, leaving his beer.

  It takes a lot to throw me. Since taking this job, I’ve learned how to put up with a lot of shit: catcalls (those are to be expected), drinks being spilled on me (both accidentally and intentionally), and touching (which is, by the way, strictly forbidden). So it should go without saying that I can take the heat. But that guy, the way he was looking at me, and the way he got up and flat out left just because I started looking at him…that threw me.

  I regain my composure enough to finish my performance, and by one thirty, I’m beat. My feet ache and cramp in their compressing still patent leather. I’m dying here.

  I’m breathing hard, and a fine layer of sweat breaks out across my skin as it does every night I dance. You may not think it’s possible for stripping to be one of the best workouts in the world, but you’d be wrong. I fan my face as I descend the few stairs, looking forward to some nice cold ice water and leaving the whistling and drooling of the men far behind, although I can still feel their eyes on me as I walk away.

  I meet up with Lorelei as we converge on our way to the locker room. She raises her hand for a high five. “We did it,” she says.

  “One mini-shift down,” I reply, smacking her hand.

  We call them mini-shifts, the small segments of dancing we do before taking our thirty minute breaks. So far, it’s been my experience that you’re given more breaks in this job than any other “normal” job. I suppose you have to.

  Just as we’re about to reach the freedom of the locker room, and with my hand on the door ready to open and get that nice glass of water, the fire alarm sounds. A loud, wailing sea of men’s voices flows through the building.

  “Fuck,” says Lorelei, stomping her foot and yelling over the sound. “It’s like thirty fucking degrees out. Fuck.”

  “If you say fuck one more time, I’m keeping my razor the next time you need it.” Lorelei has this thing with swearing. She’s trying to stop, and she’s asked me to help her. Most days that’s easier said than done. “I’ll make you dance all hairy.”

  I’m not sure if she heard me, because she ignores what I said and takes my hand. Together we make for the door, about to join a large mass of people heading the same direction.

  I hesitate briefly, resisting against the pull of Lorelei’s hand. Maybe I should run back inside for my switchblade. The truth is, I feel even more naked without that thing than I do without the majority of my clothes on, as I am now.

  “Stella!” Lorelei says over her shoulder. “Come on.”

  I guess it isn’t worth it. Don’t they always say that, anyway? Never go back inside for anything.

  “Come on,” she says again. I rush up to her so that we’re closer together amid the small mass of people. “Keep me warm.”

  But I don’t need to bother. It comes as no surprise that as soon as we get outside and the frigid air hits us, there are suddenly tons of men whose turn it is to do the stripping; they whip off their coats and outer layers faster than I ever thought possible, draping them over our shoulders until we’re wearing three solid layers of musty old leather, pilled North Face fleece, and over washed thrift store sweaters. The smells of b.o., smoke, must and spilled beer surround me and form a nauseous concoction which, once it hits my nose, makes me feel ill. I lean against Lorelei for strength. The dancing and sudden and cold was already getting to me; throw in those smells of dirty old men wrapped around me, and I’m done for.

  I lean in closer, or rather, I fall in, thanks to the nausea and the pain in my feet, until I almost reach her ear. “I think I’m going to be sick,” I try to whisper.

  “What?” She’s loving the attention she’s getting from the men, no doubt hoping it’ll earn her more tips when she takes the stage again in half an hour. If they come to tur
n this damn thing off. She stops batting her eyelashes for a moment to look at me. “Oh my gosh, Stella. Are you okay?”

  “I’ll be fine. I’ll be right back.” I stumble a few feet away. She doesn’t yet know about my propensity to nausea; it’s not like that’s something I go around eager to tell people about. One person, a man, tries to follow me, and he reaches for my elbow to help hold me up, no doubt thinking I’m simply wasted, but I twist my arm out of his grasp and shoo him away. If I really puke, there’s no way I want anyone around me when I do. And I really, truly feel like I’m going to puke.

  I find a place around the side of the building where there’s some privacy and hold myself up with one hand against the brick wall. Ugh. All I can think about is the overwhelming desire to get these things off me. The smell is still unbearable. It’s the smell of horny, drunk, desperate and raw man. But the cold sucks, too, and I’m faced with a dilemma: puke or freeze?

  Fuck it, I choose freeze.

  The nausea still as strong as ever, I drag the coats off me and let them fall to the ground, where they land with a thud. Please stop, I plead with my body. Please stop.

  It’s no use. The sickness continues to rise, even stronger now, and I place my other hand against the wall as I finally throw up.

  When I’m done, I do my best to wipe my mouth. I raise my head and look around. The nausea is gradually subsiding, as it does, and my senses are returning. My eyes scan the area until confusion sets in. Where am I? I’ve never been here before. I can’t be far away, though. I can still hear the crowd waiting for the fire trucks just around the corner, and I’m pretty sure I can even hear Lorelei’s voice above them as she continues to flirt, but where I am is basically nothing more than an empty, wide alley. It’s pretty well-lit, though; there two tall, bright fluorescent street lights cascading a small amount of light onto and around me. It looks like there’s supposed to be a third, but it’s burnt out.

  I’d better head back. I lean down and pick up the men’s coats, slowly collecting the bundle of fabrics so as not to disturb my stomach again. When I rise, I freeze. A man is walking toward me from the direction of the crowd. He’s about my height, taking my heels into consideration, and he’s balding, but he has a strong look about him, with his tight shirt displaying his muscles. He has on an old pair of light wash, stained jeans. No coat, I notice. Did he come over here to get his from me? I sift through the coats, about to open my mouth to apologize and offer his back to him, when I see him look back over his shoulder. I stop, the coats dangling in my hands. When he sees that he hasn’t been followed, he says, “Hey there.”