Logan hadn’t thought she was the kind of person who would walk into a place called The Silk Stocking—but he was far from upset to have this notion of her shattered.
This was . . . a deep, dark fantasy come true. He wouldn’t have to settle for some other girl, wouldn’t have to find the one that looked most like her and squint his eyes and breathe through his mouth and pretend. She wasn’t some unattainable, otherworldly thing. He could have her, easy as that.
Logan couldn’t help asking, “How much for a private dance?”
She glanced towards the club, back to the road, then down at her worn sneakers, avoiding his gaze. “I—I don’t . . . I’ve never done that before. I dunno.”
Logan wasn’t dissuaded. “Look, how much can you make in a night here?”
She began to fidget, tugging at her sleeves, but managed a casual shrug. “I s’pose . . . ‘bout seventy.”
Logan looked her up and down, then glanced around the well-filled parking lot. Pretty little thing like her? Not a chance. “How much do you really make? On a night like this.”
Another little shrug. Her voice wavered. “One-fifty.”
Logan couldn’t understand why she would be ashamed, why she would lie about making good money. After all, it meant she was attractive. Weren’t women supposed to like that, feeling attractive? “I’ll give ya two for a private dance.”
Now she smelled even more embarrassed. But she raised her chin and forced herself to meet his eyes. “Why’re you bein’ so nice to me?”
He blinked, vaguely disturbed that she would think such a thing. “Darlin’, this ain’t nice. If I was nice, I’d give you some money, put you up in a motel or somethin’. I’m . . . I’m askin’ you to strip for me.”
She slung her ratty duffle over her shoulder and locked up her car. “Right. Well, I’m fixin’ to do that anyways, so ya don’t hafta pay me special for it.” Her voice had turned hard, and it sounded all wrong on her. “Ya might as well just go on in and take a seat. I gotta get ready first. Be on in half an hour or so.” She brushed past him.
He caught her arm, hating the way that made her flinch, the spike of fear in her scent. He let her go. “That’s not what I want,” he ground out. “Not in front of those other men. I want a private dance, just for me.” His eyes made their way down her body, desire flaring at the thought of— “I want you to dance just for me,” he repeated.
She looked at him, blinking tears out of her eyes. “No,” she whispered, “no, that’s even worse. That'd make me feel even more like a whore.”
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