And maybe that’s all I am, because my instinct is to fight.
He removes his hand from my mouth, and I hiss, “What are you doing?”
I hate that my voice comes out wobbly.
“Waiting for you.”
That’s what I was afraid of. But if he wants to hurt me, he’ll have to try harder than that. I’ll make him fight for it. The killing game. I don’t even know what that means. I just know I can’t trust him. “Get away from me.”
I don’t expect him to listen—but he does. He steps back. Just enough that the streetlamp outlines his height, his shoulders. I still can’t see his expression. He is only a shadow, a deep voice. Only a question. “Who were you afraid of?”
You. “Men who drag me into alleyways.”
“I’m not going to hurt you. Only talk.”
“Is that why you kissed me?”
“That wasn’t intentional. You smelled so fucking good.”
“I smell like I’ve been dancing onstage for hours. Which I have been.”
He leans close, breathing in at my temple. Inhaling me. “So fucking good.”
That shouldn’t be a compliment, not when he’s acting like a caveman, but God, that makes it better. More primal. More real. “Right, well, I’m a stripper in a shitty neighborhood. It can give a girl a complex.”
He glances to the street like he’s never seen it before. “Get attacked often, do you?”
“Not often. I’m careful.” Except for not seeing him at all. He’s like a lion hiding in the tall grass. Only in this case they’re tall buildings of steel and concrete. By the time the gazelle sees him, it’s too late.
“Then why do you work here?” he asks.
I roll my eyes. “Let’s not do this.”
“Do what?” He looks so damn innocent, his eyes a touch too wide. He knows exactly what I’m talking about.
“The rescue game.”
“The rescue game,” he repeats.
“You know, where you ask about my problem as if you care.”
“I do actually care, though.” His lips curve. “A little.”
That makes me snort. “And then you offer to help me out. You can spot me a hundred for my light bill. Or hey, here’s an even better idea: I can go live with you rent-free. All I have to do is fuck you every night.”
“Ouch.”
“And then leave when you get tired of me.”
He is silent a moment. “Wow, you really think I’m a bastard.”
Something in my chest twists. I could have just let him say his piece. It probably would have been the same shit that every stripper has heard before, but I didn’t give him much of a chance, did I? “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“No, I mean, you’re right.”
“Really?” It doesn’t surprise me that I’m right. It surprises me that he’ll admit it.
“I am a bastard,” he says. “Bastard enough to charge you your share of rent, that’s for sure. And we’re trading off on doing the dishes.”