I’ll do anything to stay hidden, even if that means working at the scariest club in town. Then he shows up, mysterious and yet strangely familiar. And so damn sexy.
When he looks at me, I forget why I can’t have him. He’s beautiful and scarred. His body fits mine, filling the places where I’m hollow, rough where I am soft.
He’s the only man who wants to help, but he has secrets of his own.
He has questions I can’t answer.
I’m running from my past, but his might catch me first.
Read Love the Way You Lie today!
If you’ve already read Love the Way You Lie, you can continue the series with Blue and Lola’s story in Better When It Hurts and Ivan and Candy in Pretty When You Cry.
And don’t miss the the gritty and suspenseful Chicago Underground series. USA Today bestselling author Cari Quinn calls it a “must read.” Book one, Rough is free on all retailers!
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Turn the page for an excerpt from Love the Way You Lie…
Excerpt from Love the Way You Lie
In the first moments onstage, I’m always blinded.
The bright lights, the smoke. The wall of sound that feels almost tangible, as if it’s trying to keep me out, push me back, protect me from what’s going to happen next. I’m used to the dancing and the catcalls and the reaching, grabbing hands—as much as I can be. But I’m never quite used to this moment, being blinded, feeling small.
I reach for the pole and find it, swinging my body around so the gauzy scrap of fabric flies up, giving the men near the stage a view of my ass. I still can’t quite make anything out. There are dark spots in my vision.
The s
mile’s not even a lie, not really. It’s a prop, like the four-inch heels and the wings that snap as I drop them to the stage.
Broken.
A few people clap from the back.
Now all that’s left is the thin satin fabric. I grip the pole and head into my routine, wrapping around, sliding off, and starting all over again. I lose myself in the physicality of it, going into the zone as if I were running a marathon. This is the best part, reveling in the burn of my muscles, the slide of the metal pole against my skin and the cold, angry rhythm of the song. It’s not like ballet, but it’s still a routine. Something solid, when very few things in my life are solid.
I finish on the pole and begin to work the stage, moving around so I can collect tips. I can see again, just barely, making out shadowy silhouettes in the chairs.
Not many.
There’s a regular on one side. I recognize him. Charlie. He tosses a five-dollar bill on the stage, and I bend down long and slow to pick it up. He gets a wink and a shimmy for his donation. As I’m straightening, I spot another man on the other side of the stage.
His posture is slouched, one leg kicked out, the other under his chair, but somehow I can tell he isn’t really relaxed. There’s tension in the long lines of his body. There’s power.
And that makes me nervous.
I spin away and shake my shit for the opposite side of the room, even though there’s barely anyone there. It’s only a matter of time before I need to face him again. But I don’t need to look at him. They don’t pay me to look them in the eye.
Still I can’t help but notice his leather boots and padded jacket. Did he ride a motorcycle? It seems like that kind of leather, the tough kind. Meant to withstand weather. Meant to protect the body from impact.
The song’s coming to a close, my routine is coming to an end and I’m glad about that. Something about this guy is throwing me off. Nothing noticeable. My feet and hands and knowing smile still land everywhere they need to. Muscle memory and all that. But I don’t like the way he watches me.
There’s patience in the way he watches me. And patience implies waiting.