Caught for Christmas (Stripped 3.50)

It bothers me that he followed me home, but it bothers me way more that I didn’t notice. “Looking for a little side action? I didn’t know you were into that, Boy Scout.”

West is a bouncer at the Grand, the club where I work. The girls call him Boy Scout because he never looks at us wrong, never asks for a private dance. He’s a total gentleman, and exactly the kind of trouble I don’t need.

“I’m worried about you,” he says, his voice strang

ely honest, the kind of earnest I almost didn’t know existed until I met him. He’s naive, right? Way too gullible. I just hate how it makes my heart tug.

“Don’t be,” I tell him, snatching the wad of cash from his hand. “I can take care of myself.”

He leans back just a fraction, and I get the feeling he’s inspecting me. Whatever he sees, I doubt he’s impressed. He works for Candy, who owns the Grand after Ivan gave it to her, and she has a gorgeous body. Hell, all the dancers have gorgeous bodies.

Meanwhile I’m too tired, too thin. Months of ramen noodles will do that to a girl. I can keep dancing, though, keep moving—muscle memory and all that. The same way I stole that wallet.

“Let me take you to dinner,” he says.

My heart gives another kick, and I know this time it isn’t from fear. I nod toward the blue-glow horizon, skyscrapers like snow-capped mountains. It’s already morning. “A little late for that.”

“I’m still hungry,” he says, his voice low—and seductive? I’m not sure what makes me think that, except that I’m feeling a little seduced. The wetness in dark places has nothing to do with windswept rain.

And that makes him dangerous. “No, thanks.”

He pauses, not seeming particularly let down. He seems thoughtful instead—as if I’m a puzzle he’s trying to figure out. “I know this great little Italian place. They stay open late as long as there’s customers. And there’s always customers.”

Italian, huh? I bet they have lots of things that are cheesy and hot and—

Damn it, no.

“They bring you a basket of garlic bread to start,” he continues like a goddamn sex-phone operator, and I’m paying by the minute. And why shouldn’t I listen? I put on a show every night. “Fresh from the oven, with the butter browned around the crust. Sometimes I can get full just off the bread, but that’s a shame.”

My mouth is completely dry. “It is?”

“It is, because the fried calamari is the best I’ve ever had. Crispy and salty. You’ll be licking your fingers afterward. I know I will.”

A sound escapes me, something like a moan. I’m too damn hungry to be embarrassed about it. “Then what?”

“Well, that’s just the appetizer. For the main course there’s so much to choose from. I’ve been there so many times but I don’t think I’ve tried them all. There’s the lasagna with the filling that’s so creamy one forkful will fill you up. Then there’s the Tuscan filet, cooked to order. But I think the best dish I’ve had there—”

My mouth isn’t dry anymore. It’s watering. I’m literally salivating at what he’s describing, and he knows it. How does he know this about me? Why does he care? The cash slips from my fingers and falls to the damp alley ground, and I don’t even care. I don’t want the cash. I don’t want to be a thief. I just want him to take me on a date to this place and never let it end.

“Tell me,” I whisper.

He steps close, and I realize he’s backed me up against the wall. There’s nowhere to go from here, nothing to do as his long body presses against mine. I’m tall any day of the week, and especially with my stilettos. He’s even taller, towering over me, his strong body both a shield and a cage against the wind. I’m about to combust from what he’s describing, and the nearness of his body is the strike of a match.

His warm breath ghosts over my forehead. “The best dish is the gnocchi, each piece hand rolled, thick and stuffed with mozzarella they get straight from the farmer. There’s this brown-butter sauce that—”

“No,” I say, pushing him away. For a second my hands don’t move him at all, his body way too strong to budge, and I panic. Old fear rises up in my throat, and my hands clench into fists.

Then he straightens and steps away, hands up as if to calm me.

I couldn’t move him by force, only by words. By asking him to.

“No,” I say again, a reminder for him—and for myself. I want him too much. And I can’t have him. Not when I’m about to break through the security systems made by the company he works for. Not when I’m about to steal from his boss.

It will be a little like stealing from West.

Then I turn and run through the streets, my breath ragged and gasping as I sob out a denial—to myself, to him—leaving the money on the ground at his feet. He doesn’t follow me this time, and I make it back to my crappy apartment and the packets of ramen noodles.

This is the world I’m living in now, the one I’m forced to inhabit. And all he offered me today, both the dinner and his earnest concern, are like the high heels and the glitter thong. Temporary. A means to an end. I take them off, feeling mostly relief. Relief and a little bit of regret.