His Stripper (Dance For Me)

“What’s your name?” He asks.

“Hazel.”

“Hazel,” he repeats as if he is testing out my name. “I’m Myles.”

“I would say it’s nice to meet you, but if we hadn’t met, you wouldn’t have a dent in your car,” I halfway joke. Neither one of us laughs.

He shrugs. “Accidents happen.”

“Hey, guys.” A middle-aged woman in a pink apron approaches us. “Can I start you off with something to drink?” she asks, her voice oddly shaky as she puts down a menu in front of both of us.

I look up at her and realize she doesn’t just sound nervous. She looks like it too.

“Water for me, please.”

“Sure, honey. What about you?” she asks Myles without meeting his eyes. Weird.

“Coke,” he says gruffly and picks up his menu. The waitress scurries off as if she can’t get away fast enough.

Opening the menu, I try to concentrate on it instead of gawking at Myles sitting across from me. I pretend to decide what I want when, in reality, I’ve already picked the cheapest thing on the menu.

“Here you go,” our waitress says when she comes back with our drinks. “Are you guys ready to order?” We both nod our heads. “What can I get you, honey?” she asks me first.

“Just some pancakes,” I say. Myles gives me a strange look, almost as if he knows I want to order more.

“I’ll have the all-American breakfast and one of your special omelets.”

The waitress takes our menus and disappears into the kitchen.

The smell of freshly brewed coffee and fried food lingers in the air, making my stomach growl loudly and cramp painfully. Luckily the sound of the coffee machine grinding beans is loud enough to cover it up.

“Are you from around here?” Myles asks.

“Ah, no. I’m kind of from all over the place,” I give him a washed-out answer, hoping he won’t dig any deeper.

“What brings you to town?”

“I was here for a job interview,” I explain.

“Did you get the job?” A lopsided grin tugs on his lips, and for a moment, I’m mesmerized by that smile… and by those lips.

“No.” I shake my head and force my gaze up to his eyes. “I didn’t.”

“That sucks.” He frowns as though he’s actually disappointed. “So, where do you live?”

I suck in a deep breath, trying not to glance at my car. I’m a horrible liar, but I can’t bring myself to tell him the truth. It’s too humiliating to admit I’m basically homeless.

“One order of pancakes.” The waitress comes out of nowhere, and I almost hug her for the interruption, which allows me to avoid answering the question.

“Thank you,” I tell her and start eating immediately.

She sets two plates in front of Myles, then goes back to get two more. One of them has a huge omelet smothered in cheese and bacon. Crap, that looks good.

I don’t even realize I’m staring at his food while shoveling down my pancakes like I haven’t eaten a full meal in days until I hear him chuckle. Looking up, I catch him watching me with an amused expression.

“Sorry,” I mumble with my mouth full. Embarrassed, I lower my gaze and slow down. My cheeks feel like they’re on fire.

Without a word, he pushes the plate with the omelet over to my side. When I look up, all the humor has left his features.

“I forgot how big these omelets were. Maybe you can help me eat it?”

“Sure.” I suppress the thought that he is only doing this because he either feels sorry for me or thinks he’ll get something out of this. I’m too hungry to worry about that now.

We eat in silence, and I’m beyond thankful for that. I don’t want to answer any more of his questions.

When I’m completely stuffed, I put my fork down and lean back in my seat. My stomach is round and bulging out, feeling more satisfied than I have in weeks.

“Thank you,” I tell him again. “I’ll pay you back for lunch, and I’ll give you money for your car as soon as I get a job. I promise.”

Myles leans forward, folding his arms across his chest and resting them on the table. His eyebrows scrunch up like he is trying to figure something out… trying to figure me out.

“I might have a job for you,” he finally says. “No experience required.”

Oh god, here it comes. He is going to ask for sex.

To my utter shock, I don’t feel the same disgust I felt when Randy made that proposition. Actually, I’m not disgusted at all right now, but that doesn’t mean I would go for it. I have more self-respect than that.

Carefully, I ask, “What kind of job?”

“Well… I own a strip club.” At his words, I almost jump up and make a run for it. I fucking knew it. This was a bad idea.

“Is that why you bought me food?”