Conceit (Se7en Deadly SEALs Book 1) (7 page)

AS I REINVENTED MY LIFE, Joaquín rotted in a jail cell for five months. Per his request, I made no further contact. Just one final call to his lawyer, telling him that I’d been accepted into a theater program in England and that I’d check in when I could.

I missed Joaquín so much, every day, but I couldn’t focus on that pain. Today was game day.

I pulled my car into the parking lot at Panthers. Was I really going to do this? The thought of taking my clothes off for a bunch of leering men made my throat burn.

Roma had helped me secure a new driver’s license, social security number, and birth certificate. He’d even found me a place to live—a tiny room in an elderly Russian lady’s home in El Cajon. The place reeked of pierogies and tea, but it didn’t matter. I was pretty sure Roma had Mafia ties, but we’d both adopted an unspoken rule about not asking about each other’s activities.

One final glance in the dashboard mirror and I was ready to go. My hair was now bleached and blended with platinum blonde extensions, my hazel eyes were masked with brown contacts, accented with heavy dark eye shadow and false eyelashes, and my lips were painted pale pink and frosted. And thanks to the combination of my depression and my physical training, my skinny frame now looked like it could grace the cover of a Victoria’s Secret catalogue.

And I hated to admit it, but I loved the way I looked. Conceit. Vanity. Pride. My lack of humility saddened me. Though I would’ve never gone under the knife in any other circumstance, this dilemma forced me to fix every one of my physical insecurities. As a woman, it was almost empowering, no longer having to worry about my thin lips or crooked nose. I did realize through the recovery that my previously low self-image didn’t matter, that my soul and dedication was what was important. I just wish I could’ve understood this new truth without having to change myself.

I’d transformed myself from cute girl next door to, according to Emma the stripper, Grant’s ultimate fantasy. It was still hard for me to believe her; I would have to see it with my own eyes. But if Grant dreamed about blonde bombshells, I would become the woman of his nightmares. I was unstoppable. I was in control.

I pushed by some guys in the parking lot, made my way to the entrance, and spoke to the bouncer. “I have meeting together with Jim,” I said in my affected Russian accent. Roma kept telling me no one would be able to distinguish me from any other Russian speaker. I’d studied not only the language, but also the grammar mistakes the recent immigrants often made when they spoke in English.

The bouncer eye-fucked me. “Ka-sen-e-ya? Jim is expecting you. In his office.”

I nodded and made my way toward the back of the club, watching the girls onstage out of the corner of my eye. Smoke filled the place from the adjoining private hookah lounge. The sweet, musky smell made my eyes water. Better get used to it.

Jim greeted me at the door. Bald, fat, hairy, pretty much what I expected the owner of a strip club to look like. “Welcome, Ksenya. Wow. You’re a little minx, aren’t you?”

Gross. I’d made a strict pact with myself—I’d go rogue, but under no circumstances would I sleep with a man who disgusted me. “Good to meet together with you.” I hated using improper English, but it was a necessity now.

“Come into my office and relax. Tell me about yourself. Where are you from?”

His office consisted of a squalid cum-stained couch, a desk with papers piled all over it, and walls of framed pictures of him mugging with celebrities who had come to this joint.

I perched on the edge of the sofa. “I’m from Kharkov, in Ukraine. I was ballroom dancer. I come here with my baba, my grandmother, who was engineer. But she is dead and so I must work. I do not disappoint you. I hear you are the best, and me, I always want to be the best.”

He motioned me to stand up and twirl around, and I obliged, wiggling my hips.

“Let’s see what you’ve got. We have striking girls come in here every day, but I need to know you’re the real deal. You can give me a dance in the VIP lounge.”

He led me to the room, which was painted electric purple. The pole in the middle glowed from shiny lights.

“Undress.”

I slowly took off my sweat suit, fighting the urge to flee. Now stripped down to my matching pink bra and panties, my cheeks burned and I hid my blush behind my hair. I’d always been modest; the only man to ever see me naked was Grant. The music started, almost as if it sensed my presence. The hypnotic rhythm of the R&B song seemingly overtook my body. Centered, calming, crafted. Seducing this dirty old man with my moves would be easy—tricking Grant would be the true test.

My eyes focused on Jim, but I didn’t see him. I wasn’t dancing for Jim. I wasn’t even dancing to save my brother. I was dancing for Grant—I saw Grant’s face, his lips, his eyes trace my movements. Slow and seductive rather than fast and frenzied. How many times had he sat in this room, watching a broken girl dance for him? What had these women given him that I hadn’t been able to? Did he open up to them? Truly let them in instead of how he always tried to be tough and resilient for me?

As I made love to the pole, my heart pounded, my stomach fluttered. This was where I was meant to be. After seeing Grant again and having him shut me out, literally and figuratively, I realized I wasn’t done with him. As much as I didn’t want to admit it, I missed him, despite the fact that he had been an asshole to me. I’d hurt him, but behind his vicious words to me, I wondered if he still loved me no matter how much he tried to fight it.

A loud clap sprang me from my haze. “Bravo. Ksenya, you are enchanting. Can you start tonight? We have a huge party booked. VIPs, extravagant spenders. They love seeing a new gem. Are you game?”

I wasn’t sure if this transformation would work, that I could even get close enough to any of the Team guys, but I had to try. My plan was to strip here until I saw Joaquín’s Teammates. I’d focus on the first one who paid me any attention, entertain them at a similar party, and try to figure out what happened to Tiffany.

“
Da
. Thank you, Jim. I won’t let you down.”

I put my clothes back on, and Jim gave me a bunch of forms to fill out. Surprisingly, he actually ended up being quite nice and went out of his way to make me feel comfortable.

VIPs. It was Thursday night. I’d done my research—driven by the houses of my brother’s Teammates, seen their cars in the driveway, the “Welcome Home Daddy” banners in the windows. They must’ve just returned from a training exercise or a deployment. Which meant they were due to make their appearance here any day.

When Grant walked through these doors, I’d be on that stage. And I would be able to dance for my man. In the shadows.

***

UNFORTUNATELY, JIM’S BIG SPENDERS THAT first night didn’t include Grant. Or the night after that. Or the next. Days turned into weeks. It seemed as if I’d been stuck in this hellhole forever, and there was still no sign of my former lover, or any of his Teammates. I’d gone from star of the SFSU drama department with a promising future, living my dreams, moonlighting with the best thespians at American Conservatory Theater, to a lowly stripper with limited hope, stuck in a nightmare, dancing—if you could call it that—for lonely men.

I hated it—the baby talk, the lap dances, the inappropriate touches, the lewd remarks, the constant propositions. I kept telling myself,
You can do this, Mia. You’re preparing for the role of a lifetime
.

The other strippers were nice at least. I was shocked that they weren’t as messed up as I’d assumed they’d be. Emma was long gone though. From what I could glean, this place had a high turnover rate.

It was Taco Tuesday—carne asada, salsa bar, Coronas, churros. I’d decided to have a little bit of fun with the crowd and dressed up in a sexy border patrol costume, enjoying the irony since I was an undercover Latina. I was dancing to a Latin pop song when the doors flew open. The loud laughter of deep male voices perked my ears. Then I saw him—my man was standing right in front of the stage.

Jolts of electricity coursed through my veins. The sweat on my back moistened my costume; the heat from the dazzling lights burned my skin. Could I really pull this off? Would Grant take one look at me and call my bluff? My mouth became dry and my heart palpitated.

We were in the same room, breathing the same smoky air. Dreaming of his face every night for months made him seem like my own mirage. But this time he was very real.

“Blurred Lines” started playing. Well, at least the song was appropriate. I glided to the pole, my partner in this urgent dance, a dance that could help me enter into this new world I so desperately sought to infiltrate.

My hips swayed, I licked my lips. Climbing to the top of the pole, I spread my legs, determined to get Grant to notice me. I had to remind myself to stay the course, not blow my dance or run over to him.

I made eye contact and he winked. I knew that wink, that look of desire. The first time he’d winked at me, sitting across from me at a coffee shop, I’d completely melted. Back then the giddiness of first love consumed me. Now, I had to hold back tears, since I was pretty positive that he had no idea I was Mia. Just some sexy stripper he hoped to see naked.

I pranced up and down the catwalk, narrowing my own gaze on him. Dancing for him, willing him to connect with me. His eyes turned hungry as he followed my every movement. Soon I could barely see him through the bright lights and smoke. My hair whipped in the air, my body seduced the pole. The song ended, the smoke waned, the lights dimmed. And Grant was relaxed in a chair, motioning me to come toward him.

The plan. Stick to the plan, Mia. Watch which girls go over to his group. Don’t approach him immediately, take your time. You have dreamt of this moment, planned, prepared—now it was show time.

I gave him a coy smile, blew a kiss, and walked off the stage. I headed to the bar to get a better vantage point and some liquid courage. A quick shot of vodka calmed my nerves. Grant’s skin looked darker, perhaps he had just returned from the Middle East. His massive biceps bulged out of his black T-shirt looking bigger than when I had last seen them. His hair was longer, his beard fuller. And he was looking right at me.

I waved and he moistened his lips. If I avoided him, he might suspect something. I was just another dancer, and if a customer was staring at me, it was my job to flirt back.

Shoulders back, tits up.
I reapplied my red lipstick, locking my gaze on his. I’d turned myself into his dream girl, his personal fantasy pinup. But I was real—well, mostly. And he was still the only man who had ever sent ripples of pleasure pulsating throughout my body.

A casual flaunt of my blond locks, a batting of my false eyelashes, and I made my way over to him. “Hi, handsome. My name it is Ksenya. How are you doing tonight?” My accent was crisp, I rolled my
r’
s, my tongue touching the top of my mouth.

“Much better now that I saw you, sexy. I’m Grant. Where you from?” He pulled me onto his lap. I ran my fingers through his hair. He smelled the same as I remembered—pine, lemon, and vodka, as if he had just chopped down a Christmas tree and drunk a spiked lemonade to refresh. Did I smell the same to him? Could he recognize my scent despite me switching to new brands of lotion and shampoo?

“Kharkov, Ukraine.” I figured my recent-immigrant ruse would explain my terse conversation. Reduce the chances for him to find me out.