Stripped (31 page)

“Come on, Grey, we both know the truth. We have a friend in common, you see. A certain Mr. Timothy van Dutton. He told me you were his best dancer.”

“No comment.” I try to push past, but they won’t let me through.
 

His grin is lecherous, gleeful. “How about this, if it’s true, say ‘no comment’ again. I mean, there’s no sense denying it. He told me all about you. You wouldn’t go topless except for on-stage.” He licks his lips, and his eyes lower with obvious lust to my cleavage. “I’m sorry I never got to see you dance.”

I don’t answer. I step out into the street, narrowly avoid being smashed by a silver Mercedes. They follow me, bombarding me with questions.

“Grey! Is it true? Were you a stripper?”

“Grey, come back! Where did you dance? How did you get the job?”

“Can you give us a little sample of your dancing?”

“Look at me, Grey! How long were you a stripper? Did you ever perform sexual services?”

I’m not crying yet, but nearly. I’m all but running, and I know this is tantamount to confirming it, but I can’t help it. I’m finally to my Rover, almost a block away from the shop, and they’re crowding around me, repeating their questions, cameras flashing, held up over their heads to get a shot, microphones and recorders and flip cameras capture my flushed face, watery eyes, and trembling hands.

I know at least one of the clicking cameras captures the single tear that falls from my eye as I start the Rover. And the second one as I back up, heedless of toes I must be running over. For once, I understand the anger with which some celebrities respond to situations like this. I’m hyperventilating, each breath wheezing and fast. I’m dizzy, but I don’t dare stop. Honks tell me I’m driving erratically, and I hear squealing tires and shrieking brakes, but I keep driving, letting autopilot take me home.
 

Dawson isn’t home. I wish he was. I need him.
 

I end up in the gym, sitting in the middle of the dance floor, sobbing. I hear the front door open at some point, and the stiffness of my muscles tells me it’s been a long time that I’ve been here on the floor, crying.

“Baby? What happened?” He scoops me up and sits down with me on his lap.
 

I bury my face in his chest and try to breathe. I start crying all over again. “They…they found—found out.”

“Who? About what?”
 

“The reporters. The paparazzi. They found out…that I was a stripper.” I choke on the word.

“Who found out?” I describe the reporter who asked the question, and what he said. Dawson curses floridly. “Fucking Larry Tominski. That guy is a fucking cunt.”

“I tried to stick to ‘no comment’ like you told me, but…I got so upset.”

“Did you verbally confirm it?” His voice is soft but sharp.

I shake my head negative. “No, of course not. But the fact that I was so upset…I ran, and I was crying. It’s as much of a confirmation as saying yes.”

He squeezes me. “You did great, baby. They’re vultures. There was nothing you could have done differently. It’s going to be fine.”

“It’s not, Dawson. It’s not fine.” I stand up, and he moves to pull me into an embrace, his lips by my jaw. “Everyone will know. They’ll believe it, and no one will hire me. They’ll say things about me, about you. About us. It’ll affect your career. End mine.”

He sighs. “Grey, please listen to me. I knew from the very beginning that they’d find out. It was inevitable. In this business, there are no secrets, not for anyone.”

“You knew they’d find out?”

He nods. “Of course. You thought no one would ever know? You think Kaz didn’t know what you did on the side?” He sounds almost amused. “Kaz knew, babe. You never mentioned it, so neither did he. And neither did I. And as for our careers…it doesn’t matter. You think you’re the only student to ever strip her way through college? That’s nothing. Not in this business. It wouldn’t even be a deal-breaker if you’d fucked your way through. Girls fuck their way to the top all the time. In this business and others. And so do guys. No one is innocent. Not in life, and certainly not in Hollywood. We’ll ignore the articles and rumors, and eventually it’ll die out. Don’t answer any questions, and you’ll be fine.”

I go limp against him. “I don’t want them to know. I’m ashamed of it. I don’t…I want to pretend it never happened.”

He holds me tight, supports me with his arms around my waist. “But it did, babe.” He touches my chin, and I look at him. “Don’t be ashamed of yourself, Grey. You survived. You took care of yourself. I’m proud of you.”

“I feel so…disgusted. When I think about it, I want to throw up all over again. I hate knowing that I did that. That I was…that I let men—”

“It’s over now. You’ll never have to do it again.” His words are a breath in my ear. “I’ll always take care of you. And I’ll never let anyone talk bad about you, or make you feel less. You’re my lady, Grey. Mine. And that means no one will ever get to say anything shitty about you, or make you feel shitty. Not anyone, not ever. Including yourself.”

“I’m sorry, Dawson, I just—”

“You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“But it’s your birthday, and I’m a mess.”

He laughs, brushing my hair off my cheek. “I don’t care, babe. The party doesn’t start for a few hours yet, and even if we had a house full of people, I wouldn’t give a fuck. You’re my priority. If you’re upset, fuck everything else—I gotta make you happy again.”

 
“You do make me happy.”

“Then smile and kiss me. In that order.”

I try to smile, and nearly succeed. The memories are still cycling through my head, though. The eyes on me, the lights bathing every inch of my body, the music throbbing in the background, the hands reaching for me. Fingers stuffing greasy dollar bills in the string of my thong.
 

Hey, baby. I’ll give you a hundred bucks to suck my cock.

I’ve got a thousand bucks for you if you’ll come home with me.

The not-so-subtle whispers of one buddy to another.
Hey, Mike, check out that chick’s ass. I could plow that shit for hours, bro.
And that was totally normal, expected. I had no right to complain. I’d asked for it, since I put my body on display for them.
 

“You’re not there anymore.” Dawson’s voice brings me back to the present. “You’re not there anymore. You’re mine now. Only mine.”

“Only yours.” This truth is like a wave of light eradicating the shadows. I can’t quite smile yet, but I can look at him, meet his soft hazel gaze. “Promise?”

“You wearing my ring?” he asks, by way of answer. I flatten my palm on his chest and look at the ring. It absorbs the light and refracts it like a gleaming white sun. “There you go, then. But I still need to see you smile.”

I fake a smile, and Dawson rolls his eyes. I smack his chest with my palm. “It’s not like I can just…be happy. It’s hard. It’s upsetting. It’s memories I’ll always have that I wish I didn’t.”

He just blinks at me, then leans in and touches a small kiss to the corner of my mouth. “Then I’ll have to find a way to cheer you up. Make you forget.”
 

“You’re too far over. A little to the left,” I breathe. He smiles against my cheek and kisses my upper lip, sucking it into his mouth. “Closer. Lower.” He slides his mouth down to the hint of cleavage above my shirt, kisses and kisses. “That’s way off. But…it might work. Keep going.”

“Up? Or down?”

“Either…will work.” He takes my shirt off and kisses my stomach just beneath the underwire of my bra.
 

He’s tugging the cup of my bra down when the door to the gym opens and Luisa pokes her head in. “Oh, sorry, sorry. I—I’ll come back, then. Sorry.”

Dawson rests his head against my breasts. “Stopped by the stylist.” He straightens and tugs my shirt down. “You should go get styled, then, huh?”

I shake my head. “No, I—I need you.” I crush my mouth to his, take his hand in mine, and guide his touch down, down.
 

He gathers the fabric of my loose cotton skirt in his hands and cups my privates. “What do you need, baby? Tell me, so I can give it to you.”

I won’t say it, and he knows it. He’s always trying to get me to talk dirty, but I won’t unless I’m caught up in the heat of the moment. I can show him, though. I twine our fingers and push our joined touch under the elastic of my underwear, and then his fingers are inside me and my forehead is resting on his chest and I’m breathing hard. He slides my skirt off, pushes my underwear down, and I step out of them. While he touches me, brings me closer and closer to climax, I’m ripping at his belt and his button fly, freeing his erection and sliding my hands around him until his knees are dipping and he’s hard and huge and leaking from the tip. I’ve learned to tell when he’s close, and I caress his length slowly and gently until he’s there. Normally, he’d have lifted me and impaled me and made me come already, but he’s going along with what I’m doing this time. When he’s at the edge, I press my lips to his ear and speak over my mortification.

“Now. Take me now.”

“Oh, thank fuck,” he growls.
 

He slips his hands from between my thighs and lifts me up by my backside. I wrap my legs around his waist and kiss his temple as he takes long strides to the wall. My back bumps against the wall, and he’s inside me. He’s kept me on the edge of orgasm this entire time, so I’m desperate. I cling to his shoulders and lift, sink, lift, sink, driving myself on his hardness, gasping as each pounding thrust brings us closer.
 

And then his middle finger searches the crease of my backside, finds the hot, tight center, and presses in. I bite his shoulder and moan, scraping myself up his length and then back down. His finger slips into me slowly, and I’m so tight that I feel the bulge of his first knuckle as it enters me, and I’m growling now, low noises in the bottom of my throat, embarrassingly feral noises.
 

“I want you here,” he whispers. “Someday soon, baby.”

I smile a secret smile into his shoulder. He has no idea how soon.
 

Thoughts aren’t possible then, as we both reach the point of no return, and fall screaming over the edge. He’s blasting into me, unleashing a thick wet wave inside me, and I’m clenching around him with every muscle, moving with him.

When we’ve both caught our breath, he leans away and stares at me. I’m grinning from ear to ear, a bright smile of sated happiness.
 

“There’s the smile I’m looking for. And what a way to get it.” He kisses each upturned corner of my mouth, and the smile he gives me is so bright and so beautiful I’m breathless, reminded how lucky I am to have this man, to have the love of this man.
 

He lets me down, and we both groan as he slides out of me. I gather my underwear in my hand and lean up for a long, slow kiss. “Thank you,” I say.

“For what?”

“Loving me. Cheering me up. Being mine. For being you.”

“I should be the one thanking you for that.”

“Beat you to it,” I say, then turn and leave the gym, giving my hips an extra sway for his benefit. I feel his gaze glued to my backside as I leave. All negative thoughts are banished by the force of Dawson’s love.

I take a quick shower and then text Luisa to meet me in the bathroom. Yes, I have a cell phone now. It was kind of a nonnegotiable for Dawson. Luisa won’t quite meet my eyes as she does my hair and makeup.
 

The party is long, and intense. Armando is there, charming as always, and Kaz. I corner Kaz around midnight.
 

“You knew?” It comes out blunt, almost angry.

He smiles at me and sips his scotch. “Of course, Grey. It’s my business to know about my interns and potential employees.”

“But Nina, you fired her—”

“I fired her for being a prostitute and lying about it. She wasn’t a stripper, Grey. She was an escort.” He sips his scotch again, and digs a long, thick cigar out of the inside pocket of his blazer, clips it, lights it in thick puffs of acrid smoke, and then glances at me through the fog. “You were doing what you had to do to stay afloat. You were quiet about it, discreet. Nina? She was basically flaunting what she did. I found out she was using my client database to contact johns. I found out, because one of them called my office to request her services again. When I confronted her about it, she denied it. I could overlook even that, if she was discreet about it, but I cannot and will not tolerate liars.”

He snags a glass of white wine off the tray of a passing waiter and hands it to me. I sip it carefully, slowly, as I still rarely drink, and never enough to get drunk. “I was worried you would fire me if you knew. I never told you, and I was afraid if you found out, you would fire me for having not told you.”

Kaz laughs, a kind but amused chuckle. “Oh, Grey. So naïve.” He wraps his arm around my shoulder, his cigar fuming near my face, making my eyes water and my throat tickle. “I wouldn’t have fired you. But I have to say I’m glad you’re not doing it anymore. It didn’t suit you. You’re too…good…for that lifestyle.”

Kaz is stolen away then by a nervous-looking young scriptwriter who worked on
Gone With the Wind
, probably hoping to pitch an idea. I float from one knot of guests to another, chatting and smiling and trying to act like I know how to be a hostess. I feel like an impostor sometimes. Like someone will see through my disguise and point at me and laugh, and say, “She doesn’t belong here! She’s just a hick from Georgia!”
 

It never happens, of course, because it’s all in my head.
 

I’m on my third glass of wine, the most I’ve ever drank…drunk?…at one time in my whole life. I’m a little dizzy, a little loose. I’ve had amazing conversations with some of the most famous people in the world. Shaquille O’Neal is here, for some reason which I can’t quite figure out. He’s nice. Jack Nicholson is a lot nicer than I thought he’d be, based on most of the roles I’ve seen him play.
 

I find myself in the backyard, by the pool, surrounded by a crowd of young producers and a few sound guys, and they’re talking about some project they all worked on together, and I’m able to figure out which film based on the context, which makes me feel pretty smart. I’m listening and learning, and I’m out of wine. I like this feeling, this slow, easy, loose buzzing in my head. Conversation comes easily, and the guys around me listen when I talk, and answer my questions without condescension. I feel like I’m part of the business. I’m
in
, and it feels great.