Bare Knuckle: Vegas Top Guns, Book 5 (20 page)

Mama crossed her arms under her ample breasts. Skinny or not, wrinkles or not, she hadn’t changed out of her pajamas. “Don’t you want to know what the job is?”

Trish cut the sandwich in half and stuck it in Tupperware. She threw it, an apple, a protein bar and a bottle of water in a paper sack. Every movement was stiff. “Not particularly. I get a feeling you’ll tell me anyway.”

“Modeling.”

“Modeling.” Trish spit the word. “We agreed that was temporary. A bridge between the circuit and taking a real shot here.”

“Time’s passed, Patty. And we need the money.”

A flash of guilt swept up from Trish’s collar, heating her face.
Tuition.
When sitting between two other auditioning blondes who were at least four years younger, Trish battled her anxiety by concentrating on her next assignments. UNLV sure wasn’t free, and landing a job in set design was nearly as difficult as show biz. She might as well have added
astronaut
to her list of backup plans.

So yes, they needed a heavy influx of cash. Soon. Or else she’d have to give up the one thing that kept her hopes high, buoying her during auditions that swung between daunting and disappointing. Sometimes they were one in the same.

“We’re getting by,” she said. “I’m
not
posing for him.”

Her mama’s eyes narrowed just before her temper snapped. “You’re not Julia Roberts, you know. You can’t afford to be picky.”

Trish snapped right back. How many times had they had this fight? “There’s a difference between being picky and refusing to pose practically nude for a pervert.”

“They were lovely shots. All tasteful!”

“Bull. They were soft-core porn and we both know it. I don’t care that it was for his private collection.”

She shivered. With Hank Yardley, she’d been dolled up. Painted. Wearing thousand-dollar Alexander McQueen heels and equally expensive lingerie. Technically, the poses had been much the same as what Eric had wanted, but she’d wound up feeling like an adjustable blow-up doll—maybe one of those top-of-the-line RealDolls.

Afterward, he’d kissed her cheek at the same time he’d cupped her pussy and gave her a mean squeeze. She’d carefully placed the to-die-for heels next to the front door before donning her beat-up track shoes and sprinting to the bus stop. Hank had meant the heels as a present. She knew that if she ever wore them, she’d risk vomiting.

God, how had she come to make such a huge distinction between what she’d done out of desperation during those first few hungry months in Vegas, and what she did willingly with Eric? Maybe that was it. Her willingness.
With
him, not
for
him. Every step of the way, Eric had told her exactly what he wanted, giving her the opportunity to say no way ahead of the moment. And he’d cared what she wanted—a complete novelty.

The photo shoots for Eric and for Hank Yardley had both been intended for one party, rather than for a magazine or website, but she knew the difference. Eric gave a damn about her, as a person at the very least.

But her mother would call her a hypocrite if she knew the truth.

“You’re being selfish,” she said as if reading Trish’s mind.

It wasn’t mindreading, though. She’d heard the same refrain for five years. “So there it is. Blaming me for drawing a line in the sand.”

“After all I sacrificed for you, Patty. How can you do this to me? Years!”

“What future would I have if legit casting agents for high-end shows and movies knew I did that shit in my spare time?”

“How is working a boxing ring any better?”

“It just is, Mama. You found me the gig, but I had a say.”

“Hank is willing to pay. A lot. You’re turning it down out of spite.”

Trish slapped her hand on the Formica. Her palm stung. “Spite? Are you serious? You’ve sat here in a trailer for five years living off what I could scrape together, but you never pull your head out of the sand. Casting agents treating me like horseflesh to be poked and prodded. Embarrassing questions like whether my tits are real. Taping myself into a costume too small for a twelve-year-old. You don’t want to see that side of it.”

Hank’s breath had stunk of too much whiskey during his supposed “photo shoot”. His fingers had been sticky with what Trish thought might’ve been lube, which made his frequent trips to the bathroom that much more disgusting. Maybe he’d closed the door behind her mad sprint for the bus, proud he hadn’t forced her. Yay for restraint, asshole. But he’d trailed those sticky fingers down her arms to pose her, and the feel of how he’d “adjusted” her lingerie lingered like a swallow of bad milk. Disgusting and unshakeable.

And he’d
grabbed
her. She’d never felt dirtier.

Mama had been furious when Trish refused any more offers of work from the man, but a gig on a chorus line at the New York had ended the issue.

Until now.

“Would you like to know what he was really like, Mama?” Her throat ached. “No. Of course you don’t.”

“I know what goes on, Patty. Don’t think I’m naïve.”

A dam of betrayal burst in her chest. “And you let it happen? You’d throw me back to him?”

“It’s for your future. So, he’s a little…gropey. No big deal. Plenty of successful actresses have done way more to make it big.”

“Maybe I’m not cut out for it because I can’t do that shit. I
won’t
.”

“We’re back to you being so damn selfish. No wonder your father left. Maybe he was a helluva lot smarter than me, seeing the signs so early.”

Trish went cold. Deadly cold. Her voice was as harsh and intimidating as she’d heard from Eric when she said, “Careful, Mama. That sounded a lot like blaming me.”

“He did what he did. That’s the end of it.”

Trish’s head was buzzing. Her guts spun as if in a cement mixer. Mama had never said it aloud. This was the closest she’d ever come to making the accusation—that being deserted by Jack Beauregard when Trish was seven had been because of the expense and rigors of the pageants.

Internalizing that as a child had been way too easy. If Trish wasn’t perfect, men left.

“I am not the family business,” she whispered. “And I won’t do this so you can live through my successes.”

The skin around her mother’s mouth tightened. Her back pulled straight—a reminder of how tall and elegant she’d once been. The high school cheerleader who’d dated the captain of the football team. It was as clichéd as a small-town girl trying to claw her way free. That was their life.

At that moment, her mother looked more like an enemy than a trusted partner.

“Your successes? I’d like to see them. What’s your audition today, my dear? Tell me. And then you tell me it’ll pay more than Hank would.”

Trish cringed. The audition was one of those…disappointing ones. She wished it was something better, if only to break her mama’s smug expression in two. “A cocktail waitress at the Wynn, with two performances on the second stage every night.”

Burlesque. How had she bottomed out to the point where “at least it’s not topless” was an appealing feature of a new prospect?

“Perfect. That’s exactly what we wanted for you,” her mother sneered. “You act like you’re suffering so much. Do you think I didn’t give up dreams for you?”

Trish let her shoulders slump. She’d been so optimistic once. Nineteen and hitting the Strip for the first time. That brightness had seeped away. “Of course I know that. I’m…Christ, I’m
tired
. How long do we let this go on?”

“What, you have something better to do? You’ve got nothing but your body and you know it.”

“Mama!”

“I’m being practical, honey. That’s all. We need to be realistic. You’re twenty-four. If you don’t work your ass off and grab hold of every opportunity, you’re gonna fall right off the map.”

Trish’s anger propelled her words. There was no other explanation. “I’ve been taking classes. Part-time at UNLV.”

Her mother recoiled. She would fight for Trish to do a nude shoot, but when it came to getting an education, she looked ready to spit venom. “So that’s where all the money’s been going. You said costumes and voice lessons.”

“Because the truth would’ve meant you’d shut it down.”

“I’m shutting it down now!”

“Don’t you care what I’m studying? How close I am to getting my degree?”

The closed-off coldness radiating from her mother meant she didn’t give a damn. “I’m calling Hank back,” Mama said. “And I’m telling him not to call anymore. Apparently his offers are no longer welcome.”

A place inside Trish burned with a tiny flame of hope. Maybe…

“Thanks. I’d like that.”

“Yup. Good for you, Patty. Because you know what I would’ve liked? A daughter with some guts. You think you’re so goddamn special. All these years. I could’ve trained
any
girl to do as bad as you have.”

An odd calm drained from Trish’s mind, down to the rest of her numb body. That was it. The end. She’d wondered if it would ever happen. And strangely enough, she felt entirely liberated.

“Thank you for that, Mama. Now I won’t have any regrets when I leave.”

Trish sat at the brightly lit vanity in the dressing room. Thirty minutes to showtime, and she hadn’t finished her makeup. Lots of foundation, but bare lips and nothing on her eyes. It looked strange. She
felt strange. Unmoored.

“Trish, baby?”

She lifted her heavy head and found Mallory Gibson standing beside her in full regalia. God, she looked amazing. Always had. A flutter of what they’d once shared tickled behind Trish’s breastbone. She’d dated Mallory in the weeks after the run-in with Hank Yardley. Three months of Mal’s tender sexual therapy had been well-timed and much appreciated.

“You okay? We’re on soon.”

“Not the best tonight,” Trish said softly. “I had a shit blaster of a fight with Mama. I think… I think we’re done.”

The astute woman flashed dark eyes toward where Trish had stacked her bags. Classes had gone well. She’d gotten a callback for the waitress job. But after finishing her performance that evening, she’d be homeless.

“It’s time, Trish baby. She wasn’t good for your head. I said that years ago.”

“You did. But family, you know?”

“Yup. Completely. You need a place to stay tonight?” Mallory tipped up a saucy smile. “Maybe we could have some fun. Work on that mood of yours.”

Once, such a come-on would’ve been the perfect balm to ease Trish’s hurts. But she hesitated. Although she and Eric weren’t exclusive—not in any way they’d articulated—she couldn’t blithely fall into bed with someone else. A shiver shot goose bumps across her shoulders as she suddenly hoped he was under the same impression.

“I’m sorta…seeing someone. I don’t know if that would be such a great idea.”

“Guy or girl?”

“Guy.”

“Well, at least that’s a relief.” Mallory grinned and did a shimmy. “Would hate to think you didn’t find me sexy anymore.”

Trish managed the closest to a real smile she’d found since leaving the trailer, her bags in hand and her mother shouting after her. The walk to the bus stop had never seemed longer.

She looked Mallory up and down. Oh, so much her type. Curvaceous. Gorgeous. Dark eyes and a darker, more knowing smile than Trish could attempt. Her lush chocolate hair was natural and trailed down to her waist when it wasn’t bound in her elaborate, shellacked headdress. Trish had never been with a hotter girl, and she’d never come so close to staying with a woman permanently.

Something hadn’t been right. She’d known she was hiding, even if that hiding place was soft and comfortable. She’d wanted more. A serious spark.

Now that she’d found it with Eric, she was scared as hell.

“Sexy as ever, Mal,” she said with a wistful smile. “But I can’t do that right now.”

“Then stay the night.”

“I don’t know.”

Mallory knelt and picked up the grease pencil that would make Trish’s lips shine red all the way to the back row. “Pucker up and listen. No funny business, okay? Just a cuddle. Panties and camisoles and no wandering hands. Promise. You know I can be good when I put my mind to it.” She frowned. “Don’t smile when I’m doing your lipstick.”

Trish took her wrist, preventing further damage. “Thanks. I’d… I need that tonight.”

Why with Mallory instead of Eric? Maybe their history. Maybe the complete safety of being held by another woman. No expectations and no pressure. Frankly, she hadn’t been with Eric at all without sex coming into play. She simply couldn’t go there tonight.

“Good,” Mal said with a nod. “And then ask this new boy of yours for, you know, some play in the future. If he’s worth it, the three of us could be a damn fun time.”

Well. Wasn’t that an idea.

Despite her cranky mood, Trish’s body woke up. That jaunty thrill gave back some of the energy she’d need to make it through the show. “Maybe I will at that.”

“Fuck, that’d be hot. I’ll pass on taking any cock, but, baby, I’d love to see you get plowed. Now hold still.”

Twenty minutes later the curtain went up, and Trish beamed. The spotlights were beginning to scald her after so many years, but she was a performer at heart. Her reluctance faded. If only for the moment, she’d soak in the adoration and the chance to be something bigger than her scared little self.