Sweet Ride (2 page)

It’s been a little
over two years since my fling with Jack De Luca, or Diesel, as he’s
more appropriately known; though it seems way longer than that. He
called me, left plenty of voicemails and texts apologizing, but I
never answered his calls, and I deleted every single message. It
didn’t take very long after for him to forget about me. The last
time I saw him was at Ryder and Ella’s wedding, and I tried to
avoid him as much as possible. From what Ella told me, he moved to
San Diego six months ago for some kind of undercover operation, and
they haven’t heard from him since.

Jack De Luca’s the
one guy I’ll never forget. He’s the only man that I’ve ever
slept with more than once. I don’t do relationships with men; I
just fuck them. With Jack, I was seriously close to forgetting my
rule of no relationships—until I found out he lied to me about who
he really was. Even still, thoughts of him aren’t entirely
unpleasant or uncommon. I actually think of him quite often. Based on
my history, and what I’ve been through, no man will ever want to be
with me seriously. I’m nothing but trash, or so I’ve been told,
so why not act like it. Ella doesn’t know what I’ve been through,
and honestly, I want to keep it that way.

As I’m taking my last
sip of coffee, I see Ella pulling into the parking lot in her black,
extended cab Ford F-150 pickup truck. I watch her as she steps down
off of the running board, and then bounces towards the diner. A few
seconds later, I hear the door chimes signal as Ella enters the
restaurant, looks around until she spots me and then walks over to my
booth. She plops her cute little ass on the seat directly across from
me. “So, with whom did you go home this time?” she asks.

“Don’t know, don’t
care,” I reply, shrugging. I look away and try not to notice the
disapproval on her face.

“Payton, you’re
going to get yourself in trouble if you keep doing stuff like this,”
she warns.

If she only knew the
trouble I’ve already gotten into. She can’t ever, and I don’t
plan to tell her. I always want her to think of me as the funny,
spunky, sexy friend who likes to party and doesn’t give a shit
about anything. That’s who I am now, or at least the version that I
want people to see.

“Can we go now?” I
ask, brushing of her obvious concern. I slide my ass across the seat
of the booth, stand up, and head over toward the checkout to pay for
my coffee. Ella gets up and walks out of the diner without saying a
word to me. She gets in the truck and waits for me.
God, why do I
have to be so bitchy all the time?
I never used to be like this,
but lately it keeps coming out. After I finish paying, I head out and
join Ella in the massive truck.
How does she drive this thing?
She’s so freaking tiny.

“I’m sorry, Ella.
I’m hung over and feel like shit. Forgive me, bestie?” I ask,
trying to smooth things over.

“Already forgiven,”
she responds and quickly stretches her body over the console, pulling
me into a fierce hug, which I return. “I just worry about you,
Payton,” she adds, making me feel even more like shit.

Pulling away from our
embrace, I try to convince her that I’m okay. “I know, Ella, but
I’m a big girl and can take care of myself. You don’t need to
worry about me.” She sighs, starts the engine, and pulls out of the
parking lot.

Ella drops me off at my
house. I invite her to come in, but she says that she has to go home
and get Hendrix and Harley ready for a play date. The twins are two
years old now and are the most healthy, beautiful toddlers I have
ever seen. Hendrix is the spitting image of his father, and Harley is
just as gorgeous as her mother. Ella’s blessed with a gorgeous
family, and she deserves it after everything she and Ryder went
through. Between cheap double-D tramps, stalker ex-boyfriends,
kidnappings, and shootings, they are so lucky to have found their
happily-ever-after. Even though I love her like a sister, sometimes I
can’t help but feel a little envious of her. Occasionally I dream
that it’s me who has a husband who adores me and a couple of
beautiful babies, but it’s never going to happen for me. Life’s a
bitch like that.

I share the house with
two other roommates who are dancers at the strip club, Climax. When I
first moved here I actually applied for a job as a dancer there
because I heard they made really good money. After all, I couldn’t
be too picky about where I worked because I’m twenty-four, almost
twenty-five years old, with no college degree. My options were
limited. I figured I might as well shake what my momma gave me, but
the more I thought about taking my clothes off for men’s
entertainment, the worse I felt about it. I just couldn’t go
through with it.

Molly, one of my
roommates, suggested I apply for a bartending job that was available
at the dance club, Pulse. She worked there prior to her stint as a
stripper and said the tips were pretty decent. I took her advice, and
Juan, the club owner, hired me on the spot saying I was hot and would
definitely bring the guys into the place.

I make really good
money there and not because of the high wages, but because of the
really good tips. On a busy night I can easily pull in up to five
hundred dollars. I don’t think I get them for my great customer
service, though. I tend to get a little lippy with the club-goers,
especially if they try to manhandle me, which happens quite often.
Sometimes I think some of the guys get off on the way I act; to each
his own, I guess. A couple of them have even received
shiners—courtesy of me—because they tried to cop a feel.

So, how do I get my
tips you ask? The answer’s quite simple. I get them primarily
because of the sexy uniform I have to wear. All female Pulse
employees are required to wear either a skin-tight tank or t-shirt
with either a mini skirt or form-fitting jeans. Both of which totally
accentuate our assets—our tits and ass.

I unlock my front door
and enter the quiet house. My roommates are still in bed because they
both worked a late shift at Climax last night. I walk into our cutesy
little shabby chic kitchen with bright yellow walls and white
cabinets (which is totally not my style, I prefer a contemporary
modern look) and grab a glass, filling it with cold water. Taking the
glass with me to the bathroom, I dig out a bottle of ibuprofen, dump
two pills in my hand, and swallow the pills with a sip of water.

Looking in the mirror,
I almost scare myself to death.
Yikes!
I looked like this in
the diner. No wonder the waitress made that face. My hair is all over
the place, looking kind of like a bird’s nest, and my mascara’s
smudged around my eyes, reminding me of a raccoon. God, and do I ever
feel dirty. I grab a towel and lay it on the floor next to the
shower, then strip my clothes off, reach into the shower to turn the
faucet until the water’s hot enough, and hop in. I get my body wash
and loofa and scrub last evening off of my body. I take unusually
long showers, and it seems like I can’t ever get clean enough
before the water turns icy cold. Today’s no exception. I turn off
the cold water and step out of the shower.

I dry off and slip on
the well-worn Mayhem Motorcycle Club t-shirt that’s hanging on the
hook on the door. Okay, I stole it from Jack the very first night I
stayed at his place. It’s so comfortable that I basically have it
washed out because I wear it to bed almost every night. It’s just
too bad that it doesn’t still smell like him. Snuggling down in my
comfortable queen size bed, I reach over to my nightstand and set my
alarm for 5:00 p.m. I have to work tonight, and I’m going to need
all the beauty sleep I can get.

I’m in the employee
dressing room at the back of Pulse, putting on some finishing touches
before heading out to the bar for my shift. My long, golden blonde
hair’s down, falling just past my shoulders in big loose curls, and
it looks freaking huge. The men tend to like that around here—the
bigger the better. I apply my smoky black eye shadow rather heavily,
which makes my brown eyes really pop, and accentuate the drama with a
deep red lip-gloss. To finish it all off, I spritz a bit of coconut
body spray behind my ears, between my breasts, and on both my wrists.

Tonight, I am wearing a
light-wash jean mini skirt with a frayed hem and a black Pulse tank
top. To make it a little sexier I have it twisted and tied in a knot
in the back, exposing my midriff. And no comfy shoes at this
place—I’m wearing black leather knee-high boots with a four inch
heel to complete my ensemble. I do another quick inspection in the
floor length mirror to make sure all my bits and bobs are properly
covered, which they are, and make my way out on the floor.

As I walk out through
the dark, dimly lit hallway toward the main floor, I hear my name
being called from Juan’s office. I turn around and lean into the
doorframe. “You want to see me?” I ask the owner of the club. He
puts out his cigarette on the side of his desk and looks up at me,
exhaling a plume of smoke.

“Simone just called
in sick, so I need you working the VIP section tonight. I’ve got
some very important clients coming in, and they need to be well
looked after,” he says in his usual harsh, raspy Spanish accent. I
hate VIP clients; they’re the worst. They think they own the place
and can do or say whatever the hell they like. That’s where I
usually dish out most of the shiners. “It’s a bachelor party, and
they want some entertainment, so I’ve hired strippers for the
night,” he adds.

“Can’t Martine do
it?” I ask.

“No, she’s working
the bar downstairs. I want you up there because you’re the best I
have, and I need you to look after them.”

“I don’t know. What
time are they expected?”

“Around nine,” he
answers.

“You owe me for this.
You know I hate the VIP section,” I inform him.

“I know you do,
Payton, but it’s going to be a busy night, and like I said,
Martine’s working the bar downstairs, and none of the other girls
can put up with the bullshit that goes on in there like you can. I’ll
make it up to you with a bonus and all the tips—you won’t have to
share,” he promises me. Well, how can I say no now? I’ll be able
to do a bit of shopping with the extra money. Who doesn’t like to
shop? Lord knows I do. Maybe I’ll buy that new Coach bag I was
eyeing earlier this week.

“Fine, but if they
get out of hand, you know what’ll happen,” I warn him.

“Don’t worry. I
know, Rocky. I’ll be watching all night, so if they do anything out
of line, I’ll take over.” I believe him when he tells me this.
One thing’s for certain: Juan Mendez makes sure the staff’s well
taken care of here. He’s in his mid-forties, and he can be a mean
motherfucker when it comes to protecting us girls at his club. I have
faith that if anything happens tonight, he’ll have it covered.

“Okay, that works for
me. Thanks Juan.” I turn and walk out of his office and meet up
with some of the other staff at the main bar before the club starts
getting busy for the night.

“How’d things work
out for you last night? Will we be seeing more of Liam?” Shelly
asks. Unbelievable, she remembers the guy’s name, and I don’t.
And I slept with him.

“Fuck no. You know I
have a one night only rule,” I tell them.

“Payton, honey,
you’re so beautiful, smart, and funny. Why won’t you let a guy
love that about you? If it was me, and I was fortunate enough to have
guys falling at my feet like you do, I’d take full advantage of it
and find
the one
,” she advises me. Here we go again. I don’t
know why she keeps pushing this on me. What’s it to her if I find
the one
or not?

“Babe, if only it was
that easy. No man wants someone like me, so just drop it,” I tell
her as I turn and walk toward the stairs leading up to the VIP
section, trying to get away from the girls and this conversation as
quickly as possible. I hate it when they get on with that kind of
bullshit. I wish it were that simple. I’d love to share my life
with someone, but that’s never going to happen. I’m disgusting
and tainted. I’ve learned to live with it.

I don’t need a
constant man for that. I pick them up in all sorts of places. I even
picked up a guy at the car dealership when I needed a loan to buy my
car. He ended up giving me a little more than I needed, so I could
get all the extras on my baby. Plus, he gave me the lowest interest
rate and monthly payment possible. I ended up purchasing a brand
spanking new Dodge Charger.

The sleek fire engine
red convertible’s my most treasured possession. I fucking love my
car. Every time I get into my car and start her up, I get
ridiculously turned on. The purr of the engine reminds me of Jack.
God, I wish things were different, and I was looking for something
more, and he wasn’t who he was. To think I was falling for this
sexy, badass biker, and then I discover that it was all a fucking
lie. He wasn’t really a biker, just an undercover cop pretending to
be one. Hell, he probably only slept with me so he could keep up the
biker image and not blow his cover.

I finish getting the
prep done for the VIPs and look at the time; it’s 8:50 p.m. With a
few minutes to kill, I sneak a shot for some liquid courage to face
what I have to do tonight. I have to try to pretend that I like the
guys staring at my body and flirt with them, even though they gross
me the fuck out. Hopefully, since Juan hired strippers for the night,
their focus will be on them and not me.

While I wait for the
party to arrive, my thoughts stray to Jack again. Oh man, does he
ever make my body catch on fire. I remember what it felt like for his
hands to be on my body as he stroked over my stomach, ribs, and
breasts. He squeezed them and rolled my nipples with his fingers,
then he’d move those talented fingers down to my sex and swirl them
around my clit. Eventually they’d find their way inside, where they
worked me over, until I lost all control.