Young Love Dies Hard: The Young Brothers, Book 1 by Nikki Lane (old books to read txt) 📗

“Look. You owe me about a hundred fucking favors. You either show up here tonight or keep playing farm girl and don’t bother calling here begging for work again.”

Asshole. I was only one who showed up on time and did my work without a single complaint. “Fine,” I grumbled. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

* * * *

Aunt Meg had already left home. It would be another few days before Uncle Jim would be home, so she decided to stay at the hospital. It was almost six, and if I was going to make it to the club on time, I had to leave now. Kasey had called on the drive home from the hospital and begged Aunt Meg to let her sleep over Riley’s house. Aunt Meg had looked at me for affirmation. Like she wanted my consent. I had shrugged and Aunt Meg had relented. I didn’t see why it would have been a problem, or why Aunt Meg had felt the need to confer with me before giving her a final answer. Maybe it was because, technically, I was her legal guardian. Or maybe she was just too exhausted to deal with the whining of a ten-year-old.

Jacob was just coming in from outside when I trotted down the steps and into the kitchen.

“Going somewhere?” he asked.

“Yeah. I got called into work. I’ll be back tomorrow, though.”

“You have a job?” He sounded a little too surprised.

“Yes.”

“Doing what?” He went to the sink to wash his hands.

“I’m a bartender. It’s a little bit of a drive so I have to leave now.”

“Are you coming back?” He leaned his backside against the sink and towel dried his hands, seeming a little disappointed to see me go.

“Yes,” I said, heading toward the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow.

Two Red Bulls, and two hot dogs later, and I was at my apartment. It was small, but it was all mine. And I worked hard to keep it that way. I scurried inside and rummaged through the last drawer of the dresser. It was where I kept all my work clothes. They didn’t take up much room, so I only needed one drawer. I tossed the outfit into my bag, grabbed a pair of shoes and my makeup bag, and headed to the club.

The building was so lit up you could probably see it from space. The neon sign sizzled, promising naked women draped in pink boas.

Sal was sitting at the bar, his usually glass of Patron within reach. The stool could barely hold all his weight. He looked up from the receipts he was reviewing when I crossed the purple, patterned carpet toward the back room to change.

“It’s about time, kid,” he said. A fat cigar was wedged between his teeth.

I hated when he called me that. He only used the term for his few favorite girls. It made me think of him as some creepy father figure I didn’t want. I already had a creep of a father.

“It’s nice to see you, too.” I continued toward the dressing room.

How Sal turned this run-down strip club into the most popular gentlemen’s club and steakhouse around was a miracle. It was a winning combination—beef, tits, and ass. Guys could eat a full course meal downstairs and then head straight upstairs to see the girls dance.

Gentlemen’s Club. The thought made me snort. He must have dumped a shit load of money to renovate because it looked nothing like it used to. Not that I was ever a frequenter of strip clubs. Some loser I used to hang out with dragged me out here once a while ago. I never imagined the one time I came back it would be to find a job.

“Hurry it up in the dressing room. Got a Happy Divorce group coming in, and I need you on that stage.”

Some of the girls were already in the back, getting dressed, applying their thick eyeliner and fake lashes. I usually kept to myself. I hated how it smelled in here. Like stale sex and cheap perfume.

“Hey, Maeve.” Rita hiked up her fish net stockings and smoothed down the blonde wig on her head. She’d been here the longest, and it was starting to show. “I didn’t know you were working tonight, honey.”

“Filling in.” I took off my shirt and unclasped my bra to slip on my bikini top. My modesty went out the window the second I started this job.

She puckered in front of the mirror and ran her tongue over her teeth. “Hopefully, we make some good money tonight.” She grabbed the lipstick out of her bag and applied another layer.

I slipped on my G-string and see-through shorts. Two pink fishnet thigh-highs later, and I secured my clothes in the locker. It took me twenty minutes to cake on the make-up. I did a quick turn in the mirror to check my outfit, slipped on my stilettos, and headed out to the floor.

* * * *

He whispered in my ear about a private dance. I took his hand and led him to one of the couch rooms. He was here with the divorce party—his broken marriage still written on his face. After a few drinks, he’d stopped mentioning his ex-wife. I was no fucking therapist, but that didn’t stop men from telling me how shitty their marriages were or how they hated their jobs. I listened. Smiled. Sometimes, I felt bad, only pretending to care. But I had problems, too.

I passed by the bouncer and sat the stumbling John Doe down on the couch. His glassy eyes greedily soaked me in. It would be a lie if I said I didn’t like the attention.

“A stripper touched my dick once…when I was still married.”

“Well, you’re not married anymore.”

And that probably had something to do with it.

I changed the music. “And I’m not touching your dick.”

When the song played, I started to sway and roll my hips. The smell of tobacco and whiskey clung to his shirt as I sat on his