Love
the Way You Lie by Skye Warren
Publication
date: March 12th 2015
Genres:
Adult, Romance
Synopsis:
A
dark romance about the lies that lead us down…
I’ll
do anything to get safe, even if that means working at the scariest
club in town.
I’ll
do anything to stay hidden, even if it means taking off my clothes
for strangers.
I’ll
do anything to be free. Except give him up. When he looks at me, I
forget why I can’t have him. He’s beautiful and scarred. His body
fits mine, filling the places where I’m hollow, rough where I am
soft.
He’s
the one man who wants to help me, but he has his own agenda. He has
questions I can’t answer.
What
are you afraid of?
You.
Purchase:
Excerpt:
In
the first moments onstage, I’m always blinded.
The
bright lights, the smoke. The wall of sound that feels almost
tangible, as if it’s trying to keep me out, push me back, protect
me from what’s going to happen next. I’m used to the dancing and
the catcalls and the reaching, grabbing hands—as much as I can be.
But I’m never quite used to this moment, being blinded, feeling
small.
I
reach for the pole and find it, swinging my body around so the gauzy
scrap of fabric flies up, giving the men near the stage a view of my
ass. I still can’t quite make anything out. There are dark spots in
my vision.
The
smile’s not even a lie, not really. It’s a prop, like the
four-inch heels and the wings that snap as I drop them to the stage.
Broken.
A
few people clap from the back.
Now
all that’s left is the thin satin fabric. I grip the pole and head
into my routine, wrapping around, sliding off, and starting all over
again. I lose myself in the physicality of it, going into the zone as
if I were running a marathon. This is the best part, reveling in the
burn of my muscles, the slide of the metal pole against my skin and
the cold, angry rhythm of the song. It’s not like ballet, but it’s
still a routine. Something solid, when very few things in my life are
solid.
I
finish on the pole and begin to work the stage, moving around so I
can collect tips. I can see again, just barely, making out shadowy
silhouettes in the chairs.
Not
many.
There’s
a regular on one side. I recognize him. Charlie. He tosses a
five-dollar bill on the stage, and I bend down long and slow to pick
it up. He gets a wink and a shimmy for his donation. As I’m
straightening, I spot another man on the other side of the stage.
His
posture is slouched, one leg kicked out, the other under his chair,
but somehow I can tell he isn’t really relaxed. There’s tension
in the long lines of his body. There’s power.
And
that makes me nervous.
I
spin away and shake my shit for the opposite side of the room, even
though there’s barely anyone there. It’s only a matter of time
before I need to face him again. But I don’t need to look at him.
They don’t pay me to look them in the eye.
Still
I can’t help but notice his leather boots and padded jacket. Did he
ride a motorcycle? It seems like that kind of leather, the tough
kind. Meant to withstand weather. Meant to protect the body from
impact.
The
song’s coming to a close, my routine is coming to an end and I’m
glad about that. Something about this guy is throwing me off. Nothing
noticeable. My feet and hands and knowing smile still land everywhere
they need to. Muscle memory and all that. But I don’t like the way
he watches me.
There’s
patience in the way he watches me. And patience implies waiting.
It
implies planning.
I
reach back and unclasp my bra. I use one hand to cover my breasts
while I toss the bra to the back of the stage. I pretend to be shy
for a few seconds, and suddenly I feel shy too. Like I’m doing more
than showing my breasts to strangers. I’m showing him. And
as I stand there, hand cupping my breasts, breath coming fast, I feel
his patience like a hot flame.
This
time I do miss the beat. I let go on the next one, though, and my
breasts are free, bared to the smoky air and the hungry eyes. There
are a few whistles from around the room. Charlie holds up another
five-dollar bill. I sway over to him and cock my hip, letting him
shove the bill into my thong, feeling his hot, damp breath against my
breast. He gets close but doesn’t touch. That’s Charlie. He tips
and follows the rules, the best kind of customer.
I
don’t even glance at the other side of the room. If the new guy is
holding up a tip, I don’t even care. He doesn’t seem like the
kind of guy who follows rules. I don’t know why I’m even thinking
about him or letting him affect me. Maybe my run-in with Blue made me
more skittish than I’d realized.
All
I have left is my finale on the pole. I can get through this.
This
part isn’t as physically strenuous as before. Or as long. All I
really need to do is grind up against the pole, front and back,
emphasizing my newly naked breasts, pretending to fuck.
That’s
what I’m doing when I feel it. Feel him.
I’m
a practical girl. I have to be. But there’s a feeling I get, a
prickle on the back of my neck, a churning in my gut, a warning bell
in my head when I’m near one of them. Near a cop. My eyes
scan the back of the room, but all I can see are shadows. Is there a
cop waiting to bust someone? A raid about to go down?
My
gaze lands on the guy near the stage. Him? He doesn’t look like a
cop. He doesn’t feel like a cop. But I don’t trust looks
or feelings. All I can trust is the alarm blaring in my head: get
out, get out, get out.
I
can barely suck in enough air. There’s only smoke and rising panic.
Blood races through me, speeding up my movements. A cop. I
feel it like some kind of sixth sense.
Maybe
he feels my intuition about him, because he leans forward in his
seat.
In
one heart-stopping moment, my eyes meet his. I can see his face then,
drawn from charcoal shadows.
Beautiful,
his lips say. All I can hear is the song.
I’m
not even on beat anymore, and it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t
matter because there’s a cop here and I have to get out. Even if my
intuition is wrong, it’s better to get out. Safer.
I’ll
never be safe.
The
last note calls for a curtsy—a sexy, mocking movement I
choreographed into my routine. Like the one I’d do at the end of a
ballet recital but made vulgar. I barely manage it this time, a rough
jerk of my head and shoulders. Then I’m gone, off the stage,
running down the hallway. I’m supposed to work the floor next, see
who wants a lap dance or another drink, but I can’t do that. I head
for the dressing room and throw on a T-shirt and sweatpants. I’ll
tell them I feel sick and have to leave early. They won’t be happy
and I’ll probably have to pay for it with my tips, but they won’t
want me throwing up on the customers either.
I
run for the door and almost slam into Blue.
He’s
standing in the hallway again. Not slouching this time. There’s a
new alertness to his stare. And something else—amusement.
“Going
somewhere?” he asks.
“I
have to… My stomach hurts. I feel sick.” I step close, praying
he’ll move aside.
He
reaches up to trace my cheek. “Aww, should I call the doctor?”
His hand clamps down on my shoulder. “I wouldn’t want anything
bad to happen to you.”
I
grip my bag tight to my chest, trying to ignore the threat in his
words. And the threat in his grip. I really do feel sick now,
but throwing up on him is definitely not going to help the situation.
“Please, I need to leave. It’s serious. I’ll make it up later.”
He’ll
know what I’m saying. That I’ll make it up to him personally. I’m
just desperate enough to promise that. Desperate enough to promise
him anything. And he’s harassed me long enough that I know it’s a
decent prize. I’m sure he’ll make it extra humiliating, but I’m
desperate enough for that too.
“Please
let me go.” The words come out pained, my voice thin. It feels a
little like my body is collapsing in on itself, steel beams bending
together, something crushing me from the outside.
Regret
flashes over his face, whether for refusing my offer or forcing me
that low. But this time he doesn’t let me go. “There’s a
customer asking for you. He wants a dance.”
AUTHOR
BIO:
Skye
Warren is the New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author of dark
romantic fiction. Her books are raw, sexual and perversely romantic.
Author
links:
WEBSITE
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