Page 43 of Shamed
I consider just leaving, since it appears Chester has forgotten about me. It’s not like I wanted to be here in the first place.
Unfortunately, this is a necessary evil, so I keep myself planted in the chair, hoping he’ll appear in the next few minutes.
The feel of fingers brushing along my shoulders brings me to attention. No doubt it’s another one of the dancers offering their services. That would make her the sixth attempt since I sat down.
“Hi there,” she says in a seductive voice close to my ear. Or she tries to, at least. But it sounds wrong, forced, unnatural. Like she would rather not talk to me if she could help it. “I couldn’t help but notice—”
The moment I turn my head and lock eyes with her swirling gray ones, she freezes mid-sentence, as if the eye contact startled her. Maybe it did.
The woman quickly looks down, and my eyes narrow as I watch her movements: the fidgeting of her fingers, the rise and fall of her chest, and the general unease she gives off.
Curled, shiny brown hair spills out from beneath a silver crown that sits on her head. And though I can see she has a stunning body, dressed—or barely dressed—in white lace, I keep my eyes fixed on her face.
“You couldn’t help but notice what?”
The brunette blinks a few times before standing straighter. “I, um . . .” A flicker of familiarity hits me then as I study her heart-shaped face, slightly sloped nose, full lips, perfectly shaped brows. It’s like I’ve seen her before, but I can’t pinpoint where. “That you were alone,” she finally answers. “And you probably prefer it that way. I’m sorry I interrupted.”
My brows crease in confusion. That’s a first. Not the typical tactic they use on people. Surely that’s not what she was going to say.
She wears a similar crown to the other women, and she’s dressed the same way—extra makeup, fake lashes, glitter everywhere—so it’s obvious that she works here. But her behavior is nothing like the other girls who have approached me. In fact, she looks like she’d rather be anywhere else but here, precisely how she sounded in my ear. Maybe she’s new? A trainee?
The woman turns to walk away, but whether it was the surprise on her face when we first locked eyes or the way she’s trying to high-tail it away from me, something deep within compels me to stop her. To keep her talking to me.
“Hey, wait.” Without proper thought, I reach out and take hold of her gloved wrist before she can leave, only realizing my utter mistake when she lets out a whimper and whirls around, her face pale and afraid. I quickly release her, regret pulsing through me. “I’m sorry.” I should have fucking known better than to do something so stupid. “I didn’t mean to grab you like that.”
She doesn’t race off, thankfully, but she doesn’t look at me, either.
Instead, she shifts her gaze to the side, while holding the spot where my fingers wrapped around her, as if I branded her with that touch.
I shove my hands between my knees and trace my eyes over her features. “Have you worked here for very long?”
I see the slightest frown form on her face while she looks anywhere but at me. “A couple of years.”
Years? Not new, then.
“You’re not like the others.” That finally draws her eyes back to me. Her face is still a little pale, spooked even, and another spark of familiarity hits me, this time harder than before.Where the fuck do I know her from?“Have we met before?”
There’s a moment where she pauses all movements. It’s so slight, you’d miss it if you weren’t paying attention. But then she shakes her head, forcing her gloved hands to relax at her sides. “No.”
I nod slowly, though my brain keeps telling me otherwise. “I could have sworn I’ve seen you before. What’s your name?”
A shift of her feet and lick of her lips. “Jayne.”
Jayne. It doesn’t sound familiar at all. I guess I could have seen her at the supermarket or something. But for some reason, it feels like a little more than that.
“What do you mean I’m not like the others?” she asks after a beat.
“Oh. They all offered me a dance.”
I don’t even want a dance, but I do want to see her reaction to it.
Her throat rolls with a swallow, and she briefly glances at one of the other girls nearby who seems to be watching us. “Do you . . . would you like a lap dance?”
She couldn’t look any more uncomfortable as she pushes the words out.
“No, thank you.” Not from any of them, but especially not from her.
“Why did you bring it up then?” She doesn’t sound annoyed, just curious.
