“And here’s Cain’s office. Don’t worry. You’ll fit in here,” she whispers as she pushes through the door. I give the back of her head an arched brow. She thinks she knows me. She thinks I’ll fit in with silicone and booze and vajayjays or whatever I’m supposed to call them. I’m second-guessing how smart Storm really is.

“Come in!” A harsh voice calls out and my back tenses up.

Inside is a small office with floor to ceiling shelves on all four walls, lined with more cases of booze. Tons and tons of booze. On the back wall is something that looks like a weird chemistry experiment—a bunch of upside down liquor bottles with a mess of hoses flowing from their spouts, down into the floor. My nose catches a faint scent of cigar smoke, cedar, and whiskey lingering in the air.

“That’s the bar well,” Storm explains in a whisper. “All the basic liquor. It controls how much goes out. You hit a button behind the bar and it gives you one ounce. You hit it twice, two ounces, not rocket science.”

“So I can’t reenact my favorite scenes from Cocktail?” I mumble, picturing twirling bottles like a baton.

Storm chuckles. “You can, but it will be with the pricey bottles on the shelf and they cost a lot when you break them.”

A man with slick black hair and a navy dress shirt sits behind a giant mahogany desk with his back to us. Cain, I presume. He’s on the phone with what sounds like the beer distributor. By the way he barks out ‘yes’ and ‘no,’ I’d say he’s not happy. He slams the phone down and spins around and I prepare myself for a painful conversation.

But then his coffee-colored irises settle on Storm and they instantly warm. He’s a younger man—early thirties—with attractive features and a sense of style. Definitely good-looking by anyone’s standards. But he’s a strip club owner and that equals dirt bag in my book.

“Hello, Angel,” he drawls, giving Storm a slow once-over. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle. I’m not going to like this guy. Not. One. Bit.

Storm ignores the leer. Or maybe she enjoys it. Frankly, I have no idea. I don’t know her well enough either. “Hey, Cain.” She cocks her head toward me. “This is my friend, Kacey. For the bartender position?”

My gut tenses as those dark irises turn to appraise me but it only lasts for half a second. He bolts out of his chair and strides around the desk, extending his hand with a professional air. “Hi Kacey. I’m Cain, the owner of Penny’s. Pleased to meet you.”

And here’s where my little phobia makes life so damn awkward. I can’t get around shaking the boss’s hand when he offers it to me. Not unless I tear out of here right now but then I’m out of a job. One I’m not sure I want, but a job nonetheless. My only real choice is to grit my teeth and hope I don’t pass out from an anxiety attack when his fingers curl around my own, shoving me back into that dark place I keep trying to crawl out from.

I look at him, I look at his hand, I look at Storm. But most of all, I hear Livie’s voice saying try.

I reach out …

Black spots fill my vision as his bones and muscles and gristle wrap around my hand and squeezes. My other hand blindly paws the air for support and I make contact with Storm’s elbow. I grab onto it. I’m going to pass out. I’m going to keel over right here on this floor and do the funky chicken like an idiot. Nate the gargantuan will drag me out while Cain hollers, “thanks, but no thanks, nut job” and then I’ll be back to Starbucks and Livie will have to eat cat food and …

“Storm’s told me a lot about you.”

With a start, I realize Cain has let go of my hand. My lungs deflate. “Has she now?” I say in a shaky voice, stealing a glance at Storm

He smiles warmly. “Yes. She said you’ve helped her out a lot. You’re smart and you’re in need of a job. You’re stunningly beautiful. I can see that now, firsthand.”

I choke, my tongue disappearing into the back of my throat.

“Have you ever worked in an adult establishment?”

“Uh … no … sir,” I answer and silently pray to God that Storm hasn’t told him otherwise. I don’t know why, but I find suddenly that I want to impress Cain. He carries an authoritative air to him, like he’s much older and wiser than his appearance suggests, like he’s a caring human rather than unscrupulous strip club owner.

My answer doesn’t seem to bother him. “One of my bartenders is pregnant. She and I both agree that a gentleman’s club isn’t the best place for her so … how many nights can you commit to?”

I look at Storm and shrug. “All of them?”

Cain’s head tips back as he laughs whole-heartedly, revealing a tattoo beneath his left ear. It reads, ’Penny.’ She must be someone special if he named his club after her and tattooed her name on himself. “Don’t sign your life away, Sweetheart. Five or six nights will do.” His eyes skim my arms now, skittering over the white scar snaking down the outside of my shoulder, and I silently chastise myself for not covering them. They probably frown upon disfigured women working in adult clubs. “You have a fighter’s body,” he says instead.

“No fighting. Just staying fit,” I answer quickly.

He nods slowly. That seems to impress him. “Good. I like a woman who can take care of herself.” He settles behind his desk again, saying, “you’ll train Kacey, right, Storm?”

Storm is grinning ear to ear. “Yes, Cain.”

He looks up at her again, and I see the look for what it truly is. Adoration, not lusty animalism. Like he worships her. I wonder if they’ve slept together. I wonder if he sleeps with all his staff. I’m sure he could if he wanted to. Will he try to sleep with me? I don’t have time to think about it anymore because Storm leads me out the door in a daze.

“Come on. We’re opening soon. I need to get you comfortable.”

***

The night goes by in a blur. Storm and I work the main bar together—Storm on the more complicated drinks, me on beer and straight shots while she teaches me the basics. The place is nothing like I expected. It’s huge and three stories high in the center with a low ceiling around the perimeter, allowing sleek alcoves for the bars, shiny black high top tables, and a hallway to the V.I.P. rooms. Apparently Cain is strict about what happens back there. Nothing illegal, he tells all the girls. “I don’t go back there,” Storm says with a serious look that says “don’t go back there, Kacey.”

On a raised stage in the center, the girls dance. There are three dancing at all times, each with their own little stage jutting off the main one to accommodate the group of leering men in front row. A blue light shines down over the entire space, creating a mystical ambience. The rest of the place is dark, the air heady with booze and testosterone and lust. Music throbs through my body, its beat guiding the dancers every move on stage.

Storm and I joke and chatter casually back and forth as we serve, and I can’t help but start to relax around her. The place is busy, but people aren’t climbing over each other at the bar to get a drink like the night clubs I’ve been to. She introduces me to three girls who she promises me I’ll like. Ginger, Layla, and Penelope. They’re all drop dead gorgeous, giggly, and friendly. Everyone there seems to be gorgeous, giggly, and friendly, and I can’t help but wonder for the hundredth time why Storm would think I’ll fit in here. But I say nothing, nodding to them all, making sure I’ve got two full hands so I avoid all contact. No one seems to notice.

I get a bunch of “new girl” comments from customers who are obviously regulars, but I ignore them. I keep my head down and I work hard so Cain doesn’t have any reason to expand my job description to lap dances and V.I.P. room customer support. I take orders, I make drinks, I collect money without touching anyone’s hand. In that order. Still, I feel eyes on me—drifting over my curves, sizing me up, even with plenty of flesh to look at in this place. Asshats.