I'm not always the hero. Sometimes, I'm merciless.
My whole life I've been the good guy-loyal friend, helpful son, dedicated firefighter-but in the bedroom I'm someone else. That's where my inner villain likes to come out and play.
With a kink as ta...
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Austin
Arms folded, I watch with mild interest as a woman wearing nothing but a white G-string and angel wings spins around a pole while men of all ages toss dollar bills onto the stage. In a word, the atmosphere of the lower level of Chicago's popular strip club, Cardinal Sin, can be described with my stripper name: Rowdy.
Yes, I'm a stripper, and no, I don't work here.
In fact, I don't work in any club. I'm what we call a personal stripper, the kind you hire for bachelorette parties, birthday parties, retirement parties, or just-because-it's-Tuesday parties. Although I own Playboys 4 Hire with my two friends, since graduating college the stripping has been more of a hobby and easy means for extra cash, since my full-time job doesn't exactly have me rolling in dough.
Despite my dad wishing I'd choose something safer, I followed in my old man's footsteps and became a Chicago firefighter. My motto for both jobs is Find 'em hot and leave 'em wet, and I'm damn good at what I do.
"Hey, Rowdy," a sweet voice says loud enough to be heard over the music. I swing my gaze to the left where the stunning blonde is seated next to me, dead center in front of the main stage. She bats her eyelashes and holds up the garnish stick from her chocolate martini with an impish smile. "Want my cherry?"
"No, he fucking does not." That growl comes from her boyfriend, Roman Reeves, who also happens to be one of my best friends. Before they got together, Addison used my mouth and a maraschino cherry to make him jealous enough to finally make a move. It worked. "Keep it up, wildcat, and you'll get more than you bargained for when we get home."
Addison Paige sighs dramatically and drags the cherry off the stick with her teeth, tucking it into her cheek. "Promises, promises."
"Aw, what's the matter, Addie-girl?" I ask, injecting my words with the Southern drawl I pull out at will. "Old Roman here not doin' the job anymore?"
Roman leans forward to glare at me from Addison's other side. "Cut me some slack, asshole. I'm trying to enjoy myself."
"All work and no play makes Ruthless a crabby boy," Addison says, rolling her eyes at me. Ruthless is Roman's stripper persona. When he's not in his Armani suits and running his law firm with an iron fist, he can be found in torn jeans, a wife-beater, piercings, and black guyliner.
"Breaking your own rules, amigo?" I ask him.
"The firm can't afford to lose this case, so yeah, it's been rough. I haven't had a night off in weeks and it's not making me a happy fucking camper."
"True story," Addison said with a pout. "If this case doesn't kill him first, I just might."
Draping my arm across the back of her chair, I smile wide, launching the full arsenal of my dimples. "If you need me, darlin', you know I'm always willin' to pick up his slack."
