Bought A Stripper Husband

Chapter 13 : Evalyne's Half Ashamed

The bass hit her again like a wall as they stepped out. The red bulbs hummed. Somewhere out on the main floor, a woman screamed as another dancer spun her in a circle.

As they approached the end of the hall, Jack's hand brushed lightly at the small of her back, not pushing, just guiding. She realized, with a jolt, that she didn't hate it.

The bouncer at the corridor entrance looked them over, eyes snagging on Evalyne's hair, the smudged lipstick, the hickey just visible at the edge of her collar.

He smirked at Jack. "That's more like it."

Jack only shrugged, but Evalyne saw the relief in the slight drop of his shoulders.

Anna popped up from her barstool near the VIP entrance like a jack-in-the-box, eyes going wide as she took in Evalyne's messy hair.

"Holy s**t," she breathed. "Look at you."

Evalyne raised a brow. "Please do not narrate."

"You look like you sinned," Anna said, delighted. "I'm so proud."

"I talked," Evalyne said.

"Uh-huh," Anna said, gaze flicking to the mark on her neck. "Your neck is telling a different story."

Jack winked at Evalyne, backing away.

"Have a good night, ladies," he said. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"That leaves very little off the table," Anna called after him.

He grinned, then vanished into the crowd, white hair swallowed by the pulsing light.

⸻

The next morning, the hotel room felt like it belonged to someone else.

Evalyne lay on her back, staring at the textured ceiling, the events of the night replaying in painful clarity. The sound of the bass. The heat of his mouth. The stupid, reckless words that had fallen out of her.

Marry me.

There was a knock on the connecting door. Before she could answer, Anna barged in, hair tangled, wearing an oversized T-shirt that belonged to an ex from three boyfriends ago.

She carried two paper cups and a paper bag.

"Coffee," she announced. "And bagels. You're going to need carbs to survive our debrief."

"I do not want to debrief," Evalyne said into the pillow.

"Too bad," Anna replied, setting the drinks on the nightstand. "This is what you get for dragging a stripper into a s*x room."

Evalyne groaned. "Do not say it like that."

"Say what," Anna said, too innocent. "'Dragging a stripper into a s*x room'? Because that is what happened. Even I don't have the gut. You grabbed him like a romance novel heroine and disappeared."

"I panicked," Evalyne flustered, pushing herself upright slowly. Her head throbbed dully. Her neck twinged when she moved it; she did not need a mirror to know why.

Anna's eyes flicked to the mark and widened with gleeful horror. "Oh my God."

"Do not," Evalyne warned.

"You have a hickey," Anna whispered, reverent. "A real, actual hickey. I didn't inspect that much last night. That is on your corporate, board-appropriate neck."

Evalyne reached up, fingers brushing the tender skin. "It is... inconvenient."

"It is iconic," Anna said. "What are you going to tell our dead parents?"

"This is nothing," Evalyne said. "I will wear a turtleneck."

"In June?" Anna asked.

"I will restart turtleneck season early," Evalyne said.

Anna snorted and flopped down on the other side of the bed, cross-legged, handing Evalyne a coffee.

"So," Anna said. "Scale of one to ten, how traumatized are you?"

Evalyne stared into the lid of her cup. "Seven," she said. "With intermittent spikes to eleven."

"And scale of one to ten, how much did you enjoy it?" Anna pressed.

Evalyne hesitated.

Her mind flashed on his mouth, his hand in her hair, the low "good girl," the taste of mint and something sweet.

"Eight," she admitted.

Anna's grin was feral. "Ha."

"Do not be smug," Evalyne said.

"I have to be," Anna replied. "It's genetically encoded. Also, I was right. Exposure therapy works."

"Exposure therapy did not involve me asking him to marry me," Evalyne blurted.

Anna blinked. "Wait, what."

Evalyne closed her eyes. s**t. Too much information.

"I said, 'Marry me.' While he was... kissing me."

There was a beat of stunned silence.

Then Anna dropped her coffee onto the comforter, fortunately with the lid still on, and doubled over.

"You—" she wheezed. "Like for real? You actually—"

"Yes," Evalyne snapped.

"Asked—" Anna gasped. "The stripper—"

"Nightlight," Evalyne muttered.

"—to marry you," Anna finished, collapsing backward into helpless laughter.

Evalyne glared. "This is not amusing."

"It is extremely amusing," Anna said, wiping tears from her eyes. "You went in there for conversation practice and came out with a proposal."

"I did not come out with anything," Evalyne said. "He thought I was joking. No doubt, he hears it all the time."

Anna sat up, still hiccupping little laughs. "Oh my God. What did he say?"

"He said, 'Yes,'" Evalyne muttered.

Anna shrieked. "Stop. My ribs."

"He was clearly... playing along," Evalyne said, even as a tiny, stupid part of her replayed the moment and insisted the yes had sounded different. Softer. Less ironic.

"And then?" Anna asked, eyes shining. "Did you at least get his name, or am I supposed to put 'Nightlight' on your fake wedding invitations?"

"Jack," Evalyne said quietly. "His name is Jack Blue Winters."

Anna stared. "You're lying."

"Apparently his mother had a sense of humor," Evalyne said.

Anna slapped the mattress. "You asked Jack Baby Winters the stripper to marry you."

"Yes," Evalyne said miserably.

"In a room full of s*x toys," Anna continued, delighted. "With a bed."

"I did not look at the shelf," Evalyne said.

"You yelled at me for being chaotic," Anna muttered. "And then you did that."

"I did not yell," Evalyne said. "I... enforced boundaries."

Anna sobered a fraction, though the amusement still glittered at the edges.

"You know you can't actually marry him," she said like it was a matter-a-fact. "We went there only to fix your experience with men,"

The words landed heavier than they should have.

Evalyne took a sip of coffee to mask her expression. It had cooled; she barely tasted it.

"I am aware," she said.

"I mean, logistically," Anna went on. "You don't know him. He doesn't know you. He works in a strip club in Atlantic City and probably has an entire mess of a life behind that stage name. You have... shares and boards and a five-year-old who already lives under a microscope. Imagine you showed up to Vivian's brunch with a professional glitter boy on your arm, they'd combust."

"They would say I married for shock value," Evalyne said. "For spectacle."

"They'd say he married for money," Anna added. "And they'd decide whatever they wanted about Theresa in between."

Evalyne stared at the far wall.

"And beyond what they would say," Anna continued, softer now, "So, choose the good ones, not the dirty ones. He probably had that kind of schedule. Like 's*x services'? That's... not something you can just marry someone out of and call it a day."

Evalyne thought of the way the colleague had spoken. The way Jack's jaw had clenched. The way he'd said, you're not the one who can hurt me.

"No," she said. "It isn't."

"So we filed last night under 'important research,'" Anna said. "You learned you can be kissed without going catatonic. You learned you have taste. You learned that asking people to marry you in the heat of the moment is, shockingly, not a sustainable husband-finding strategy."

Evalyne made a face. "Thank you."

"And then," Anna said, tapping her knee against Evalyne's, "we find you someone who lives in your world. Or at least can visit without needing a passport and hazard pay."

"A proper candidate," Evalyne said dully.

"I hate that phrase," Anna replied. "But yes. Someone who can sit through your board meetings without crying and who doesn't refer to your kid as 'baggage.'"

Evalyne's hand drifted, almost unconsciously, to the mark on her neck.

"Jack did not judge me," she said quietly.

"Then we appreciate that," Anna said. "We send it a little thank-you note in our hearts. 'Dear Jack Winters, thank you for not being a complete asshole.' And then we move on."

Evalyne let out a slow breath.

She would move on. She had to. The lie she'd told at the party still hung over her like a deadline. Investors and socialites did not pause their scrutiny because she'd had a moment of vulnerability in a club in another state.

But as she sipped her coffee, her gaze drifting to the sliver of ocean visible through the hotel window, she couldn't help replaying the smallest pieces of the night. The way he'd buttoned his shirt to make her feel less exposed. The way he'd said, you're trying. You're tired. You're scared, and not once suggested that made her less.

It would be ridiculous to think of him as anything more than a kind stranger, a fantasy in a place built on them.

A ridiculousness that lodged itself under her skin anyway.

She touched the hickey again, feeling the faint ache.

"You're thinking about him," Anna observed.

Evalyne straightened. "I am thinking about how to cover this."

"Liar," Anna sang.

Evalyne set down her coffee with controlled precision. "We have four weeks," she said. "We need to find someone who can plausibly be my long-term boyfriend. Someone who can stand beside me in a photograph without people questioning whether I have lost my mind."

Anna's smile faded, replaced by something more serious.

"Then we start looking," she said. "Properly this time. No more half-hearted blind dates with men who think 'MILF' is a compliment. We widen the search. Friends of friends. Discreet matchmakers. Anyone who doesn't treat your life like a puzzle to solve or a trophy to win."

Evalyne nodded.

"And we remember," Anna added, nudging her again, "that if we don't find a suitable fiancé in four weeks... the world doesn't end. You don't end. Theresa doesn't end. Vivian's gossip column is not the apocalypse."

Evalyne thought of Vivian's face, of headlines forming, of board murmurs and investment decisions.

Her jaw set. "For now," she said, "we proceed as if it might be."

Anna sighed, then bumped her head lightly against Evalyne's shoulder. "Of course we do," she said. "It's you."

Out over the water, the winter sun tried to burn through the haze. It didn't quite succeed. The light that made it through was muted, diffused.

Back in New York, people would already be talking about her launch party, her "engagement," the mysterious unseen man in London. None of them had any idea that in a nightclub in New Jersey, under a fake moon, Evalyne Delaire had asked a twenty-two-year-old stripper to marry her and heard, yes, ma'am, like it meant something.

Ridiculous, she told herself.

Ridiculous.

And yet, as she pressed the coffee cup to her lips, she tasted mint and cheap club soda in the back of her throat, and her heart gave one last, traitorous lurch.