Broken

CHAPTER NINE: A Wicked Game Begins

"I just close my eyes because I might see your face. I just close my mouth because I might hear your voice. I just close my ears because I might hear of you, but I could not close my heart because I love you."

Anonymous

I was working the night shift when a man arrived at the club. He was staring at me and I gave him a withering look. He was wearing jogging shorts. I hated customers who wore shorts; they always let their d***s slip out of them. Pigs. I tried to slink down into my seat so he couldn't see me and hoped he wasn't interested. I went back to reading my book but I could sense his gaze on me.

He bought two hours from me in the champagne room which surprised me. The man didn't appear to have a cent to his name. The next two hours would be dreadful but I was experienced with this type of pervert. He would learn his lesson the hard way.

Unlike other dancers who played upbeat songs like rap or pop music, I played romantic music. I also always chose the Moonlight Room with its soft light and plush furniture. The other rooms had black lights and disco balls but I liked a more amorous setting. I played songs from soundtracks that few people had ever heard. Some were instrumental with no words but for me, words weren't necessary. The mood was all that mattered.

I wore long, clingy gowns and expensive lingerie instead of the usual stripper Lycra. If I had to do this job, I would do it my way. My only rule was that the men were never to touch me. Never. How I touched them was my choice but any infraction of my "no-touch rule" was met with a swift and stinging slap of my hand. If that wasn't enough, I called security. Usually, my stern slap was all it took; they were mollified and embarrassed they had tried.

I rarely looked at customers' faces. If I did, I couldn't do my job. If I saw them for what they were, the illusion would break. I had to pretend my customers were my lovers. I made love to them with the barest of touches and implications of bliss.

Eventually, he could take no more. He stopped me with a gentle hand and spoke to me. "I'm Evan. I am a surgeon, an ophthalmologist. I own a private practice but I do a rotation at Vanderbilt. I was out for a run after work when I came by this place." He appeared a little embarrassed and hesitated for a moment. He continued, "I don't usually do this sort of thing but I haven't felt a woman's touch in a long time."

He was trying to explain himself to me. I was not accustomed to this sort of deference and his words stopped me cold. I found myself breaking my own rule and lowered my gaze to him. He had beautiful green eyes that sparked something inside me. The color of his skin made me think of an Arabian prince. He had thick black hair and a square jaw that reminded me of Christopher Reeve in Superman. His body was muscled and hard but lithe like a runner or a swimmer's body. He was strikingly handsome.

The fact that Evan was a gorgeous physician was disappointing to me. Good-looking men were usually assholes and doctors were worse. The club was within a few miles of three different hospitals. Doctors grew from trees in my neighborhood. I had danced for my share of physicians who were overworked and lonely. I even dated a few doctors I had met around town. I thought they would be wonderful but they were not. They were alike in their constant need for me to boost their already overblown egos. It was annoying.

I hoped he wasn't another doctor with a god complex or some insane vision of his glory. The last doctor I dated was an arrogant prick who bought expensive cars and yelled at me if I leaned against them. He hated my cigarettes and I purposefully smoked them in his bed when he wasn't home.

He had hair plugs inserted to cover his balding head. They were so painfully obvious that I laughed out loud when I saw the rows of stitches across his bare scalp. The tufts of hair jutting from the scabs reminded me of an injured baby chicken. He dumped me that day for a rich socialite.

I wasn't bothered by it. Our relationship only lasted as long as it had because he was never home. He was terrible in bed, not that it mattered. s*x was a chore I only endured with him a few times and it was still gross, even if he didn't spit on me. I had lain there, trying to enjoy it, but it was awful. I was frozen the entire time. I was glad he broke up with me. I didn't want him to touch me again. I did like borrowing his hot tub when he wasn't home. I missed the hot tub more than him.

I decided to play nice and said, "It's a pleasure to meet you. I am Paige. I don't judge the men who come here; after all, I'm here, too. My ex-boyfriend was a radiologist, but I won't hold your profession against you. So, please, don't hold mine against me."

My statement made him smile in amusement and relief. I paused for the next song to begin. Sarah McLachlan began singing "Ice Cream." I trailed a finger down his arm. I got up and sat on the soft leather-topped coffee table to appraise this beautiful man. He didn't seem like an asshole, despite his looks and profession.

He leaned forward to touch my hand and said, "You work so hard. Let me take care of you for a little while."

His words were a warning that he wanted to touch me and that made me nervous. I squelched that little idea by sitting on his lap and straddling him. In my sweetest voice, I said, "It's my job."

He maneuvered me off his lap in one quick motion and put me beside him on the sofa. He took one of my feet into his hands. "I give a great foot massage. These heels must be killing you," he said as he slid off my shoes.

He began a firm yet gentle massage of the arch of my foot. I closed my eyes in pleasure. Oh, that was nice. He worked his magic on each foot. He spoke to me, his voice hypnotizing. It seemed to wrap around me like a warm blanket.

He noticed the shelf of books I kept in this room because it was my favorite. "Are all those books yours?"

I nodded, closing my eyes again, and enjoyed his soothing touch. "Yes, I read voraciously. It is what keeps me sane. What do you do when you're not saving someone's sight?"

His hands worked up my calves but I didn't resist, even though this was a serious infraction of my "no touching" rule. He answered, "I play tennis and run." He said nothing out of the ordinary, his voice like a cool breeze on a summer day or a cup of hot chocolate in the winter.

"How brave of you to take on such physically demanding pastimes. I only run at gunpoint and my tennis game is laughable." I was trying to be lighthearted but it was the truth.

He assessed me as I lay topless on the sofa with my feet in his hands. I could feel his gaze on me in the same way I could his hands. "I have a feeling you would be good at whatever you chose to do." He said it sincerely. It was the perfect thing to say and not the usual quips about my "fantastic t**s" or my "gorgeous ass." He complimented me on who I was and that was ... unique.