Surrender (3 page)

“I’m giving you one chance to walk away,” I say dispassionately. If he wants to challenge me . . . I’ll break his legs, simple. “If you don’t, you’ll crawl. Understand?”

Once he leaves, I study the girl. She’s visibly upset, but finally gazes up at me and smiles. She looks like she just stepped out of
Maxim
magazine. Big blue eyes, full lips, and thick, curly black hair cascading down to the small of her back. I’ve never seen her before. Not at any of the clubs I frequent. I can’t help noticing the shape of her slim thighs through the thin material of her warm-ups or her breasts—I look away. Not the right time to ogle.

“Thank you,” she whispers.
“Very much.”

She doesn’t need to thank me. I’ll help any woman in distress, old or young; it’s the way I was raised. Texas boys do it right. I smile. “I’m Garrick.”

She eyes me for a long minute and says, “Robyn.” She stands up.

She moves toward me. “I mean it,” she says. “If you weren’t here . . .”

“It’s nothing.” I feel sorry for her out here all alone. It’s too dark and dangerous for any girl, especially one that looks like her. “Can I take you somewhere?”

“My car is half a mile that way.” She points at the pier.

“Come on.” I’ll stash her in my truck. The fish aren’t biting anyway. “I’ll give you a ride.”

She nods, and I walk to the passenger-side door and open it for her. “Your chariot.” I gesture for her to climb in.

She does, and I reach around her to start the AC. My arm brushes against hers. Skin on skin. Something sparks, and I look down at her. She catches my glance, then quickly averts her eyes. Shy.
Yep. She felt it, too.
I chuckle and retreat, closing the door. It will take only a few minutes to dismantle my stands and poles. When I finish, I throw the gear in the bed of the truck. I join her inside and buckle my seat belt. She’s quiet, but I watch her follow my lead and buckle up. I nearly drool at the vision that strap makes running diagonally between her breasts. She knows I’m staring. But I look away before she says anything. I’m not an animal, just a red-blooded American boy who loves women. And this one has my full attention at the moment.

I put my truck in gear, back out, and drive slowly down the beach. I think North Padre is one of the last beaches in the U.S. where you can drive so close to the water. I love it. I grew up here, fishing and hunting, and partying with the locals. Spring Break should be a national holiday. I smile. At least I didn’t walk away empty-handed tonight. I
technically
caught something, didn’t I? I gaze at her again. She’s pretty skittish. I guess she has a reason to be afraid right now. I’d like to know why.

“Where are you from?” I ask, not wanting to pry into her personal affairs too soon. Why was that guy chasing her? Drugs? She doesn’t look the type. She’s too pretty for that shit. Hopefully she’ll tell me soon enough.

“Flour Bluff.”

I look at her. She doesn’t look like a Bluff rat. “Really?”

“Born at Spohn Hospital.”

I laugh. Nearly everyone from Corpus was born at Spohn.

“And you?”

“Dallas,” I answer. “Moved here when I was three.”

“Hmmm,” she says seductively. “I’ve never been there. Is it pretty?”

“Beautiful,” I say, admiring her.

“Is your family here?”

“My parents died in a car accident three years ago,” I answer. “Head-on collision with a drunk driver. My sister lives with me.”

She gives me a sorrowful, doe-eyed look. It makes it hard to swallow. “That’s awful.” She doesn’t say “sorry” like everyone else. I like that.

“It feels like a lifetime ago.” I always end up making people feel uncomfortable when I tell them about my parents. They’re the ones that end up needing comforting afterward most of the time. “Where’s your family live?”

“Odem,” she says.

Odem is a small farming community north of Corpus. Quite the jump from the Bluff to Odem. “It’s nice they’re close by.”

She doesn’t answer and stares out the window. She’s not a big talker. Most women can’t shut up once I start a conversation. This one will hardly speak. She’s a mystery. But her eyes reveal a lot. I’ve always been called an old soul, but this girl’s ancient. It’s not just the sadness I sense in her; there’s something more. Something deeper that makes me want to talk to her all night. We approach the pier parking lot. There’s an old Camaro nearby and a Ford truck farther away.

“Where’s your car?”

“The Camaro.” She points.

I’m amused by her choice of vehicle. I’ve never known a beautiful woman who drives a muscle car. “That’s a ’76 . . . looks a little rough around the edges.” The maroon paint is chipped and faded. She deserves a Corvette or Ferrari.

“Yeah,” she laughs. “But I love her. She’s fast.”

We stare at each other, and I know I’d better think of something quick if I’m going to get her to stay. “I have ice-cold Coronas in the back. Want one?”

She looks out the windshield and back at me. “Sure.”

I park next to her car, drop the windows down halfway, and turn off the engine. I jump out, grab two Coronas from the cooler in the bed, and slide into the driver’s seat again. I reach for the opener I keep in my visor and pop the top. I hand her the bottle.

“Thanks,” she says and sinks back in the seat with a sigh. She takes a long drink.

I turn the radio on and search for the right music. “Wrecking Ball” by Miley Cyrus blares from my speakers. We both look at the radio at the same time and laugh.

“What?” I ask, taking a swig.

“The irony,” she says.

I wait for her to elaborate.

“That guy was a wrecking ball, a drug dealer—I’m sure of it.”

“Yeah,” I agree. “Who wears a thousand-dollar suit to the beach?” We laugh again. “Where did you meet him?” It’s time for a few answers.

“I didn’t.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” I eye her critically. I hope she’s not a liar.

“I’m a regular at the pier after hours, that’s all.” She gestures with her hand. “The manager lets me stay if I tip him. Tonight I was at the wrong place at the wrong time. I think the manager owes that guy money or something. I overheard their argument and decided not to stick around for the finale. He chased me.”

I know a liar when I see one. Robyn is telling the truth. She’s smart. Sexy. Beautiful.
Damn.
“I’m glad you found me,” she says.

She throws me one of those irresistible wide-eyed looks again. The
I’m helpless
one that draws a man in . . . Who’s really vulnerable here? I take her hand and give it a friendly squeeze. “You’re safe now.”

She’s tight-lipped, but smiles appreciatively. Then she leans sideways and plants a kiss on my mouth. My body can’t resist the heat or temptation. I’m rock hard the minute she touches me.
Hell,
the minute she leans in. She tries to withdraw, but I cradle the back of her head with my hand and kiss her back. This time there’s no mistaking the message. For a second she responds passionately, her tongue gliding across my bottom lip. I growl, not wanting this to stop. It’s electric.

I think it startles her. She jumps away, staring out the blasted window again. What’s she looking at? Thinking about? It’s as if she’s here, but gone at the same time. I’m not used to that. She checks her watch and looks at me. “I need to go.”

“Wait,” I urge. There’s amazing chemistry between us. I don’t know how to contact her. I want her phone number.

She opens the door and hops out. “Thank you,
Garrick.
” I love hearing my name roll off that sexy tongue. “I won’t forget what you did.”

Before I have a chance to respond, she shuts the door and gets into her Camaro.

Chapter Three

It’s Friday night—the busiest shift at the Devil’s Den. I check in at the DJ booth at seven, dressed and ready to dance my first set. The booth is fully enclosed, the outside wall lined with diamond plate. There’s a narrow slit that runs the length of the main wall where we can peek out. I slide the step stool over and climb up. There’s a pretty big crowd. I smile and get down. I like to match my music to the crowd. Always a fan of classic rock on my first set, I select a double shot of Judas Priest (“Turbo Lover” and “Victim of Changes”). It should please the middle-agers out there. I leave and make my way to the end of the bar closest to the main stage. Two girls are up before me; then I’ll make the four-stage rotation. Eight song sets, four times a night, isn’t that bad. I make mad money onstage. I’m not the best dancer, but I’m slow and sexy.

I’m wearing a new dress tonight, black velvet with a plunging neckline that shows off my breasts. It’s form-fitting, but not skintight. I like leaving something to the imagination. Men think they want to see it all right away, but I know better. There’s a systematic way to attract tippers. Some girls dance their asses off. I interact with the crowd, one customer at a time. Thomas, a regular who’s earned a nameplate at his seat at the bar after twenty years of loyal patronage, is seated next to me. He’s a great conversationalist, and I genuinely like him.

“Here.” He hands me a five-dollar bill. He’s always generous. Always positive.

“Thanks, Tom,” I say, and kiss his cheek. I fold the bill in half and wrap it around my fingers on my left hand. “My good luck charm.”

He grins. “Wanna rub my . . .”

He’s a dirty old man, too. “No,” I laugh. “But I’ll rub your bald head for good luck.” He bends at the neck and I playfully skim my hand across his baby-smooth skin.

He shakes his leg like a horny dog. I roll my eyes. The bartender serves me an iced tea with lemon. I suck down the cold drink. Last time I checked, it was 90 degrees outside, with nearly 100 percent humidity. If I’m destined for hell the way my mother always says, she couldn’t have picked a better place for training. Corpus is hell’s waiting room.

After fifteen minutes of shooting the shit with Tom, I hear the DJ announce me onstage.

“. . . the erotic bombshell from San Francisco . . .” I exhale as I stand. Why does he always make up these ridiculous stories? Last week I hailed from Spain.

I climb the three steps to the main stage, put my backpack on the double-stacked speakers, then turn to face the crowd. The place is packed already. I need to make some money. There’s a narrow shelf around the stage where guys can put their drinks and uncomfortable chairs where they can sit. There are at least twenty staring up at me now. I strut to the middle of the stage. In seconds there’s a ring of bills. I dance for a few seconds in front of each guy, squat, collect the tip, and thank him. I usually say something funny—“Thanks for contributing to my educational fund” or “Thanks for paying for my body transplant.” I could say about anything and they’d give me a stupid grin. Buzzed men are easy to please.

“Victim of Changes” starts, and I slowly peel my dress off. It’s one of my favorite songs. The crowd explodes with lewd comments and clapping. Seven and a half minutes of thumping- hard fuck-me music. By the time it’s over, my G-string looks like a Hawaiian grass skirt I’m so covered in money. I wave—smile—and make my way to the catwalk. Priscilla is waiting. She’s not my biggest fan, but we work well together.

“It’s busy,” she says.

“Yeah.” We’re both club favorites. “Seems like you did pretty good,” I say, looking at her tips.

“So did you.” She grabs her purse and dress, and slides down to the opposite end of the catwalk.

Adriana is up next. I prepare myself for classic country music—a hard transition after Judas Priest. Dancers on the main stage pick the music, so once you get to the next stage, you’re at their mercy. Sure enough, Garth Brooks’s “Friends in Low Places” inspires every drunk to caterwaul. Isn’t it too early for this? Maybe not. I laugh and shrug, then start wiggling my ass. I don’t really care about the music so long as the crowd is respectful and generous. Halfway through the second song, I’m thinking about what happened on Tuesday night at the pier. I haven’t been back since then. I hope Franco still has all his fingers. Hell, I hope he’s still alive. I should check on him. Maybe call him after my set is over. At least no one fitting the description of the drug dealer has been in the club. And I don’t see him here tonight. I feel lucky.

My breathing gets heavier when I picture Garrick. He has those dreamy fuck-me eyes. And a lot of other parts that would drive any woman crazy. I spin around, immersing myself in my dance, trying to forget him. I’m not sure I can, though. The guy is fairy-tale material inside and out. I felt an instant connection at the beach. Not because he saved me. Well, that helped. Maybe it was the way he talked about his parents, or because he seemed to take a real interest in me. Regardless, I like him more than I should. I smile at a customer and accept his dollar bill.

“Thank you for contributing to my breast implant fund,” I say.

He gives me a puzzled look. “You don’t need one,” he mumbles as he walks away.

I laugh and move on. The DJ announces a surprise third song for this set. I groan quietly and head for the speakers, where one of the waitresses has placed a mug of ice water for me. I drink greedily and wait for the song to start. It’s “Wildfire” . . . one of my favorite country songs. It’s so sad. So dated. Isn’t anyone dancing to current hits tonight? Something uplifting? Maybe some Luke Bryan or Miranda Lambert? Impatient, I look at my watch. It’s only eight o’clock. Six hours to go. I hope I stay busy.

A customer summons me from the corner and I dance for him. He’s a happy drunk and does a shot of tequila between tips. He offers me a shooter, but I say no. I’m underage. If I do drink, it’s usually not at work. That Corona I had with Garrick was an excuse to stay with him a few minutes longer. I felt safe with him nearby.

“Hey . . .” I hear someone call.

I look up, not sure if it’s meant for me. Standing a few feet away is Garrick.
Oh. My. God.
He’s dressed in a tight black T-shirt and black slacks. My gaze drops lower. He’s wearing dark Lucchese boots.

“Up here,” he says, pointing to his eyes.

I giggle uncontrollably, stupidly, almost losing my cool. I’d sooner run away than let him see me naked. The song ends and I cover my breasts before I speak.