Kinky Curves: Kinky Chronicles, #4

Charlie Cross is the reigning queen of dirty talk. As a phone sex operator, she’s fielded every kink and fetish in the book. Nothing fazes her. Okay, not entirely true. There’s one client who’s gotten under her skin. Grady. He’s dangerously close to peeling back the layers she’s worked so hard to keep hidden. And the last thing she needs is for him to discover the truth—how completely imperfect she is.

Grady The Grinder Montana. With a name like that he must be a stripper, right? Guilty as charged. He’s damn good at it, too. Forget moves like Jagger, his make the Benjamins rain. Women scream his name every night. On stage or in bed, the result’s the same. Not one damn bit of it matters, though. The only real thing in his life is Charlie. With her, he’s only Grady. The Grinder doesn’t exist. Their relationship is uncomplicated, liberating, and...perfect.

Until the day their worlds crash together. No illusions. No safety nets. Just two damaged, dirty, perfectly imperfect people about to fall hard. Love isn’t always pretty. Sometimes it’s messy and real. And exactly what you need.

CHAPTER ONE

Catcalls drifted beyond the curtain spanning the length of Sinner’s main stage. Behind the velvet drape, Grady Montana sucked in a deep breath. You will not puke. You will not puke. The ball of tension in his gut threatened to make a liar out of him by executing a perfect nosedive. From the corner of his eye, he spied the stage manager, Frank, motioning to the DJ.

Jason’s baritone boomed through the mike a second later. Ladies, are your panties wet?

Laughter and numerous affirmative shouts broke from the audience. Frank offered Grady a Thumb’s Up. Judging from the broad grin riding shotgun with the gesture, he remained clueless of Grady’s silent misery. No surprise there. Grady knew how to camouflage his inner demons.  Twenty-six years perfecting that particular skill set qualified him as a pro at this point.

One of the few things you’re good at, you goddamn worthless loser. The mental taunt compressed the tension in his belly into a hard, immovable ball. He should be used to it by now. It arrived without fail every time he was about to step out on stage. On particularly rough days, a phantom pain splintering across his temple accompanied it. Tonight wasn’t so bad. Because of Charlie. In four hours he’d get to talk to her. She’d make him forget the past. Make him forget every last bit of the bullshit.

What? That you’re good for nothing but shaking your ass and your wiener? Where’s the BS in that pathetic fact, boy? Off that stage you’re nothin’. Sooner or later they’ll see the truth. They’ll all see it.

Ladies, get those bills ready. Because we have the one...the only...The Grinder. The curtain whooshed upward and a cheer erupted from the packed house. Grady blinked against the blinding strobes of light. A group of women at one of the front tables frantically waved twenties to get his attention.

A mocking laugh rang inside his brain. What’s the matter with you? Can’t you see they’re screaming for it? Jesus Christ, you can’t even do this right. Might as well pack it in, you fucking degenerate. Find a sugar mama to support your dumb-as-shit ass. One of those desperate bitches would probably take you. Shit knows, they won’t require you to carry on a conversation with them.

Sweat dampened his forehead and crawled down his nape. The queasiness intensified. He balled his fists, battling the anxiety sinking its teeth into him like a rabid dog. Charlie’s honeyed, dipped-in-sin voice floated to the surface, breaking through the fog. What’s your spirit animal?

The vise on his chest loosening, he mentally replayed his answer. You.

Her laughter echoed in his ears. Husky and genuine. Not a drop of meanness to it. And what exactly am I?

His mental picture of her was more vivid than any photograph. Didn’t matter he had no clue what she looked like. He saw her soul, and it was beautiful. A sexy unicorn. He’d grinned while her unrestrained giggles teased him through his cell phone. You have rainbow hair and magnificent tits.

Do I smell like cupcakes?

And cotton candy and sex. Do you have any idea how damn horny I am right now?

"Mm. A unicorn fetish, huh? I learn something new about you every day. Have I ever told you what I’d like you to do with your big horn?"

The opening chord to Pony blasted through the speakers, firing up the crowd and jogging him from his private fantasyland. Not a problem. Reliving his chat with Charlie was better than popping a fistful of Viagra. Head back in the game. Hard as a slab of marble. He locked on the blonde with hunger in her eyes and a fat wad of cash in her hands. She was a regular. Tipped heavily for private dances. Josie? Yeah, that was it. Unlike some of the other guys, he did bother to learn the names of the women who tucked money in his G-String.

He jumped down from the stage and swaggered toward her. The rest of the ladies went wild, hooting and hollering enough, you’d think they were the ones about to be treated to The Grinder. Truthfully, they were. Josie might be getting a personal one-on-one, but he always made sure each woman in the club felt like his performance was entirely for her.

Slowly rolling his hips, he inched his pristine white muscle shirt up along his torso, keeping rhythm with the suggestive music. He tugged the tank free and made a show of stuffing it down the front of his tear-away pants before looping it around the back of Josie’s neck. The move always worked up the women. Bizarre as hell, considering most females he knew in real life wouldn’t touch a guy’s sweaty clothes with a ten-foot pole. But that was the weird magic of strip clubs. They turned otherwise normal women into the craziest chicks you’d meet in your life. You wouldn’t catch him complaining, though. If not for Sinner’s clientele, he’d still be living his old hellhole existence.

He straddled Josie’s lap and she boldly stroked his abs, the heat in her eyes a lusty invitation. Ten to one she’d be hanging around after his final set tonight, looking to score. He’d be a damn liar if he didn’t admit to having gone home with a patron now and then.

Because you’re a fucking loser. Might as well let the head between your legs do all the thinking. Shit knows, your other head can’t handle the job.

Gritting his teeth, he concentrated on the beat pulsing through his body and pushed the voice into the darkness. Josie’s fingers dipped lower on his belly. The wicked gleam in her eyes intensifying, she toyed with the elastic of his waistband and licked her lips suggestively.

Charlie chose that moment to slip into his conscious. I want you to fuck my mouth.

But then you can’t talk to me, he’d pointed out reluctantly.

"Never fear. I’m fluent in dirty sign language and I’m an excellent multitasker."

He roped his chuckle before it could escape. His dopey grin must have snuck through, though, because Josie tossed him a wink. Shit. She thought he was flirting with her. Not the craziest assumption to make about the dude currently humping your lap, but now he’d feel like a jackass for turning her down later. Which was a given. Although some horizontal grinding with her would take off the edge, he’d be imagining another woman the whole time. All things considered, that’d be a helluva lot worse than rejecting her proposition.

Sliding his rolled tank top free from her neck, he took Josie by the hand and led her to the stage. A chair had been positioned while he’d worked the crowd.  His companion automatically took a seat and tucked the twenties in her cleavage. Obviously, it wasn’t her first trip to the rodeo. Damn, she did have a nice rack, though. Just because he had a conscience didn’t mean he was blind.

He tossed his shirt aside. His body undulating with the music, he slid his hands down his chest and belly, pausing for a second to tease the crowd before reaching inside his pants. He pretended to fondle himself, which earned lascivious shouts from several of the ladies and a full on eye-fuck from Josie. In that moment, he wanted more than anything for Charlie to be the one sitting in that chair, visually devouring him.

Was it insane that the best—and only—relationship he had was with a woman he’d never met in the flesh? Fuck, yes. Maybe his old man was right, and he was dumb as shit. Because if he had half a brain, he’d stop calling her and end this year-long obsession completely ruining his social life and making it impossible to connect with real women.

Only Charlie was real. She felt more real to him than the woman currently staring at him like he was her last meal on earth. For the first time in his life, he’d found someone he could relax and be himself with. He didn’t have to worry about Charlie judging him or seeing only his body. He didn’t have to put up walls with her. Or worry about the day she’d figure out what a fake he was. They’d never meet beyond the phone line. His secret would remain safe.  And that alone was worth a non-physical relationship.

So stop beating yourself up over her and go with the flow.

The women began clapping, encouraging him on, and he gripped his waistband. He waited for the chorus to kick in, and then tugged at the Velcro closures as he thrust his pelvis forward. The twin sections of his pants fell to the stage floor and the audience went wild.

Grinder! Grinder! Grinder!

He’d been performing as a stripper for nearly three years. Still surreal as hell having strange women screaming for him to take his clothes off. Grady wasn’t anything special. Yes, he kept himself in better than decent shape. Women seemed to like the way he looked. But it was The Grinder who really soaked their panties. The one they thought of when they went home to their inattentive boyfriends. Who they pictured when they masturbated. The Grinder was the leading star of their kinkiest dreams.

What none of them realized? The Grinder didn’t exist. He was a fucking figment of their imagination.

HEY, GRINDER. THINK you’ve got a lap bunny waitin’ on ya.

Grady took a swig from his water bottle before glancing at Curtis. Blonde in the purple tank top? He groaned at Curtis’s nod. Damn, was hoping to avoid this.

Curtis cocked an eyebrow. Not interested?

I’ll take her, James, one of the other dancers, piped up helpfully.

Curtis grunted. No one wants your easy ass.

Except your mama. James waggled his brows. "She likes my ass a lot."

She’s got cataracts. Probably mistook that boney thing of yours for a ham hock.

The pair’s typical sniping at each other triggered guffaws from the rest of the guys lounging in the dressing room. Too preoccupied with how to handle Josie, Grady tuned them out. The adjacent door swung open and his cousin, Harper, stepped into the room. She wrinkled her nose. Jesus. Would it kill you heathens to spray a little Febreze now and then? She snagged the dispenser of odor neutralizer resting on the corner of the nearby vanity and spritzed enough of the heavy floral scent to rip another hole in the ozone layer.

Ignoring the melodramatic choking from the peanut gallery, Harper plunked the sprayer down. Now that I’ve got everyone’s attention, I want to remind you all that the Passion’s Diary crew is filming here tomorrow afternoon before we open. That means your lazy butts aren’t sleeping in. Got it?

A chorus of grumbles chased the tail end of her announcement. Rolling her eyes, Harper turned toward Grady. Her expression instantly shifted into a beaming smile and she squeezed him in a tight hug that’d make a bear envious. Have I told you lately that you’re my favoritest cousin in the whole wide world?

What are you hitting me up for?

Sighing, she dropped her arms. "I hate to ask since it’s your day off, but we could really use you at the shoot. With Trig still up north, and Rafe out of commission with this