The Lies That Loved Me

He was tired. Dog-tired.

His heartbeat was just beginning to recover from a sweaty engagement of breath-ragged, hair-pulling, nail-scraping pleasure mere minutes ago, evening out and lulling him onward into the soothing darkness of sleep.

Unfortunately, he was yanked back from the calling darkness by the feel of soft feminine hands accompanied by flutters of kisses sliding along his chest. He reluctantly opened his eyes to the annoying realization that the treat of the night was still in his bed.

Yeah, he really was tired, because he usually saw to it that the source of his fleeting pleasure got lost the moment he found his release. His eyes skidded over the olive-skinned, platinum blonde making a meal of his chest, and his brain struggled to remember her name.

She was a bank investor. That's all he could remember about her, because he hadn't been interested in what she had to say when she'd blabbered on (and on) earlier at the Gala.

He'd merely paid attention to her curvy figure and the long, toned legs accentuated by six-inch heels that compelled him to spend a few hours in exploration.

He tried again to recall her

name...Lany...Lancey...Lisa... Ah hell, he didn't know and he didn't care.

Nameless Blond pressed her plum lips against the middle of his chest and murmured in a sultry voice that caressed him in places he really preferred to remain inert at the moment, "I want more."

A sigh flowed from him as he mentally kicked himself for almost falling asleep with a woman in his bed. "I'm done. Get dressed. Lennon will take you home."

The covers flipped back with a simple flex of his muscular arm, and he swung his feet to the red carpeted floor. With the heels of his hands, he rubbed the weight of sleep from his eyes.

"Oh, you were great, by the way. Thanks."

The protesting muscles of his limbs told him just how exhausted he was. And as he wrestled with sleep, he detected no movement from Nameless Blond.

Turning, he directed his stare at the blond-haired creature whose green eyes shone with tears as she clutched the black silk sheet over her bosom. In a controlled voice, one straining against anger, he asked, "You don't understand English?"

"Thanks?" she asked, voice breaking. "That's it?"

Closing his eyes, he pinched the bridge of his nose. Telling a woman to leave more than once had never happened before, because he wasn't normally this tired. And when he wasn't tired, he was everything akin to a whirling dervish.

So, when he gave a command, women usually sensed the peril of questioning him and elected not to argue.

"Pretty much. Thought you understood what this was."

When she just sat there still, staring at him, he full on glared.

"Listen, girl, whatever the hell your name is, you need to get your ass up, and go."

Recognizing his seriousness, Nameless Blond hopped up from the bed and scrambled around on the carpeted floor, retrieving her clothes.

Appeased, he got up and strolled over to the floor-to-ceiling glass window of the hotel room, staring out at the bright city lights of Chicago. The weak shade of light from the corner lamp silhouetted his tall, muscular frame in the darkness as he stood stark naked and pensive before the window.

One by one, he cracked his knuckles, trying his damnedest not to think of her. He failed. Knuckle cracking no longer worked as a distraction. How much longer? How much longer will it be before I can regain the missing half of my soul?

With every thought of her, his heart ached like a curse from hell. The heart-wrenching fact that the hands now caressing her weren't his, that the lips kissing hers weren't his, that the body making love to hers...oh dear god, it's as if a bullet was left lodged right in the center of his heart, killing him slowly, painfully, surely.

No. His fingers curled into mighty, determined fists at his side. No. He could tolerate it no longer. He needed to reclaim what was his. It was time he informed Calle who she really was to him.

That she belonged not to Calle, but to him. And if that disgusting piece of shit tried to rebel, he'd give the son of a whore a torturously painful ending. No more chances.

A faint click of the door handle pulled him from his malevolent thoughts and he turned to see Nameless Blond standing there, her green eyes glistening as she wished him, "Goodnight, Mr. Black."

He gave a chin lift to the open door, wanting her to be gone already. The profound guilt he always felt after sleeping with someone who wasn't her, never allowed him to be...nice to these innocent women.

His usual reaction to the pang of guilt he felt along with the frustration of not having her, was to take it out on the woman present. Made him an asshole, but he couldn't help it.

Nameless Blond gave him a sad smile and teetered away, the door closing silently behind her. Her green eyes were ridiculously alluring, had pulled him in. But alluring as they were, he favored seductively brown eyes.

A crooked smile danced on his lips. Cognac-brown to be exact. The shrill of his cellphone broke through the silence, and he went to scoop it off the nightstand.

A glance at his caller ID had him slightly panicking.

"Trent, at this hour?" he growled into the receiver. "Please tell me she's okay."

"Yes, Mr. Black. She's sound. But..."

"Out with it, Trent!"

"She took a job at Secret X, Sir."

"Secret X? Eric's Club?"

"Yes, Sir."

"The hell's she doing there?" he barked.

"Say bartending. Please."

Trent paused for a moment, then, "No, Sir. She's stripping."

As if he'd been touched with live wire, his entire being became fully awake, eyes wide, weariness gone. Anger boiling. Things were getting out of hand.

"Her job at the Bistro, what happened?"

"She lost it a week after her split with Calle."

His chest suddenly felt vacant, heart dropped to the pit of his stomach. "She...She never went back to Calle?"

"No, Sir. Seems she's serious this time around. And it's smart timing, too. 'Cause the Cubans are out for his soul this time."

"Then why the fuck am I just hearing of all this? That she never went back to Calle or that she lost her job? What am I paying you all for?"

"I'm sorry, Sir. We've been trying to reach you for the past few weeks, but we kept getting your assistant. And you gave us instructions not to leave messages about this matter with anyone. So..."

Fuck. For the past six weeks he's been doing some heavy traveling, being a work addict and all. Hell, he should've known all this.

A sick feeling lingered. If she had to pick up a job at Secret X, then that meant she was in need. She was hurting and in need. She shouldn't be hurting when he could so easily take her pain away. She shouldn't be in need of anything when she already had it all.

"When did she start?"

"Tonight, Sir."

Perfect.

"Go get Eric to phone me.Now."

He began pacing the length of the room, his fingers raking through his hair repeatedly.

"And from here on out, every goddamn move she makes, I. Want. To. Know. Got it? Doesn't matter how busy I am, don't stop calling until you get through to me. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Good. I'll reschedule my plans here in Chicago and jet out first thing in the morning. I expect a full report of everything that's taken place within the last month."

His fingers trembled as he disconnected the call and sank to his knees, dropping his head in his hands.

My sweet, brown-eyed girl, what are you doing to yourself? I've waited too long, haven't I? Seven years too long.

Iridescent rays danced across my partially nude body as I wrapped my long, bare legs around the cold stainless steel that was my fortress at the moment. Imbibing a half bottle of Coffee Patrón within a two-hour span was proving to be a really, really bad idea.

My mind was a vortex, my vision turbid, and my bones liquefied. I opened my eyes and regarded my onlookers who all bore lascivious smiles, waving their green bills aloft.

All were wealthy and powerful businessmen with wives either forty pounds heavier than when they'd first tied the knot to do justice to any sexy lingerie, or simply, the thrill was gone.

As I slithered to the center of the stage, I noticed through my blurry vision Mr. Mysterious in Black was present. Ensconced in his rented booth and alone as usual, he regarded me intently.

The word I'd use to describe him was...'odd'. He never danced with anyone; merely sat in his booth all night and stared at me, watching my every move.

Sometimes I got the insane thought he was some sort of serial killer who preyed on vulnerable women. If such was the case, it would be a complete waste. I'd never seen him up close because I consciously kept my distance from him, and club lights do have the tendency to make anyone look good.

But if my distant inspections didn't lie, I'd say he was one wickedly hot man. All dark-haired, square-jawed and high levels of intensity. Viewing him up close was necessary to be certain, though. Not like that's ever going to happen.

With alcohol-fueled bravery, I winked at him, flashing a coquettish smile. His response was a disapproving scowl and the haughty averting of his eyes.

Ouch. Was only trying to be nice tonight, for once, because I was drunk. And his ass should've been glad for it, considering the innumerable times I refused his requests for private dances with me, persistent as he was.

No way was I going within a foot of him. He was too...intimidating, if that were the better word. And strange. He only dressed in black and no one seemed to have any info on him-well, at least they said they didn't. It was as if they feared him or something.

Thus, I nicknamed him Mr. Mysterious in Black. I snaked tortuously up my stainless steel fortress, closing my eyes and allowing myself to float away on the waves of Michael Jackson's Dirty Diana, feeling like a Dirty Daniella myself. But the alcohol wasn't enough to keep the reality away.

The reality of why I'd gotten this drunk in the first place. Why I'd subjected myself to this 'job', and was now so disoriented. Feeling like breaking Eric's arbitrary rule given only to me , I awkwardly tried to take off my bra.

At the undoing of the first hook, I lost my grip and went spiraling to the floor. Sprawled in a heap on the stage, I was too soused to even attempt lifting a finger, so I just laid there, listening to Michael Jackson scream like a bitch in my ears, telling me how dirty I was.

For seconds, minutes, or hours, maybe, I remained sprawled on the stage, until I felt hands holding my arms and legs, and my body being rescued off the stage. Soon I felt something soft and plush beneath me-the couch in the dressing room, I assumed.

I flicked open my eyes and blinked rapidly, trying to focus on my surroundings. Catching a familiar form, my eyes tentatively traveled up to the glowering gaze of my pissed-off boss.

His wavy blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and his black muscle-shirt stretched helplessly over his fully matured brawns. Eric was a big man. A really big man.

"What the hell's wrong with you tonight , huh?" he growled.

Unable to form a coherent sentence, I groaned. My eyes darted around the cluttered room. Bright round bulbs lined above rows of make-up mirrors; each had a fully or half-naked girl seated in front of it painting prettier faces over their original ones.

Feathers and fluffs and bras and various dance costumes were strewn about, as dancers milled in and out. Pleased to find no one was paying attention to Eric and me, I relaxed.

Failing to meet his angry glare again, I said, "I just fell on my ass straight from a pole, Eric. Have some pity on me, will you?"

"You fell because you were trying to defy me. I told you: do not remove your bra!!"

"It's an enigma why this rule applies only to me," I said in indignation. "How the hell am I supposed to make money? I'm not allowed to dance with anyone and I'm not allowed to go topless. So what's the point of me being here?"

Eric looked frustrated. "You don't need the money. Why do you think you need to be here?"

I stared blankly up at him as if he'd spoken a distinct language.

Uh, let's see: because I lost my job merely a week after dumping my good-for-nothing-but-trouble drug dealer of a boyfriend. Had difficulties getting another job. Student loans-debt.

My mother's ailment-debt. Three months' worth of rent owed to Carmela, in which I'll be out on my ass if I don't have her rent by the time she's back from her excursion-more debt.

I closed my eyes and swung an arm across my face. "I won't even attempt to answer that, Eric."

Eric sighed. "It's only 'cause I gotta keep my mouth shut, Ella ," he gently removed my hand from my face and looked down at me with an I-know-something-that-you-don't-know expression.

"But trust me, you don't need to be here. This job's not for you."

"No, it's definitely not for me. I'm with you on that. But I do need the money."

Eric grunted in frustration just as a cocktail waitress strolled in with a glass of ice and a bottle of Club Soda. Taking the tray from her, he poured the Club Soda into the glass and sat next to me on the couch, bringing the glass to my lips.

"Drink."

Without hesitation I drank, because frankly, I hated being drunk. I needed nothing more than to head home and fall into a deep sleep. "Thanks."

Eric smiled his signature panty-dropping smile "My pleasure, Ella."

He leaned over to whisper, "Just don't forget me." He revealed that I-know-something-that-you-don't-know expression again, got up and left with a backward glance.

What the heck was that supposed to mean? As my thoughts tried weaving through my intoxicated brain about Eric's inexplicable behavior, familiar arms wrapped around me, and I relaxed into it.

"Thanks, Tina. I needed that."

"Ella, I know you got some awful news tonight, but I can assure you, Patrón is nobody's friend," Tina said, her brown eyes sincere, her caramel skin glowing.

"Plus drinking and working don't mesh well. You'll start out doing things that's just not you, then end up regretting it in the morning."

I merely gave a "hmm" in response. Far too inebriated to take a lecture.

"Let me help you get dressed and take you home. You seem a little out of it. Sleep is the only thing that can help right now."

No argument from me.

After getting dressed and gathering my things, I let Tina steer me through the club towards the exit. Eric popped up in my line of vision.

"You're leaving?" he asked.

"Yes, Eric. I can't even stand straight.What do you expect? Am I restricted from leaving the club, too?"

"No, you're not," he replied with a roll of his eyes. "It's just that, you-know-who is demanding a dance with you again."

"Eric, the guy...makes me wary. I'm not going within an inch of him. The fact he's been so insistant on getting a dance with me all week is creepy. Açre you sure he's not some Lifetime movie predator type? He's always dressed in black. What if he's one of those cult people who likes to slaughter for the rush of it?"

Eric flung his head back and laughed out. "No, Amelia. I know him very well and he's nothing like that. He's not a member of the club either. He just started showing since you began working here a few days ago. Clubs are not his sort of...thing. His presence here is because of you."

"But, why? How does he even know me?"

Eric shrugged, but the expression he wore told me he knew much more than he was letting on, and I was too lethargic to even think about deciphering anything at the moment.

"Tell him I said no, and he should leave me the hell alone. He's creeping me out." I tugged on Tina's arm prompting her to move with me.

Eric gave a reluctant nod and gave us way. I was rocked awake from my short-lived sleep when Tina pulled up outside my apartment.

"What time is it?"

"Just a little after midnight."

Shifting in her seat, she turned to face me. "You're gonna stop, aren't you?"

"You know me too well," I mumbled. "There's no point if Eric keeps acting like this."

"Yeah, Eric's behavior is a bit out of character when it comes to you. I'm thinking he wants you to quit and get with that scary dude in black who watches you like a damn hawk."

"Nope. Not gonna happen. The guy's a weird one. I mean, he stares at me all night, but if I smile at him, his face gets all serious and disapproving. And then he sends Eric to ask me for a dance? He's just...ugh, whatever."

Tina laughed. But I didn't, because the joke was lost on me.

"I'm not sure what the hell I'm gonna do now. Dancing onstage had looked so easy." I managed a short laugh.

"Yet I couldn't even last more than four nights."

Tina reached over squeezed my arm. "You are strong, smart and fearless, Amelia. You'll figure it out. You always do."

Opening the car door, I clambered out, swaying. The alcohol still had me off-balanced. Tina rounded the car and came to my rescue, propping my arm over her shoulder.

"I got you."

Tina didn't want me to quit working at the club, but that hustling was just not for me. At some point in my life, I knew I would look back and ask myself, "What the hell was I thinking?"

Tucked away on the thirtieth floor of a skyscraper, Secret X was a private and exclusive members-only gentlemen's club, where only elite businessmen-mostly married and bored-were admitted.

It had no more than about thirty members and each member rented their own booth.Eric made loads from those guys.Making use of an inherited and honed talent, I sometimes designed and sold costumes to dancers.

Tina was one of my regular customers, so I'd stopped by Secret X one night last week with a few pieces she'd ordered. She'd been onstage when I arrived so I took a seat by the bar and watched her performance while I waited.

It was at that moment I became like Eve who'd bitten into that deceivingly promising apple; the vast amount of money Tina made onstage had been a deadly temptation for a broke ass like me.

Easily, I'd convinced myself with a list of more pros than cons, that it was the easiest and quickest way to pay off my debts. Those thoughts were propelled by Tina's encouragement.

However, it didn't take long for me to realize one needed a carefree psyche or a completely inebriated mind to get through a few hours in that kind of gig.

Tina halted with me on my doorstep. "The owner of Narcofax, Amelia. He's coming to see you tomorrow night, remember? That's at least a thousand bucks guaranteed. Show up at work tomorrow, if only just to see him."

True, that gray-headed man did give big tips. "Maybe."

Taking my bag, she searched around for my keys, retrieved them and opened the door.

"And remember if you want anything at all, don't hesitate to ask me, okay?"

With a nod of acknowledgement, I stumbled across the threshold, closing the door behind me.

"Looks like someone's had a busy night. You're shit-faced."

I glanced up to see Jane and Troy cuddled up on the big black couch in my living room, watching me in amusement.

"You two shitheads still here? Don't you have a home?" I grumbled as I walked rather clumsily over to the leather recliner in the corner and plopped down in it.

"You left us watching Gone with the Wind, girl.You know that movie lasts, like, twenty hours and day. We were just about to leave anyways," Jane said, popping her gum.

"You're back early, though. How was your night?"

"Shitty."

Jane Moore watched me through big, green eyes, her long, dark hair stylishly pigtailed with red hair ties, her bodacious figure swallowed up in one of Troy's oversized sweaters.

She'd been my best friend, confidante and everything in between for five years. Polar opposites, though. She was from an affluent upbringing and I was from an impoverished, dysfunctional, screwed-up family.

But Jane loved me for me; shared in my tears and laughs-though laughs, for me, were a luxury. That, along with the fact I could be used as an excuse to her parents so she could date my ride or die thug of a friend, Troy.

Troy was unacceptable, ineligible, absolutely not the son-in-law Mr. and Mrs. Moore would approve of. He was quintessentially the kind of man all women should steer clear of.

Troy Trouble was what I called him. Trouble with a capital T. But I couldn't lie though, I adored the curly-haired, Hispanic hombre like a brother.And the respects were reciprocated.

At just over six feet he was athletically built with a unique Spanish swagger to him. He had a large heart-shaped tattoo with massive wings on his arm, and all three of our names were etched in it.

"Just imagine, you own a house with five bathrooms," I slurred, wagging a lazy finger at Troy.

"And you," I slurred to Jane, "have enough money to buy one with twice as many bathrooms. So, tell me again why you guys spend more time here where I actually share a bathroom?"

On their own, my eyes closed down, my limbs feeling heavier by the second.

"Should just let y'all pay the damn rent when Carmela gets back from New York. Lizards."

"We wish you'd actually let us pay the rent," Troy snapped, his words all curled up with that Hispanic accent. I ignored him.

"Come on, Daniella. You've stressing yourself out over things we can help you with easily. Nothing's wrong with accepting help sometimes," Jane joined in, her voice a warm, fuzzy blanket of compassion.

"I don't want your money. Neither do I want your pity. Didn't you guys say you were leaving?" "Stubborn as always," Troy said, shaking his head.

"C'mon, babe. Let's go."

Their steps neared me, and then I felt their kisses on my cheeks.

"Good night, pony. See you in the morning," Jane whispered.

The soft click of the door seconds later confirmed their leave. Unsteadily, I got up and headed to my room, launching myself onto the bed without undressing.

Oh shoot...It didn't matter how stoned I was, there was one thing I had to do before I met up with sleep. Reaching over to the nightstand, I retrieved my old, tattered bible and opened to where it was bookmarked.

With the weight of sleep anchoring down my lids, the words on the page blurred, but I strained nonetheless and repeated the highlighted words of Proverbs; words I'd been reading every night for the past six years:

'Oh God, I beg two favors from you; let me have them before I die. First, help me never to tell a lie. Second, give me neither poverty nor riches. Give me just enough to satisfy my needs.'

As the last of the words slurred from my lips, my eyes instantly grew heavier and sleep rolled in.