​
 

Enjoy this Excerpt from Sliver of Truth...

​​​

​

Water swirls down the drain of the old clawfoot tub as I wrap myself in a fluffy white bath sheet. I take the smaller one I’ve twisted around my head off, rubbing my scalp to wick as much of the moisture away so I’m not stuck blow drying my hair. The ends split on my long brown locks when I do. Year-round, the North Carolina heat does mighty fine on its own without my meddling. However, we’re enduring a mid-December cold snap and wet hair makes me chilly. I’d used the hot bath to warm my bones and limber my muscles before work.

​

Other dancers at Sweet Caroline’s swear by wigs. For me, they’re a job hazard. I apply enough tape to keep my costume in place and prefer not stabbing my scalp with bobby pins. I’ve been stripping long enough to have watched hairpieces go flying across the stage, landing in a patron’s lap like the pelt of a dead rodent.

​

A giggle escapes me, bouncing off the vaulted ceiling. Everyone should have memories that make them laugh.

​

I’m so darn relaxed it’s easy to forget I’m about to spend the next few hours as the evening’s headline showgirl parading around in sky-high fuck-me pumps and wearing less than my bathing suit covers. This is my last night on stage. Within the week, I’m graduating from the physician’s assistant program and will finally finish school. The past few days have been the most time I’ve had to myself in forever. Thank goodness clinicals are done and over with, and don’t even get me started on how hard the prior year was. They ground us into the dirt, weeding out survivors with each exam. This month, I scored a nine-to-five in Dr. Randolph’s clinic, a pediatrician who I’d shadowed. After tonight, dancing is my past and I have a whole new future. 

​

The steam in the tiny washroom is like a sauna, and the linens I pulled from the shelf are the sort you’d expect at an expensive day spa. Thank heaven the ladies who live on the third floor at the mill have what we need, even if we hadn’t known we needed anything this decadent.

​

None of us are footsteps away from slumming it at the no-tell motel anymore. Each of us has a story, most of which is made up of the nastier stuff in fairytales; those low points of abandonment and loss swept under the carpet because what folks remember about bedtime stories are the parts where everyone lives happily ever after. For girls who grew up the way we did, getting to the point where, on our own, we didn’t have to figure out where the next meal was coming from was half the battle. I’m fortunate I’ve never had to choose between selling my soul or affording my rent and tuition. But I came damn close to choosing if they were worth going hungry for before Jake hired me at Sweet Caroline’s. A few months later, he set me up with Carver, the mill’s owner.

​

Living at the old cotton factory is an enviable spot to be in. Carver foots the bill for our living expenses while each of us attends college. Although given all that goes unsaid around this place, I figure it’s pragmatic to understand Carver has a vested interest in what we become. I’ve yet to figure out his endgame for me. Nobody’s that altruistic.

​

I run my razor over a spot I missed near my ankle while soaking. I’m between waxes and I swear those little patches sneak up when you’re positive your skin is pristine. I understand the audience is none the wiser when I’m on stage—and it’s not as if they’ll lie down on the stale carpeting to inspect my Achilles Heel—but it matters to me. Maybe because the last time I saw my mother she had a whisker on her chin and a glower on her face.

​

Is it pathetic, while I was quick to get over feeling like a slut taking off my clothes on stage in front of all of those men, that I still worry over every nasty remark my mother would make if she knew I afforded my tuition by dancing? Defending my actions against her judgmental words are the ugly phrases on repeat in my head while getting to this point. Mom’s transgressions never seem to bother her. Soon enough it won’t make a difference. I’m proud of myself for achieving my dreams instead of succumbing to her nightmare.

​

Rubbing lemon and basil scented lotion over my arms, my mind wanders back to happier thoughts. Against the odds, my brother, Morgan, and I have stuck together like glue. He wasn’t thrilled at my choice to become a stripper, though he picked up shifts at the club to monitor my safety which means everything to him. That right there reminds me I have someone to count on. My best friends—who started out up here as my floormates—are also with men willing to walk over broken glass for them. With the changes about to happen in my life, the last thing I have the energy for is a relationship. But a girl can hope the notion of the right guy coming along when you least expect it rings true.

​

I can’t help the dismissive shrug of my shoulders. What’s meant to be has a way of working out. One thing I’ve realized is luck’s more likely to shine on those who are prepared, and I have a plan for the next few years.

​

A thump on the other side of the wall has me cracking open the door to the little room where the original to the factory building antique clawfoot is. I glance around the bigger bathroom area with its clean bright tiles and periwinkle blue, sage green, and light tan shabby chic beach house decor. A tap drips along the far wall where multiple sinks are set into an immense marble countertop. Gooseflesh appears on my skin while I wonder for a second if I hadn’t turned the handle all the way off. Not seeing anything else out of the ordinary, I leave the frosted glass door ajar, stepping out to put my stuff away in the decorative locker-style cubbies. I appreciate not having to lug shampoo and bath bombs down the hall in a caddy.

​

When I started college, I’d have jumped in with both feet given the chance to live in Pinewood’s dorms. They’d seemed like the epitome, a normal experience out of my grasp. Now, I’m glad I lost out on the opportunity. My friendships at the mill have meant so much more.

​

As I place my razor, lotion, and a bottle of bubbles on the shelf, a calloused knuckle grazes my bare upper arm.

“Cees.”

​

His voice is a guttural growl I feel at the apex of my thighs.

​

My pulse speeds up and my breaths grow shallow. I want nothing more than to tell Dusty “No”. This has gone on long enough. I should have stopped it before it started, but resisting proved futile.

​

His fingertips skim the hem of the towel, pushing the soft cotton up over my ass. He cups each globe. The rough fabric of his jeans scratches against my bare skin as he moves closer, caging me in. Dusty’s lips touch my neck, sending anxious chills down to my toes. “Door’s locked. Nobody’s around.”

​

I swallow hard and try to look over my shoulder.

​

The standing rule is women only on this floor. Not all of the rooms are occupied anymore, but the ladies who live here have always worked at Sweet Caroline’s. I’m sure Carver’s edict is to stop us from bringing clients home. He’s forthright, refusing to accept any of us turning tricks on his property. What we do at Sweet Caroline’s and outside these four walls is our own nevermind. But Carver’s insistent the rule also serves a greater purpose: to keep us safe. Mindful of what kind of people are out there, it’s difficult to argue with.

​

No man other than Dusty goes past the last step before the landing. He’s allowed a free pass because he’s the maintenance guy here and over at the club. Everyone trusts him. I trusted him more than I had myself, and should have said no to his advances on the night he took Morgan’s place and walked me home. Ever since, I’ve lost count of the number of instances Dusty’s left me with his c❤︎m dripping down my thighs.

​

The first dozen times I was sure we’d be found out. Then, recognizing I broke Carver’s cardinal rule, shame made me more concerned with keeping this secret closely guarded.

​

“Don’t make a sound,” Dusty warns me the way he always does.

​

I bite my lip, hearing the metallic zip of his fly coming undone. He thrusts his impossibly huge c❤︎ck inside of me, and I whimper.

​

I hate that I love this. I love that I hate it too because the feeling keeps me sane.

​

“Shh… Take it all, Cees. You know you want it.”

​

The warm rush between my legs proves him right. With Dusty, the condemnation of my choices is ever present. I let him do this to me and I don’t tell a soul. Admitting we’ve been ❤︎❤︎cking for over a year will lead to questions I’m unable to answer.

  

He removes my palms from the polished lockers, placing them on the cold tiled walls. Dusty drills into me over and over. It’s pure ecstasy and I can’t stand how wet it gets me. How dirty I feel letting Dusty use me for s❤︎xual gratification whenever he damn well pleases, like I’m no more than a toy.

​

Dusty loosens the knot in my towel. It falls, pinned between his front and my arched back. My n!pples are hard points instead of the tender rosy circles they had been when I got out of the water. They ache for attention. His large rough hands knead my bre❤︎sts, squeezing them as he thrusts, almost as if he’s using my t!ts for leverage to piston himself harder.

​

As the wave of pleasure builds, I choke down any sounds so they don’t reverberate against the tile and walls. I want to scream out. Dusty moves one palm, covering my mouth to keep me quiet. I suck one of his fingers into my mouth, and he murmurs dirty words, urging me closer to the peak of my org❤︎sm. A little mewl hums from me as my tongue swirls the digit and I crest over, my p❤︎ssy contracting. His climax follows with hot streams of s❤︎m❤︎n painting the inside of me.

​

I’m stupid for not making him wear a condom, but I’ve always considered birth control my responsibility and I’m clean. This happens so often I doubt Dusty has the stamina to f❤︎ck anyone else. I also lie to myself that even though the sight of this man can stop a woman dead in her tracks, he wouldn’t have the opportunity. I’m easy. A sure thing compared to him having to try to get in anyone else’s pants. I acknowledge this makes me a b!tch. Because if it weren’t for me relying on a flimsy excuse, I’d have to admit the gorgeous man inside of me could have any woman he wants.

​

Dusty’s thick arms encircle me, stopping my weak knees from buckling. My head lolls back against his massive chest and his dark hair and beard brush my cheek. I let out a sigh. He turns my head to shush me, thrusting his tongue into my mouth. We groan together in sorrow. Round two for us is rare.

​

I know so little about him, and yet I’m cognizant of the safety of his body afterward. The way his lips glide over my skin in reverence. His always-warm palms’ lingering touch. We’re strangers outside this act, but inside of it? The trust and familiarity are like nothing I’ve experienced.

​

He waits before pulling out and when he does it washes the awareness away. He’s back to being the lumbering maintenance guy. I’m simply another one of the women who live on the third floor. Dusty doesn’t sing praises for my p❤︎ssy. Ask me if I’m okay. He doesn’t need reassurance that I liked it. We’re a means to an end for one another. He’ll show up again tomorrow or the day after until I’m gone.

​

I won’t confuse what we have as anything more than great s❤︎x. And I can’t feel sorry if the next occupant of my room winds up pushed against the lockers with her legs spread.

​

©2020 Jody Kaye, All Rights Reserved

​