The Strip

Part 4

Freen POV

You spot her from the moment she walks in.

Of course you do. You've been searching for her in the crowd every night since the first time.

Your eyes trace her frame, from her wavy hair to her long legs. A surge of heat flares in your stomach; your fingers tingle; your heart flutters.

You're nervous .

But, Freen Sarocha does not get nervous in front of pretty girls. Freen Sarocha makes pretty girls nervous.

And yet, this is the second time the brunette made your knees weak just by her presence.

You wonder if she even remembers you. You never saw her again, so you assume the chivalry and those pretty words were helium filled, floating away as the sun rose.

You sigh at the thought. Your shoulders slump and you all but deflate as you stand in the far corner of the room.

"You can't get enough of me, sweetheart?" The customer - Glint or Flint or Quint or something - says, patting your butt with his ogre-like hand.

You smile down patronizingly. "Unless you have another twenty, I'm not sure what you're expecting to happen here."

He purses his lips with distaste as he moves his hand, because, of course he doesn't have another twenty. You know you shouldn't sass the clientele, but...

You nod and take two steps towards the middle of the club - toward her -

- only to quickly turn about face, heading straight back into the locker room.

What is wrong with you? It's just a job. She is just a girl.

The stirring in your stomach alerts you to your own lie.

It's fifteen minutes before you emerge from the locker room. Liam comes to check on you, your absence making the worrywart develop another wrinkle on his forehead.

"I'm fine, Bell. Aren't you always pestering me to take breaks?"

He rolls his eyes, but waits until you leave the sanctuary of your changeroom before letting his forehead smooth out.

Your palms are sweaty as you maneuver through the chairs of the club. The only part of your outfit with enough real-estate to wipe them on is your neon coloured bra, and you feel idiotic for fondling yourself with no customer to prompt you to do so.

You're making a wide loop of the chairs - purposefully avoiding the section where you know she sits.

You feel like a fucking stalker.

What in the absolute fuck is wrong with you?

Green eyes flicker in your direction, looking away just as quickly, and you stumble into the back of a chair, apologizing profusely as you spill beer on the table full of men. One laughs and lets his hand trail down your waist as you move, and you would stop to greet him, make some easy cash with a quick lapper, if you weren't so fixated on moving towards - while somehow avoiding - the brunette in front of you.

You ball your hands into one another, nervously playing with your fingers as you take a fortifying breath and a step closer, done with your nerves leading the way.

"Sexy and legal," your best friend says. You appreciate the way the younger, new, brunette turns a cherry red; the way the crown glistens in the neon light. It sends you hurtling back to the night you met Rebecca and your heart stutters before kicking into a higher gear.

"Awkward," you blurt out before you've fully recovered from the memory. Your mind reels as you scramble to say something - anything - to cover the uneasy tremble in your voice.