Slow & Steady, page 2
part #2 of Alphas Undone Series
Shaking the thoughts away, I grabbed a sticky jar of grape jelly and a loaf of bread. God, last night had been crazy. He’d seen me at my worst – and I’d just sat there and listened to him ramble on without standing up for myself.
Up on stage, I was a professional performer wearing my work uniform. I had nothing to be self-conscious about. But somehow, just the sight of Greyson pierced my armor. Suddenly I was just a half-naked woman, sitting alone in a dark corner with a man...almost rubbing my ass in his lap. A shiver ran through me. I'd been relieved and oddly disappointed when he took back his request for a lap dance.
Well, none of that mattered anyway. After almost two years without a word from him, I had to believe that last night was a one-time thing. I wouldn’t hear from him again.
I could see right through that offer of his. He only gave a shit about our position because he felt responsible for putting us there in the first place. Well, good—he was responsible. He should feel bad. All the more reason why I didn't need to help soothe his guilt. I stroked men's egos enough at work, and I got paid well for it. I'd be damned if I gave Greyson that service for free. I had better things to focus my emotional energy on. Whatever favors he did us, they wouldn't be worth it in the end.
Hopefully he'd gotten the picture last night. Now that he knew I wouldn't play along with his redemption kick, he was sure to get bored and give up on us. I ignored the twinge of loneliness that triggered. We didn't need him. I certainly didn't need him. Greyson wouldn't have stuck around anyway; once he felt like he'd done his good deed, he'd ride off into the sunset again, leaving us right back at square one. It was better to nip this in the bud before it even started.
A knock at the door snapped me out of my daydream. Unease settled in the pit of my stomach; no one ever knocked on my door. Could it be a bill collector? Fuck, I thought I'd made all our minimum payments for this month on time. But there was always some hidden fee, some surprise deadline, some fine-print bullshit meant to nickel-and-dime us out of an honest living.
Setting the ingredients on the counter, I lifted Maple into my arms and headed for the front door.
“Yes?” I asked loudly through the thick wood. I didn’t have a peephole, because my stupid landlord never got around to installing one, and I wasn’t about to open the door up for just anyone.
“Finley? It’s Grey,” a masculine voice rumbled.
Motherfucker.
I didn’t bother asking him how he found out where I lived. He worked for a private security firm. I was pretty sure he could get the records to my last Pap smear if he wanted to badly enough. The man had connections. And balls of steel, apparently, if showing up here tonight said anything.
Knowing how much Greyson could dig up on me should have been unnerving. But for whatever reason, I didn't feel like I was being stalked. Why wasn't I more scared or pissed off? Why did my gut tell me I could trust Greyson? Maybe I was just relieved that he wasn't some bill collector nagging me about late fees. This was a different kind of interruption entirely—one I could send packing if he annoyed me.
“Can I help you?” I asked through the locked door.
“Open the door,” he said, his voice unamused.
With a grumbled curse under my breath, I unbolted the dead lock, and pulled it open.
“Hey.” His voice was soft as he took in the view – me in an old t-shirt and yoga pants – hair up in a messy ponytail, with a baby on my hip. “Wow. She’s beautiful. She looks just like you.”
Surely he hadn’t just called me beautiful. I straightened my shoulders, tightening my grip on Maple. I wanted to ask him what the fuck he was doing here, but I was trying to cut out cursing for my daughter’s sake. “Why are you here?”
He held up a brown paper bag from the local organic grocery store – the one too expensive for me to shop at. I drove an extra ten minutes to go to the mega-mart in the next town over, where the aisles were wide and prices were rock bottom.
“I thought I made my point clear last night. Have you guys eaten?” He lowered the bags, but his eyes drilled into me. A little shiver tingled at the base of my spine.
The scent of mouth-watering food called to me. Much more than the stale bread and jelly in my kitchen did, but he would never know that. “Actually I was just about to start dinner.”
“Come on, it’s one meal. I even asked the lady at the deli what a toddler could eat. There’s homemade mac and cheese in here.”
“We don’t accept charity.”
“Dammit, Finley—”
“And don’t curse in front of my daughter.”
“Shit.” He took a deep breath. “I mean, shoot. Let me start over.”
I motioned for him to say his piece. Clearly he wasn’t leaving until he got something off his chest.
“Last night was …” He paused, frowning. “It was unexpected. And I think there’s a few more things that need to be said between us. Whether you want to do that tonight, or not, I still would like for you to enjoy this dinner.”
The food smelled amazing and the idea of not having to cook and clean up on my night off sounded even better. “Fine. Thanks.” I made a grab for the bag, but Greyson was faster. He held onto the bag and let himself in, essentially inviting himself over for dinner. I guess the food wasn’t just for me and Maple. I should have known.
“One dinner. And this doesn’t change anything,” I said.
“I know that.”
Seeing my place through his eyes, I was embarrassed. It never bothered me before that my furniture didn’t match, or that my carpeting was worn and stained. I was doing the best I could – playing both mom and dad to my little girl.
“What’s her name?” he asked, following me into the kitchen.
I set the bag of food on the kitchen table, and put Maple in her high chair. “Maple.”
“Sweet,” he replied.
An involuntarily and rare smile crossed my lips. “Yeah. She is.” She was my saving grace.
“You sell the house?” he asked while I grabbed plates from the cupboard.
I nodded. “It was either that or be foreclosed.” He was referring to the home Marcus and I had painstakingly restored one summer while he was on leave. Built last century with a huge front porch, we dreamed about filling all the bedrooms. It was our sanctuary. But after the stress of losing my husband, I went on bedrest for much of my pregnancy and couldn’t work. Then Maple was born early and the extended hospital stay caused me to rack up medical bills into the tens of thousands. Even my veteran's spousal benefits could only stretch so far.
“We’ve lived here almost a year now,” I added.
“And you’ve been working at the club all that time?” he asked.
“Yes.” What led him in last night, I had no idea. He obviously wasn’t a regular customer.
He made a grunted sound of disapproval, but didn’t push it further. Which was good, because I still had half a mind to throw him out of my apartment.
I scooped some macaroni and cheese onto Maple’s plastic princess plate while Greyson served us roasted chicken and rosemary potatoes.
The food looked great and smelled incredible, so at least there was that.
“I really don’t like you working there,” he said after several moments of silence.
“I really don’t care what you like or don’t like. It’s not your choice where I work.” I shoveled a bite of food into my mouth.
He inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring, and obviously swallowing down whatever else he was about to say.
It wasn’t the worst place in the world to work. The money was decent, and like many of the women here, where else would I go? If I had employable skills, I wouldn’t be making my living grinding against a pole four nights a week.
But honestly, I liked the camaraderie. Backstage with the girls in our dressing room – it could be a hit reality show. Some of the comments and stories I overheard were hilarious. Since I was always either working or caring for Maple, the club was pretty much my only social life, and I'd developed some great unexpected friendships. But then there was the ugly stuff, too. Things I’d rather not see. Like when Bree, who said she’d been clean for three years dropped a little bag of white powder on the floor from her purse. Some of the girls working here had issues, and that was hard. But most were just regular women trying to make a living the best way they knew how. And for the most part, the customers were decent to deal with, too.
The one creepy exception to that rule was this guy named Brant. Middle-aged, balding, sad beady eyes. He’d started showing up at about the same time I began working there. Now he rarely missed a shift that I worked. It was getting ridiculous. No one should go to a strip club that often. Even if he had no life at all, there had to be better ways to spend his time. He should go learn to paint or something, for Christ's sake. Not sit in his favorite seat and stare at me, day after week after month. Not try to monopolize my lap dances or buy me cocktails as an opening for his awkward brand of flirting. He always tipped extremely well, so putting up with him was in my best interests, but his puppy-dog gaze made my skin crawl. One night, he had actually brought me a long-stemmed red rose. As if that would flatter me. Did he not realize that being nice to men—literally any man in the room—was part of my job description?
At the thought of Brant's tainted generosity, my bite of mac 'n cheese stuck in my throat. Suddenly I couldn't take the strained silence anymore. I'd had enough of men who didn't understand boundaries. Men who thought they knew what I needed better than I did. Neither Brant nor Grey cared about my actual opinions. I wasn't a real person to them, only a stage prop. They just wanted to live out their own fantasies of saving the damsel in distress: Poor single mom. Poor stripper. Oh, you poor, poor thing.
Some tiny part of me knew I was blowing this way out of proportion, but that whisper of calm rationality came too late. Fueled by wounded pride, my anger churned harder and harder like a runaway train, too fast for my better judgment to catch up. Why had I acted even the least bit polite, accepting Greyson's intrusive questions and condescending gestures? I needed to know what this charade was all about. Right fucking now. And if I didn't like what I heard, I'd put my foot down, no matter how delicious this dinner was.
I watched his face carefully as I asked, “Why are you here, Greyson? Trying to play knight in shining armor?”
His fork paused halfway to his mouth. He sighed through his nose, lips pressed in a tight line, then replied evenly, “No, Finley. I’m trying to help. That’s it.”
My heart pounded even faster. But as hard as I searched his dark eyes, I found no trace of dishonesty. He truly didn't want anything other than to give us what we needed—what we really needed, not just what felt good to give. He wasn't a false savior who would swoop in later and demand a return on his investment. And even if he did want that self-congratulatory high of being a good Samaritan...as long as he kept it to himself and didn't expect me to fawn over him, then maybe that wasn't so bad.
Wait, what was I thinking? This wasn't just any man sitting in front of me. No matter his good intentions, he couldn't bring Marcus back from the dead.
Maple’s squeals of delight interrupted my sour thoughts. I added a little more food to her plate.
Blinking back to reality, I noticed that Greyson still hadn't moved his fork. He was waiting to hear my response.
With no real clue what to say, I just huffed, “Good. Because I stopped believing in fairy tales a long time ago.”
Silence descended as we resumed eating. All I could think about when I looked at him, no matter how kind he seemed or how striking he looked, was that he was the reason I lost my husband. That wasn’t something I’d ever get over. Ever.
Chapter Three
Greyson
Forcing a bite of food into my mouth, I couldn’t get over how much her daughter looked like her. From her green eyes to her honey-colored hair to her delicate features. She was a miniature version of Finley, and I was enthralled.
Using both hands, Maple enthusiastically shoveled food into her mouth, her chubby cheeks moving as she ate.
“She likes it,” Finley commented, watching Maple with a tender expression while she picked at her own food.
“It’s good to see. And you?”
Finley nodded. “Yes, it’s delicious, thank you.” She took another dainty bite from her fork, her eyes still on Maple.
Those were the first kind words she’d said to me, but I wasn’t going to bet that her sour streak was over.
The last time I’d seen her, she'd been dressed in all black, carrying a folded flag, tears rolling down her cheeks. She was a widow, way too young, and I'd been the one leading the mission that took Marcus from her. The guilt was insurmountable, so much so, that I spent all my free time pushing away everyone, working as much as possible, and chasing oblivion in the bottom of a bottle. She'd screamed at me in the parking lot that day, beat on my chest and dissolved into a puddle of tears. My SEAL teammates Nolan and West had carried her away, and I'd gotten into my truck, punching the steering wheel a few times trying to put physical pain into the anguish I felt inside.
I had a mountain of work to do if I ever wanted to bridge this gap between us. And there was no better time to start than now. But the last thing I wanted to do was stumble over a minefield...again. I had to approach this conversation carefully. Find some safe common ground. I couldn't talk about the weather—she'd instantly know that I had nothing else to say, which would just be pathetic. I couldn't think of any question about work that wouldn't come across as weird. She probably didn't have the spare time or cash for the theater, so unless I wanted to embarrass her, I couldn't ask whether she'd seen any recent movies.
“So, uh...how's your family?” I asked. Dammit, that was barely a step above the weather.
“They're okay. My mom retired a few years ago.” She cocked a sharp eye at me. “In case you were wondering, no, I can't ask her to help me. She's on a fixed income.”
“I wasn't going to suggest that,” I protested.
Finley nodded and took another bite of food. I gave up the topic for dead. Maybe she and her mom weren’t close.
But soon, in a much gentler tone, Finley added, “I'm afraid I don't have much else to say. My dad was never really around, and I'm bad about staying in touch with my mom's sister. Last I heard, she was getting divorced.”
“Oh, that's too bad.”
“Not really. My uncle was also kind of a bast...I mean, a huge jerk.” Then she gave a flurry of quick blinks, as if she'd caught herself saying too much. “Uh, what about your family?”
I shook my head. “I'm not really close to them, either.” One of the many features of being married to your job. Sometimes a pro, sometimes a con.
The noise of forks clinking against plates filled the room again. Talking about our relatives was pretty much a bust, but at least Finley had been willing. Hell, she'd even tried to throw me a bone. That was a promising sign.
Taking my time chewing, I dug through my memories of Finley from when I'd hung out with Marcus. She hadn't followed sports at all. Whatever her old job had been, that was likely a sore spot. But she'd had a hobby. Something ultra-feminine, like scrapbooking...only not that. Was it knitting? Fuck, I couldn't remember for sure. But I decided to take the chance.
“So, uh...do you still knit?” I asked.
Her eyebrows lifted slightly. “You remember that?”
Mentally pumping my fist in victory, I replied casually, “Yeah, of course.”
“I don't have much time for it anymore, but occasionally...” The tiniest possible smile graced her lips. “While I watch TV with Maple.”
I pictured them together: Finley perched on the couch, silver needles busily spooling out a bright wool scarf, with Maple sitting entranced between her knees. The homey image felt so warm it slowed my tense heartbeat.
Wait a second. I'm an idiot. Of course, there was a topic staring me right in the face. Every parent loves to talk about their children. “What shows does she like?”
“Well, we don't have cable—only Internet streaming—and I only let her watch educational stuff. So the selection's kind of limited.” She actually chuckled a little. “Even though we never go over an hour a day, I swear I know all the songs somehow...”
Finley talked about Maple for the rest of dinner. It wasn't always riveting, exactly—only a parent could get passionate about stuff like potty training and fine motor skills. But the way Finley's face lit up with motherly love was more than enough reward for me. And Maple was having a great time; she grinned wide and wiggled in her high chair, knowing damn well that she was the center of attention. Cute little thing.
Halfway through dinner she instigated a game with me—making a squeal that I repeated back—over and over again.
“Are you through?” Finley asked, nodding toward my plate. I had a feeling she was going to kick me out immediately after dinner, but I nodded anyway.
I cleared the plates while she wiped Maple’s hands and face. “I’m going to lay her down,” Finley said, lifting a sleepy Maple into her arms.
Unsure what else to do, I started rinsing the dishes as the soft sounds of a lullaby drifted from down the hall.
About fifteen minutes later, Finley joined me in the living room, looking tired, and sunk down onto the worn sofa.
“Not what you expected of me?”
“Becoming a stripper? If I’m being honest, no.” That was the last thing I would have ever guessed. Finley was soft spoken, reserved, with a quiet confidence and inner strength lurking under the surface. She wasn’t flamboyant or overly sexual, or any of the other things you think of when you hear the word stripper.
