Scandalous Read online

  Scandalous

  Victoria Christopher Murray

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2012 Victoria Christopher Murray

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  Chapter 1

  These strippers didn't have a thing on me.

  I had to fight hard not to roll my eyes as the faux-cop on the stage twirled his baton as if he was about to arrest somebody. Then, he smacked that wood in the palm of his hand and sent the one hundred or so women who had packed the strip club on Sunset Boulevard into a frenzy.

  “Oh, my,” Kyla Blake squealed when the dancer came to the edge of the stage and gyrated right in front of us wearing nothing but his black silk thong and police hat. His hips circled one way while he whipped that baton over his head in the other direction.

  Kyla giggled, then closed one eye as if peeking like a cyclops was far less sinful. Beside her, Alexis Ward had both of her eyes wide open as she buckled over with laughter. Looking at the two of them finally made me roll my eyes.

  Silly women!

  What were they howling at? That naked cop, with his hairless chest and shoulder-length Jheri curl, barely looked like he was sixteen.

  I shook my head. I'd always known that Kyla, who'd been my best friend since kindergarten, had lived a highly sheltered life. So for her to be sitting up in this club and giggling like a school girl at this school boy wasn't surprising. But Alexis…I don't know who she thought she was fooling. Everyone saw Alexis, Kyla's other best friend, as this sophisticated Southern belle, teeming with purity. Please! I knew better. I was sure that this wasn't her first time in a strip club. In fact, I wouldn't have been surprised if I ever found out that she'd once taken to the pole exactly the way I had.

  I was so far into my head and my thoughts that I didn't realize everyone at the table was pointing at me. I looked up and right in front of my eyes was the center of that black silk thong.

  “So, you're the birthday girl?” the naked policeman yelled down to me from the stage in such a high-pitched voice that I wondered if he really was sixteen.

  I hesitated for a moment, but it was only because I had to hold back my yawn. “It's not my birthday,” I said in a tone that was meant to dismiss him. “I'm getting married.”

  But that didn't make him back up, which led me to believe that one of these foolish girls Kyla invited to my bachelorette party must be paying him a little extra so that he would jump down from the stage and fall right into my lap.

  What kind of place was this? Over at Foxtails, where I'd been a…dancer…for the last four years, we didn't just come off the stage like this. No, not at all. As strippers, we had class…and we had rules. No fraternizing with the patrons from the stage--except of course when you came to the edge to collect those tips that the men tucked inside your G-string.

  But obviously, this place didn't have the kind of class that I was used to working with. The nine women sitting around the table with me cheered as the stripper danced all over me.

  “So ya getting married?” he asked with his face so close to mine that I could almost smell his mother's milk still on his breath. How old was this guy? I mean, he'd looked young on the stage, but up close and personal, he looked like he'd just learned to brush his teeth.

  I pushed back in the chair, kinda surprised at the way he was coming at me. This was another thing that we didn't do at Foxtails--no touching--except when you were invited into the red-curtained VIP Room, of course.

  “Let me give you something to remember me by,” the kid said.

  Kyla's friends ('cause really, these women sitting here at this table, that's who they were--not one of these women could say that they really liked me) all howled as the stripper leaned back as if he was about to go under a limbo pole and made his pecs jump and his thighs quiver to the beat of the music.

  The women applauded and I couldn't help it: I yawned. I didn't even try to hide it. I just opened my mouth and let my lips stretch wide. And I got all into that yawn, too. I moaned and groaned, releasing all of my boredom.

  His look of hurt was instant and right away, I felt bad. But it wasn't my fault. I mean, how were you gonna bring a stripper to a strip club and expect her to be entertained? Now granted, Kyla didn't know that I was a stripper. No one knew that. But still, she knew who I was. She knew that I wouldn't be impressed by a bunch of naked men. Please, before she and I had graduated from high school I'd already seen--and had--my share.

  But the poor boy had really been trying to impress me and once my yawn came out, it was all over for him. I guess it was different for guys than it was for us girls. When I was stripping, there were many times when I would dance onto that stage and some of the men wouldn't even look at me. They were either talking to their buddies or focusing on the girls who were working the floor. That's when I'd come up with my booty quake. I'd done it my very first time on the stage, but once I saw how those dudes tossed twenties at me when I did that, I became the booty quake specialist. That move became my signature and men from all over Southern California came to see me quiver my butt like I was part of the San Andreas Fault. After a couple of months, whenever I came out, the club went silent except for the music and the cat calls. The talking? I shut it all down. Every man in that club--and the few women who were there--paid attention when I, Pepper Pulaski, strutted onto the stage.

  So this young man, if he was gonna last, was gonna have to grow some skin that was thicker than what he had. What he needed to do was suck it up and find a way to come up with something that could catch even my attention. But for right now, this boy couldn't do a thing for me, because I was, after all, Jasmine Cox. And you had to bring it far better than that to impress me.

  I didn't want him to walk away feeling too bad, though. So, when he looked at me like he was about to cry, I smiled, and then started praying for his song and dance to come to an end.

  “Let's hear it for Robocop.”

  Throughout the club, the women cheered as if Robo was part of the delegation for the second coming. I still felt bad as the young man gathered the bills that had fallen from his G-string and then trotted off the stage as if he was in a hurry. I wondered if he was rushing off to finish his homework back stage.

  But whatever, at least this night was finally over. I was sure that was the last set; I'd sat through twelve dancers, and not a one of them could have stood next to me on the stage, at least not when it came to stripping. I had turned my college occupation into an art form; I had researched, studied, and rehearsed until I became the best in the business. So I couldn't really blame any of these young men who obviously hadn't put in the time that I had.

  Anyway, I was ready to rise on up out of here.

  Then, a siren blared through the club as red, white, and blue strobe lights circled through the darkness giving me an instant headache. It wasn't the blasting music or the psychedelic colors that made me sick. It was the fact that the night had not yet come to an end.

  “Fire!”

  “That's my song,” Kyla said. She jumped up and started swiveling her narrow hips as she raised her hands high above her head. If I didn't know better, I would've thought my girl was drunk. But that concoction that she loved so much (orange and cranberry juice) couldn't hurt a five-year-old.

  I sighed.

  “Ladies,” the DJ yelled out, “get ready for Fire Cracker!”

  Oh, lawd! What was I gonna do? I wasn't about to sit through another amateur set because if I did, I would….


  Then, he walked onto the stage.

  The screams were so loud the walls vibrated.

  “The way you walk and talk really sets me off to a full alarm, child.” Kyla, still on her feet, sang along with the Ohio Players record that the DJ was spinning.

  But I hardly heard the music anymore. My eyes were on him.

  “Him” was a six-three, two-hundred and forty pound hunk of solid, dark Godiva chocolate. Oh yeah, I could assess them like that. Being a stripper had given me the ability to hone in on those kinds of stats in three seconds flat. I'd learned how to appraise men for many reasons, including the part of my work that sometimes came after my dancing and often took place in the VIP lounge. I had to learn how to judge a book by his cover: physically, mentally, financially, especially.

  And I loved this chocolate cover!

  Mr. Chocolate (which was much more appropriate to me than Fire Cracker) was dressed in full fireman's gear that began to drop, piece by piece, as the Ohio players sang and these women in the club screamed for him to go ahead and get naked. I almost jumped up with them--if the outside looked this good, I couldn't wait to see what he was working with.

  “The way you squeeze and tease….”

  Mr. Chocolate dropped to his knees and then without holding on to a single thing, rose slowly, slowly, slowly until he was standing and just wearing his fireman's pants.

  The women erupted in delight.

  And though I didn't applaud, I was pleased, too. And impressed. Just like everyone else, I was on the edge of my seat, mesmerized by Mr. Chocolate's talents.

  His talents included looking like he'd been carved out of a solid brick of chocolate. Everything about him looked as if God was using him to show the rest of humanity what a real man should be.

  From his bodybuilder's biceps to his shaped and bulging triceps, quads and hamstrings, to his pecs that were perfection, Mr. Chocolate was a flawless man. But the best part for me was his head--completely shaven like he was Mr. Clean, and looking as soft as a baby's bottom.

  Dang! All the brothers I knew were still rocking Jheri curls and the newest fad, the high-top fade. But obviously Mr. Chocolate didn't follow the masses. It was 1987 and he was marching to his own drum, and I wouldn't be surprised if by 1988 every man who had come within two feet of Mr. Chocolate had started shaving their heads, too.

  Around me, the women were screaming and stomping like animals. Through my peripheral vision, I saw that even Kyla Carrington (I still hadn't gotten used to calling her by her married name) was panting like a dog in heat. And that was huge because I knew for a fact that her husband, the up-and-coming Dr. Jefferson Blake, was the only man that she had ever had sex with. Was she fantasizing about someone else for the first time in her life?

  But thoughts of my best friend flew right out of my head when Mr. Chocolate looked straight down at me; I would've dropped my panties right there if he had asked me. It was his eyes. I was completely taken by this man's eyes. I'm telling you, Mr. Chocolate was a delicious piece of the finest dark candy that you would ever find, but his eyes were the color of freshly watered spring grass.

  I'd never seen anyone with skin as dark as his with sparkling green eyes.

  The Ohio Players sang, “When you push, push….” and Mr. Chocolate dropped his pants.

  It was official: I was in love.

  He came to the edge of the stage, right above where I was sitting, and he gave me a wonderful view of his complete magnificence. Daannnggg! I knew this man had to be mine--

  But then I coughed and reeled back that thought. Yes, I was absolutely used to getting any man I wanted. But no, I couldn't do that anymore.

  I was getting married in two days.

  In forty-eight hours, I would have a husband I was supposed to love, honor and obey. That meant that I had to give up all of this extra-curricular sextivity. Right?

  Right! I repeated to myself. Right! Right! Right!

  I kept up that mantra as Mr. Chocolate grinded. I kept up that mantra as Mr. Chocolate bucked. I kept up that mantra until Mr. Chocolate danced right off the stage.

  ***

  I couldn't even move. Not for a couple of minutes. I had to wait, to get myself together and get my mind right before I was able to stand up.

  Just ten minutes before, I'd been thinking that this was the worst bachelorette party ever. But those six blessed minutes that Mr. Chocolate had given me made it worth the whole night.

  I grabbed my sweater and just tossed it over my shoulders. It wasn't that I needed it. Not only had it been one of those dog-hot August days, but Mr. Chocolate had warmed me up so much I was about to start taking off some clothes myself.

  Around me, the girls were still cackling and giggling, comparing how many dollar bills they had left. I hoped I was going to be able to sneak away without having to go through a bunch of goodbyes and well wishes from these heifers who would be lying through their teeth if they said anything nice to me. Not one of Kyla's friends liked me. Because of their husbands and boyfriends, of course.

  Not that I cared what these females thought, but them not liking me wasn't really my fault. I couldn't help the fact that I was a man-magnet wherever I went, even if it was just to a party at Kyla and Jefferson's house. Whenever I was around, their men were always all up in my Kool-Aid. But like I said, not my fault. That drama belonged to them.

  I decided that I could walk right out of the club without having to say anything. But just as I turned away from the table, Kyla yelled out, “Jasmine!”

  Dang! My hope had been to jet on out of here with just visions of Mr. Chocolate on my mind. I couldn't turn away from my best friend, though, so I did a little pirouette on my tippy-toes and faced Kyla with a smile.

  She was still grinning as she stepped to me. I'm telling you, she had never seen anything like this show before.

  “I hope you enjoyed your party,” she gushed as she hugged me.

  “I did, girl.”

  “You know I wanted to give you something bigger but….”

  I held up my hand. “This was enough.”

  It was true that Kyla had wanted to plan some elaborate affair for me because that was just who she was. But really, who was gonna come? It had already been proven that I didn't have many…okay, I didn't have any female friends. Kyla had sent out fifty invitations for my bridal shower and only she and Alexis had shown up. And I would've bet that she'd paid Alexis to be there, which was a waste of money because I wanted to pay Alexis to leave.

  So I didn't want Kyla to go through the trouble of a no-show bachelorette party. But Kyla, being Kyla, had to do something, and she had come up with the perfect way to get her friends to attend. Naked men always attract desperate women.

  I really loved my friend who would do anything for me. Few understood our friendship: the good girl and her morally-corrupt sidekick. The thing was, though, Kyla and I had a history. It had begun when I had to beat-down some little boy for picking on the new girl in our kindergarten class; she'd been grateful that day, and our friendship had blossomed from there. Even though she was the privileged child of Lynn and Winston Carrington, Kyla treated me so much like a sister that her parents began to treat me like their daughter. But though their intentions were always good, I was always aware that I was a Cox, not a Carrington. There was nothing white about my parents’ blue-collar jobs. Our house was barely one thousand square feet and couldn't compare to the expansive three-bedroom home where she'd grown up. The only thing I ever had over Kyla was my social abilities: I had boyfriends. Not that the boys didn't want her--by the time we hit fifth grade, it killed me the way the boys constantly drooled over her.

  The thing was, Kyla wasn't giving up anything. I, on the other hand, had no problem with giving it and getting it. Some girls called me a slut, others said I was a ho. But whatever the name, I was the most popular girl in high school. I was so popular that I'd snagged our school's star jock, Kenneth Larson. Not only had I snagged him, but Kenny and I had gone to USC tog
ether, where I had to fight hard to keep him. But I did. And he had put that ring on my finger.

  The star jock part--where he was supposed to be drafted into the NFL--didn't quite work out after he was injured in his first bowl game. But he was still Kenny Larson, the ex-USC football superstar. And he was still going to be my husband.

  “I hope you're not getting ready to leave,” Kyla said, tugging me away from my thoughts. “I have one final surprise for you.”

  I guess my plans to sneak out and just call Kyla later were now derailed. In my mind, I was already preparing the lie for whatever plans she had, the reason why I couldn't go out to dinner with them, or go somewhere for a drink with them, or whatever it was that Kyla wanted to do.

  “You know what?” I began my lie, “I've got to get over to my dad's because--”

  Kyla spoke over me. “But I've arranged for us to meet the dancers.”

  I zipped my mouth shut for a moment to make sure that I'd heard her right. “What did you say?”

  She grinned and nodded. “Surprise!” she said in her kooky kind of way. “You know, since you wouldn't let me do anything really special for your bachelorette party, I thought this would be just a little extra nice surprise. Just for us to get together for a little while.”

  “So, the dancers are gonna come out here now?” I asked so that I could get clarification.

  She nodded like a bobble-head.

  “They let you meet the dancers here?” I asked, really surprised.

  “Yeah.” She frowned. “You say that like it's strange or something.”

  “It is. In these kinds of places, the dancers are not supposed to fraternize with the customers. At least, not in a chatting, getting-to-know-you kind of way.”

  “As if you're an expert on strip clubs.” Kyla laughed.

  I did not laugh with her.

  After she giggled for a few more moments, she waved her hand and said, “Please. I am Doctor Jefferson Blake's wife.”

  I grinned. “Oh, so Jefferson is an expert on strip clubs.”