Free Pinups and Possibilities by Melinda Di Lorenzo

lying.”
    “Why would I lie?”
    Why would she?
    Get a grip, Painter.
    “What did you say to your friend?” I asked.
    “That I was going to be late coming home from work.”
    I raised an eyebrow. “Late?”
    Her mouth set in a determined line. “Did you really think I was just going go back to Cohen without a fight?”
    “Try to escape,” I warned grimly. “And I’ll crush more than your phone.”
    I cranked the radio and pulled out onto the highway once more.

Chapter Eight
Polly
    My brief conversation with Misty buoyed my spirits slightly. I’d made it clear to her that I couldn’t tell her exactly what was going on, but at least I knew she would keep Jayme occupied. It bought me precious time. Which was good, because Painter had turned up the radio and left it playing at an obnoxious volume for two hours as he drove through the pitch-black.
    I was tempted to bait him back in to a conversation. My mind was ripe with clever retorts about the duct tape and his threat to hurt me, the perfect distraction from my worries, but the music was too loud for me to utter a single one of them.
    Not a thug, my ass.
    But if I was being honest with myself, I had to admit that I felt bad for goading him on, for mocking him about a lap dance. Even if I had done it to save myself. His skin felt good, pressed against mine. His collarbone under my fingers was sexy as hell. My heartbeat quickened as I thought about placing my fingers anywhere near it. And the heat of his lips over mine had been almost unbearable.
    My need to say something finally got the better of me.
    “Seventeen months,” I said softly without looking at him.
    I didn’t think he would hear me, but at that exact moment the radio cut out and the car was filled with nothing but the sound of my voice. It was quiet and so nearly intimate, and it did nothing to ease the tension I was feeling.
    “Sorry?” he said.
    “That’s how long I’ve been dancing at Tangerines.”
    Rock music blared out again, and he reached over to turn it off.
    “You’re good at it,” he offered.
    I kept my tone light. “Would you be able to tell if I wasn’t?”
    “Probably not,” he admitted. “But your style is different.”
    “Different than what? Your average stripper?”
    “Did you go to school for it?”
    “Where at? The Learn-to-Strip University?” I tried to joke and sounded bitter instead as thoughts of my mother and her training in classical ballet surface. “Yeah, I majored in not losing my panties before the first act and minored in the effective application of pasties.”
    He chuckled. “If you hate it, why are you doing it?”
    “Family business,” I muttered, then immediately wished I hadn’t.
    His eyes swung my way, rested on me curiously for a beat, and then went back to the windshield wordlessly.
    “Aren’t you going to ask?” I said.
    “Wasn’t sure if you wanted me to,” he replied.
    His dismissive tone sparked my irritation.
    “I didn’t want you to,” I snapped.
    “All right.”
    I was silent for a minute, then sighed. After all, I’d initiated the conversation to start out with.
    “Fine. Ask.”
    “How is it the family business?” He somehow managed to sound dutiful and sincerely interested at the same time.
    “My mom was a professional dancer.”
    “Was?”
    My shrug was far more casual than the emotions tumbling around in my heart. “It’s not a money-making job. And she had addiction issues. Gambling first. Cohen was her bookie. When she got in over her head, she danced in one of his clubs to make ends meet. It was only a short jump from there to drugs and before long…you know Cohen, so you can imagine how it went.”
    “So does that mean Cohen is a family business, too?”
    I stiffened. “No. Everything my mother was…everything she became…I’m not her. And whatever she had going with Cohen sure as hell isn’t on me.”
    He eased off the gas just a little and glanced at me again. “So this is your mother’s