Free Catching Claire by Cindy Procter-King

 
     
CATCHING CLAIRE

     
    Stripping off his clothes in a room full of women
was not Ridge Pedersen’s idea of a good time. But how could he
refuse when the gigs paid a good portion of his med school
bills?
    Exiting the elevator, he patted the tiny bag of
coins in the pocket of his sleep pants. As he strode toward the
apartment building’s laundry, a sour alcohol scent emanated from
the basket balanced against his hip. He wrinkled his nose.
    Over the last month, riotous bachelorette parties
had crammed his summer weekends. Women mauled him, grabbed him,
“forgot” to tip him—and sometimes puked on him. Thankfully, the
latter hadn’t occurred at tonight’s job, although several women had
slugged back oversized drinks comprised of vodka, various liqueurs,
and cream. More than once, the petite future bride had offered
Ridge a sip from her sticky cup, splashing his cop costume.
    Shaking his head at the memory, he shouldered into
the laundry room and jerked to a stop. Beside the bulletin board, a
curvy brunette shook her booty in a short, purple nightie that did
wonders to her thighs. As she danced with her back to him, she
curled a messy wave of brown hair behind her ear. A skinny
electronics cord dangled from her earlobe, most likely attached to
a miniscule music player tucked...somewhere interesting, he
hoped.
    Wow, she almost made up for tonight’s
annoyances.
    Almost .
    Her singing sucked.
    The door slammed shut as Ridge walked past Claire
Merriweather’s jiggling butt and set his basket on the first
washing machine in the row. Claire had hired him for tonight’s
party. However, the reserved tones of her voice mail requesting his
services in no way matched her enthusiastic bouncing on spiky
sandals. Purple panties peeked from the hem of her lingerie as she
danced, and countless straps crisscrossed her spine. Swinging a
plastic cup, she cannibalized an upbeat song about kissing
girls.
    “I copped a feel— hiccup! ” she belted in a sharp
soprano. “La, la, la, his— hic —nightstick!”
    Ridge recognized the side of her head, although not
her daring outfit. During his performance in a fourth-floor
apartment of the building, she’d remained within his vantage point
in the hostess’s kitchen, prepping snacks and mixing drinks. She’d
worn totally different clothes then. A conservative blouse and
jeans that had nicely hugged her round behind.
    How had the girl who’d avoided his gaze while paying
him at the door transformed into this out-of-tune sex kitten?
    Her glass swung again. The creamy concoction sloshed
onto the scuffed linoleum beside a humming dryer.
    Ridge’s mouth quirked. Naturally. The
booze.
    “Hello,” he called.
    Her eyes fluttered half-open. Poking her tiny
earphone, she bastardized the song again.
    “Hello!” Ridge walked toward her, banging the
washers. Her gaze riveted to the bulletin board.
    He frowned. Didn’t she realize her vulnerable
position? A woman alone in the unlocked laundry donned in lacy
nightwear placed herself in unnecessary danger. Any loser—not
him—could waltz in and see her.
    Take advantage of her.
    Attack her—
    She licked an ad on the flyer-infested bulletin
board.
    Licked it!
    Narrowing his gaze, Ridge stopped directly behind
her. She tongued the ad a second time. His ad. For his
stripping business.
    Nine of the original thirteen detachable paper
strips inscribed with his cell phone number hung from the glossy
eight-by-ten. Butchering the pop song, Claire Merriweather tore off
every last slip. Giggling, she stuffed them into her top.
    Ridge rolled his eyes. In the color photo adorning
the flyer, he wore the navy policeman costume she’d specified for
the party. Stainless steel handcuffs dangled from his thick black
belt while he gripped a strategically positioned nightstick. The
intentional visual had netted him a generous profit as one of two
part-time summer jobs. Under other circumstances, Claire’s thievery
might flatter him. But registration for