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Strip
Delta Dupree
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
As one of the lucky souls to become published, I could easily fill pages with family and friends’ names who have offered help and encouragement to keep me from veering off the winding road to success. I’ll use the short list instead.
To the AAW ladies—Donnell, Julie, Marie—thank you for your genuine friendship, critiques, and gentle pushes when my writing slipped by the wayside. Pam and Stephanie, we’re all published now. Tell me we didn’t trudge down a long, muddy road to get to where we are. Longtime girlfriend Dianne read parts of my very first manuscript and loved it for some crazy reason. Luv ya, Di. And my good friend Liz gave that outside encouragement I will always treasure.
To my dad, my oldest brother, and my children, we’ve been through a lot over the years and we’ll enjoy many more together. Love you guys all the time.
Forever love to my romantic husband who stood by me when my pride nosedived. We’ll always soar together, hand in hand.
Most of all, I dedicate this book to Momma, who passed away in 1981, and my youngest brother, who followed her recently. Neither doubted I would find success in all endeavors. I miss you both terribly.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
1
“Ooh-ooh. Girl, I’ll need to change my panties when this is over. He chose the perfect tune to turn us out. ‘Jamaica Funk’ was the baddest hit on record,” Galaxeé said. She swayed to the hip-hop song’s downbeat, snapping her fingers as loudly as she popped gum. “He’s hot, isn’t he?”
“No doubt.” Rio Saunders shifted, sat straighter on the barstool at Killer Bods. The male strip club she and Galaxeé Barnett owned wasn’t open for business until eight tonight, but the current dance applicant…mercy.
For a youngster he was a prime specimen, one of Denver, Colorado’s finest. With a sable mane hanging well down his thick neck and a startling pair of slate-gray eyes, this tall honey paraded his attributes. He was God’s blessed gift to women.
He swaggered toward the stage’s edge. Under bright spotlights in the darkened theater, his view was nowhere near as good as hers. He flaunted all his finery. With broad shoulders, acutely defined pecs with just enough dark hair and a rippling six-pack, his body was a temple built for some lucky girl’s loving.
“Mm, mm, mm,” Rio purred quietly. And he had rhythm. Hiding a smile, she sipped from the glass of lemon water the bartender had set down.
“What do you think? Yes? Can’t imagine otherwise,” Galaxeé insisted.
They’d judged all sorts of wannabes for three hours—lean, stout, cute, plus a few sure-goners. Bryce Sullivan was the last performer applying for one soon-to-be vacant position.
No one else had danced so well. No one else had boasted his hard-body physique.
No one else looked this darn good.
Except Dallas Cooper, a.k.a. Panther Man. He—rather, his twenty-two-year-old hussy, Shannon Fields—decided to hang up his G-string for marriage. Dallas was Killer Bods’ shining star. At twenty-eight, with smooth skin blacker than obsidian, he moved effortlessly during his performances, flexing his bulging muscles. Had he been a dozen years older, closer to Rio’s age, she’d gladly let him turn her inside out. Welcome it.
“Let’s think about it a couple days,” she finally replied. “This is an African American revue.”
Galaxeé’s huffs would deflate most people’s lungs. “Girl, time is running out. Panther’s last night is next week. So what if this guy’s white? As good as he looks, not to mention how well he boogies, he’ll draw more chicks to the club. From Silk’s.”
Killer’s dancers loved their sistahs, although a variety of women, single and married, looking for outstanding action frequented the nightclub. Quality advertisement was a must in this business. “White women.”
“Blacks, too. And Latinas, Thais, hell, Egyptians. He is fine. You know it. I know it. Why wait? He could start tomorrow night. We can break him in for the Christmas rush, ready by…”
“Slow—” Rio clamped her mouth shut, shaking her head. Galaxeé talked faster than any auctioneer’s banter during a hot sale.
“…We’ve booked four private parties so far, all between now and New Year’s. He could work them. Shit, he’d clean up and so would we. Think of how much money we’d have coming in for only three real working days a week.”
She shook her head again. “I don’t think so.”
Two deep frown lines creased Galaxeé’s forehead and her lips thinned flatter than the straw Rio had chewed on. “Why not?”
“You know the sisters hosting these parties. They want chocolate, not vanilla.”
She stared at Sullivan as he moved across the stage. He halted, struck a sexy pose. Every lean muscle rippled.
Jesus.
He unzipped his pants, stroked the length of his…Rio sucked in a tank full of air, held it.
Slowly, sensuously, the denim slid down narrow hips, displaying powerful thighs and strong calves. When he kicked the garments aside, Sullivan straightened to his full height—a towering statue of regal flair fit for any queen’s fantasy.
Breathing again, Rio lowered her gaze.
Good night!
Brazilian G-string. Miniature. Bulging flame-red against bronzed skin. Unblinking as he gyrated, she wasn’t sure the fabric would hold together or hold
