Page 41 of Faking the Goal

Fuck.

I drag a hand over my jaw and look down at the beer I've barely touched.

No wonder she couldn't meet me in the evenings.

No wonder she got so pissed when I asked if she was rushing off to another party.

She wasn't refusing to give up her social life for the feature. She had to fucking work.

And she didn't tell me.

I can't exactly blame her for that, either. Working at a strip club isn't something most people advertise, especially when assholes like me are already making assumptions about her without knowing a goddamn thing.

I look across the room again. Taylor is standing beside another table, an empty tray tucked against her hip while some older guy talks her ear off. She's smiling and nodding along, but now that I've been watching her for a while, I can see the exhaustion underneath all that makeup. The slight heaviness around her eyes. The way she shifts her weight off one foot whenever she gets the chance. The quick roll of her shoulder when the guy looks away.

Then he turns back to her and the smile returns like it was never gone.

She's been on her feet for over an hour since I got here, and I've barely seen her stop moving.

She's working her ass off.

And here I am, sitting in the back of a strip club after fucking following her here because some part of me wanted to prove that I was right about her.

I wasn't.

I thought I had Taylor Lewis figured out.

Turns out I don't know shit about her.

And considering how much shit I've given her based on everything I thought I knew, I'm starting to feel like an even bigger asshole.

CHAPTER 7

TAYLOR

I've been working for a little over two hours when I turn away from the bar with a tray of drinks balanced in one hand and immediately spot him.

Again.

What the fuck?

Kentaro Azuma is sitting in the tucked-away booth near the back of the lounge, wearing a dark shirt, nursing what looks like the same beer he's had for the past hour, and doing a terrible job of pretending he isn't watching me.

He's been coming here since Wednesday.

Not every night, but enough that I've noticed a pattern, and I still haven't figured out what the hell he wants.

It's definitely not the strippers.

I've watched him go out of his way not to look at the stage, which is pretty fucking impressive considering there are currently two topless women working the poles ten feet apart and another one on her knees shaking her ass directly toward his side of the room. Half the men in here look one exposed nipple away from losing consciousness.

Kentaro looks like he'd rather be doing homework.

He gets even more uncomfortable when any of the girls approach him. Last night, Sasha leaned over his table and asked if he wanted a private dance, and I swear his entire body locked up. He declined so quickly she barely finished the question.

Which only makes his repeated presence here even weirder.

Because nobody drives almost an hour to a strip club several nights in one week just to stare aggressively at a bottle of beer.