Ruffles & Beaus Read online

  Ruffles & Beaus

  Carina Adams

  Copyright © 2018 by Carina Adams

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover Design by Amanda at Amanda Walker Design

  Edited by Heather & Lori at YBOB Editing

  For the ones who get me through.

  I love you.

  For all that you are.

  For all that you have been.

  And all that you are yet to be.

  Contents

  Preface

  Prologue

  1. Cady

  2. Cady

  3. Roman

  4. Cady

  5. Roman

  6. Cady

  7. Reid

  8. Cady

  9. Reid

  10. Roman

  11. Cady

  12. Reid

  13. Cady

  14. Roman

  15. Cady

  16. Reid

  17. Ruffles

  18. Roman

  19. Ruffles

  20. Reid

  21. Cady

  22. Roman

  23. Cady

  24. Reid

  25. Cady

  26. Roman

  27. Cady

  28. Reid

  29. Cady

  30. Roman

  31. Cady

  32. Reid

  33. Cady

  34. Roman

  35. Cady

  36. Reid

  37. Cady

  38. Roman

  39. Cady

  Epilogue

  Want More Ruffles, Roman, & Reid?

  Note For You, My Reader

  About the Author

  Also by Carina Adams

  Preface

  Love doesn't fit into a neat little box.

  It doesn't have rules that we all have to follow.

  It doesn't make sense.

  It isn't perfect.

  And it hurts like hell.

  But, damn, it's worth it all in the end.

  Love is all that matters.

  So, love freely, love openly, love often.

  Because love is all there is.

  Prologue

  Ruffles

  In most books and movies, the back half of a strip club was a dingy, dark, and dirty place with pint sized dressing rooms off creepy halls littered with debris. Entertainers were paid to shake their ass, smile pretty, and keep their mouth shut. They were made to feel lucky they had a safe space to change out of their costumes and thought clean water to wipe the stage paint and grime from their bodies was a bonus they didn’t deserve.

  I glanced around the cheerful area one more time, amazed by the drastic difference between reality and fiction. Once upon a time, someone had painted a picture of what they thought women like me deserved and while it wasn’t hard to see how little they thought of us, I didn’t hold a grudge. It was the others, the ones who jumped on the bandwagon blindly without even trying to seek truth, that bothered me. They should be ashamed.

  Whomever had designed my space knew what they were doing. I felt like a famous A-list movie star waiting in her private trailer between takes, not a dirty little secret. I had my own dressing room with four solid walls and a locking door, my street clothes hung in a real closet, and big bright lights—the kind old Hollywood starlets used—surrounded my mirrors.

  Expensive designer makeup lined the table in front of me, my phone had been synced with a speaker and played calming melodies to help me relax, and the rest of my costumes filled the rolling rack behind me, waiting for their turn. To someone who didn’t know me, it looked like I had everything I needed. A quick glance around the room and you’d think I was all set to put on one hell of a show.

  It couldn't have been further from the truth. A major piece of me, one I’d had at every performance so far, my security blanket, was missing. My fingertips tightened over the arms of the chair, manicured nails sinking into the faded padding, as I tried to keep the panic at bay.

  I was stuck. I couldn’t go out there without him. I couldn’t cancel. I didn’t know what to do.

  I didn’t need to go out front to know everything was ready but me. The stage would be flooded with accent lights that gave it a mysterious glow. Buff bartenders in blue jeans and black vests poured drinks quickly while waitresses dressed in black booty shorts and tightly-tied corsets took orders and flirted their way to great tips. Hundreds of anxious men—and a few dozen excited women—sat scattered around the open space. For them, it was business as usual, just another night in the most visited burlesque club in Boston.

  It was anything but a normal evening, though. The Whiskey Girls—Ruffles McGee, Madam Sparkles, Peaches Anne Cream, Violet Tendencies, and Glitters Galore—were about to make their large venue debut. For one night, and one night only, the most sought after private party entertainers in New England were going big—and we all knew bigger was better. At least that’s what the advertisements and billboard claimed. The dancers, who used burlesque roots with a modern twist, usually only appeared at exclusive, invitation only events that booked months in advance. It was no surprise tickets for their show at Sway sold out in mere minutes.

  What the people in the other room didn’t know was that tonight would be my last dance. I’d agreed to perform before my life had fallen apart and couldn’t back out, no matter how much I wanted to. My friends and family depended on me and I refused to let them down.

  I didn’t want to be there, though. The nasty troll of self-doubt had reared her ugly head in an attempt to convince me I’d fail without him. I’d ignored it, pushed it down. As soon as I stepped off that stage at the end of the night, I was done. It was time to put it all behind me.

  The knock on the door didn’t surprise me. I’d heard the applause from the opening act and knew it was only a matter of time before they came for me. I didn’t budge.

  Waves of nausea washed over me as I heard the shouts and wolf-whistles. I’d never performed in front of more than a few dozen people. And every time he’d been there, hidden in the shadows as he watched my six.

  “Don’t do this, Cady.”

  His voice echoed in my mind, as clear as if he’d been there with me. My breath caught and my stomach knotted so tight my back ached, a cold sweat covered my skin, and I wondered if it could be him on the other side of the door, if he’d come for me after all.

  For a fleeting moment, a calmness I hadn’t experienced in weeks settled over me.

  Then, memories sprinted forward. Angry shouts, absurd accusations, weak denials filled with half-truths. My heart ached again, just like it had that night, the pain as tangible as if someone had reached into my chest and clutched the organ in an iron fist.

  I heard my name, followed by another, much louder and more aggressive knock, yet I couldn’t move. It wasn’t what I wanted to be called and it wasn’t from the voice I longed to hear.

  It shouldn't be like this.

  When the door opened, I glanced over, confused because I knew I’d turned the damn lock to keep the world out. My eyebrows rose at Francesca, my partner in crime, as she slapped a key against her palm. The agitation on her face melted away when she saw me.

  I didn’t want to see her pity. Or sympathy. I focused on something that wouldn’t devastate me.

  “Wow.”

  Frankie always stunned, but the way she looked would stop patrons in their tracks. The makeup was flawless, her adorable freckles completely hidden, and lips painted a sexy-as-sin shade of scarlet. The sleek midnight stacked bob wig highlighted her sharp
cheekbones and made her seem dangerous, a force to be reckoned with.

  Six-inch red pleather stiletto thigh-highs covered shiny fishnets, clung to her legs and shaped them in a way that would make every single person in the main room want to reach out and touch her. Metallic midnight shorts peeked out from under a half-buttoned white long-sleeved dress shirt contoured to her slim body. Over it all, a black thigh-length leather trench coat told the world she was badass, and almost dared people to mess with her.

  She was no longer my best friend, the one who lived in baggy athletic shorts and logoed tees. She was Madam Sparkles, an alter-ego who brought even the most powerful men to their knees. Fierce amethyst dragon-eyed contacts—worn to help conceal her identity—almost disappeared as she narrowed her eyes and scanned me.

  Emotion fleetingly warred on her face, as she tired to decide if she should scold or coddle. She did neither.

  “Wow is right.”

  I dismissed the compliment with a wave. I looked as close to my real-self as she did, but I didn't need her to point it out. Randy had gone overboard with my makeup and applied it with a too heavy hand. The transformation ensured none of the guests would recognize me, which is what I usually wanted.

  I no longer cared if people figured out who I was. Only one man’s opinion mattered to me.

  “Did you see him?” I was too upset to hide the desperation in my voice. “Is he out there?”

  Apprehension crossed her face as she bit the inside of her cheek. “Cady,” she started slowly, her tone sad.

  She didn’t need to say more. I’d known it was a gamble when we’d been given the date, yet part of me had clung to the idea he would find a way to be there for me, the way I’d always found it in me to do the right thing for him. My heart sank, the pain in my chest palpable once more. He really hadn’t come.

  He’d made his choice. It wasn’t me. To him I would never be anything more than a girl who took off her clothes for money. It didn’t matter how hypocritical that belief was, especially coming from him. He didn’t want me.

  I’d expected more from him.

  “How in the hell am I supposed to go out there? How can I possibly do this without him?”

  Frankie’s brow furrowed as she crossed her arms over her chest and considered my questions. “The same way you do everything else. You get up, put one foot in front of the other, and kick ass.”

  I inhaled sharply, closed my eyes, and spun my chair. When I opened them, I didn't recognize the woman staring back at me from the mirror. My typical frizzy reddish brown mop had been styled in a sleek, soft wave, lengthened with the help of dozens of dark extensions. The smoky eye and contouring powder, added to the layers of foundation and creams, had transformed my face.

  I might have looked like someone else on the outside, but I was still me. The awkward and introverted geek who hated to be the center of attention, yet had done whatever it took to finish school and get her degree. It didn’t matter what the men in the other room thought or what they said to, or about, me. This was all an illusion; the woman in the reflection had never really existed.

  I loved a man who struggled with that. He’d been confused about his feelings for months. I’d clung to the hope he cared about me as much as I did him, but his absence spoke volumes. I’d been wrong.

  “Fuck it.” I stood, smoothed my hands over the dark silver corset that hugged my curves, cinched my waist, and matched the pale gray sheer-strapped bra that both pushed my breasts together and gave them a lift. I fluffed the soft fabric of the layered navy blue and brown skirt that circled my hips, and straightened the cascading ruffles of my hooded cape that fell to the floor behind me before I adjusted the leather cuffs around my wrists. With a deep breath, I turned to Frankie, as pure determination pumped through my veins. “Let’s go kick some ass.”

  She reached for me as I approached and looped her arm through mine. Our steps synced as we made our way down the hall, stopping on the large bright neon green X that marked the spot in the wing. One of my friends worked the audience to a lighthearted beat, garnering loud hoots and obnoxious applause as she finished her routine.

  Lost in memories of him, I hardly noticed Frankie nod to someone at the edge of the curtain, and I didn’t hear one word the announcer uttered. When the lights faded and a staccato guitar and drum riff began to repeat, the entire room quieted. Led Zeppelin’s “Immigrant Song” wasn’t part of my usual routine and the moment Frankie recognized the tune, her face paled and her eyes burned my skin as she glared. I could almost hear her disgusted thoughts as her gaze lingered on my meticulously planned outfit and the familiar fabric Randy had worked tirelessly to make perfect.

  My lips twisted into a sarcastic smirk as she shook her head, horrified. I lifted a shoulder and pretended not to care. He wasn’t there to see, so screw him.

  I ignored the sneer she gave my Nordic warrior goddess-like costume, complete with knee-high fur boots, and took an apprehensive step forward as I tugged the hood over my head. He might not want me, but every single man on the other side of the curtain would before the night ended. He’d taught me how easy it was to convince someone you were their entire world.

  As the distinctive wail flew from the speakers, I strutted out onto the stage with a swing of my hips, threw my arms into the air, and forced my thoughts away from him and the nuptials being celebrated on the other side of town. I refused to picture the man who probably looked dashing in his tux as he spun the new bride around the ballroom.

  He might not be there to see my performance, but I carried him with me everywhere. I always would. I closed my eyes and envisioned the smile he gave only to me, and moved to the sound of his favorite song.

  The beat transported me away and I got lost in the energy of the audience. As my hands caressed my sides and hips, and each piece of costume dropped to the floor behind me, memories of how I’d gotten to the stage assaulted me. Even with the heartbreak, the happiest highs and the darkest lows, if I had the chance to do it all over, I wouldn’t change a thing.

  I turned my back to the audience, pulled open the last clip on my corset and glanced over my shoulder flirtatiously before I spun the piece of fabric on a fingertip and tossed it to no one in particular. Whistles pierced the air, cheers of people who appreciated burlesque made me smile. I shimmied my shoulders and bumped my hips before I covered my breasts playfully and spun, a wicked grin tugged at my lips. My gaze drifted around the room, looking for a man who needed a little extra attention.

  A familiar face jumped out at me. The pair of dark eyes widened when I met them, then narrowed, filled with unbridled anger and resentment. I almost missed my step.

  I ignored the pure bitterness that was aimed my way and turned back to my adoring fans as my heart beat wildly. Ruffles McGee might not change a thing that had happened in the last few months because she loved her life. Cady Knowlton, on the other hand, wasn’t so sure.

  One

  Cady

  I was lost in thought, worried about my fall schedule, unsure how to ask for the time off I needed for classes, and never heard my boss approach.

  “Katie, my office.”

  I nodded and pretended he hadn't gotten my name wrong—again. My fingers clutched the cloth as my stomach tightened into knots. I knew that tone; it never brought good news.

  “Mhmm.” I forced a stiff smile and straightened, tossed the rag into the bucket, and allowed him to lead me toward the small office in the back. Unease pooled in my gut with every step.

  He closed the door behind me and cleared his throat as he dropped his overweight frame into the chair with an exaggerated oomph. “I hate to do this,” he started, as his eyes darted from me to the stacks of chaos piled high on the desk between us.

  I was absolutely getting fired. That's what they always said before they released their bad news bomb. I shuffled my weight from one leg to the other and wished he’d hurry and get it over.

  It was nothing new. I’d been canned from six jobs over the pas
t three months. This, no doubt, was about to be unlucky number seven.

  It wasn’t a surprise. I'd been a shit waitress. Entirely too slow, I wrote down every order and, even then, somehow screwed most up. I also seemed to lack the most basic customer service skills. When people were rude I could never bite tongue.

  “Business is winding down now summer is over. I looked at the schedule,” Mr. Payne explained, as he cleared his throat again. “My regular employees aren’t getting the hours they need. There isn't enough work to go around.”

  “Oh!” I stepped forward as relief oozed through my veins. “You can cut back my hours,” I assured him. “I start school in a few weeks and need more time off. I can work the shifts the others don’t want. And fill in when you need me.”

  His eyes widened in absolute horror, which might’ve been comical if he’d aimed them at anyone else. As would the way the middle-aged man mopped his balding head with a tissue. Apparently the idea of keeping me on staff made him sweat like a stuck pig.

  He frowned. “Not an option.”

  I lapped my lips and searched for the right words to say. I hadn’t made any tips yet and I’d counted on at least fifty dollars to get me through the weekend. “Do you want me to finish my shift, becau—,”