Synopsis:
A dark romance about the lies that lead us down…
I’ll do anything to get safe, even if that means working at the scariest club in town.
I’ll do anything to stay hidden, even if it means taking off my clothes for strangers.
I’ll do anything to be free. Except give him up. When he looks at me, I forget why I can’t have him. He’s beautiful and scarred. His body fits mine, filling the places where I’m hollow, rough where I am soft.
He’s the one man who wants to help me, but he has his own agenda. He has questions I can’t answer.
What are you afraid of?
You.
Excerpt:
In the first moments onstage, I’m always blinded.
The bright lights, the smoke. The wall of sound
that feels almost tangible, as if it’s trying to keep me out, push me back,
protect me from what’s going to happen next. I’m used to the dancing and the
catcalls and the reaching, grabbing hands—as much as I can be. But I’m never
quite used to this moment, being blinded, feeling small.
I reach for the pole and find it, swinging my body
around so the gauzy scrap of fabric flies up, giving the men near the stage a
view of my ass. I still can’t quite make anything out. There are dark spots in
my vision.
The smile’s not even a lie, not really. It’s a
prop, like the four-inch heels and the wings that snap as I drop them to the
stage.
Broken.
A few people clap from the back.
Now all that’s left is the thin satin fabric. I
grip the pole and head into my routine, wrapping around, sliding off, and
starting all over again. I lose myself in the physicality of it, going into the
zone as if I were running a marathon. This is the best part, reveling in the
burn of my muscles, the slide of the metal pole against my skin and the cold,
angry rhythm of the song. It’s not like ballet, but it’s still a routine.
Something solid, when very few things in my life are solid.
I finish on the pole and begin to work the stage,
moving around so I can collect tips. I can see again, just barely, making out
shadowy silhouettes in the chairs.
Not many.
There’s a regular on one side. I recognize him.
Charlie. He tosses a five-dollar bill on the stage, and I bend down long and
slow to pick it up. He gets a wink and a shimmy for his donation. As I’m
straightening, I spot another man on the other side of the stage.
His posture is slouched, one leg kicked out, the
other under his chair, but somehow I can tell he isn’t really relaxed. There’s
tension in the long lines of his body. There’s power.
And that makes me nervous.
I spin away and shake my shit for the opposite
side of the room, even though there’s barely anyone there. It’s only a matter
of time before I need to face him again. But I don’t need to look at him. They don’t pay me to look them in the eye.
Still I can’t help but notice his leather boots
and padded jacket. Did he ride a motorcycle? It seems like that kind of
leather, the tough kind. Meant to withstand weather. Meant to protect the body
from impact.
The song’s coming to a close, my routine is coming
to an end and I’m glad about that. Something about this guy is throwing me off.
Nothing noticeable. My feet and hands and knowing smile still land everywhere
they need to. Muscle memory and all that. But I don’t like the way he watches
me.
There’s patience in the way he watches me. And
patience implies waiting.
It implies planning.
I reach back and unclasp my bra. I use one hand to
cover my breasts while I toss the bra to the back of the stage. I pretend to be
shy for a few seconds, and suddenly I feel shy too. Like I’m doing more than
showing my breasts to strangers. I’m showing him. And as I stand there, hand cupping my breasts, breath coming
fast, I feel his patience like a hot flame.
This time I do miss the beat. I let go on the next
one, though, and my breasts are free, bared to the smoky air and the hungry
eyes. There are a few whistles from around the room. Charlie holds up another
five-dollar bill. I sway over to him and cock my hip, letting him shove the
bill into my thong, feeling his hot, damp breath against my breast. He gets
close but doesn’t touch. That’s Charlie. He tips and follows the rules, the
best kind of customer.
I don’t even glance at the other side of the room.
If the new guy is holding up a tip, I don’t even care. He doesn’t seem like the
kind of guy who follows rules. I don’t know why I’m even thinking about him or
letting him affect me. Maybe my run-in with Blue made me more skittish than I’d
realized.
All I have left is my finale on the pole. I can
get through this.
This part isn’t as physically strenuous as before.
Or as long. All I really need to do is grind up against the pole, front and
back, emphasizing my newly naked breasts, pretending to fuck.
That’s what I’m doing when I feel it. Feel him.
I’m a practical girl. I have to be. But there’s a
feeling I get, a prickle on the back of my neck, a churning in my gut, a
warning bell in my head when I’m near one of them. Near a cop. My eyes scan the back of the room, but all I can
see are shadows. Is there a cop waiting to bust someone? A raid about to go
down?
My gaze lands on the guy near the stage. Him? He
doesn’t look like a cop. He doesn’t feel
like a cop. But I don’t trust looks or feelings. All I can trust is the alarm
blaring in my head: get out, get out, get
out.
I can barely suck in enough air. There’s only
smoke and rising panic. Blood races through me, speeding up my movements. A cop. I feel it like some kind of sixth
sense.
Maybe he feels my intuition about him, because he
leans forward in his seat.
In one heart-stopping moment, my eyes meet his. I
can see his face then, drawn from charcoal shadows.
Beautiful,
his lips say. All I can hear is the song.
I’m not even on beat anymore, and it doesn’t
matter. It doesn’t matter because there’s a cop here and I have to get out.
Even if my intuition is wrong, it’s better to get out. Safer.
I’ll never
be safe.
The last note calls for a curtsy—a sexy, mocking
movement I choreographed into my routine. Like the one I’d do at the end of a
ballet recital but made vulgar. I barely manage it this time, a rough jerk of
my head and shoulders. Then I’m gone, off the stage, running down the hallway.
I’m supposed to work the floor next, see who wants a lap dance or another
drink, but I can’t do that. I head for the dressing room and throw on a T-shirt
and sweatpants. I’ll tell them I feel sick and have to leave early. They won’t
be happy and I’ll probably have to pay for it with my tips, but they won’t want
me throwing up on the customers either.
I run for the door and almost slam into Blue.
He’s standing in the hallway again. Not slouching
this time. There’s a new alertness to his stare. And something else—amusement.
“Going somewhere?” he asks.
“I have to… My stomach hurts. I feel sick.” I step
close, praying he’ll move aside.
He reaches up to trace my cheek. “Aww, should I
call the doctor?” His hand clamps down on my shoulder. “I wouldn’t want
anything bad to happen to you.”
I grip my bag tight to my chest, trying to ignore
the threat in his words. And the threat in his grip. I really do feel sick now, but throwing up on him
is definitely not going to help the situation. “Please, I need to leave. It’s
serious. I’ll make it up later.”
He’ll know what I’m saying. That I’ll make it up
to him personally. I’m just desperate enough to promise that. Desperate enough
to promise him anything. And he’s harassed me long enough that I know it’s a
decent prize. I’m sure he’ll make it extra humiliating, but I’m desperate
enough for that too.
“Please let me go.” The words come out pained, my
voice thin. It feels a little like my body is collapsing in on itself, steel
beams bending together, something crushing me from the outside.
Regret flashes over his face, whether for refusing
my offer or forcing me that low. But this time he doesn’t let me go. “There’s a
customer asking for you. He wants a dance.”
AUTHOR INTERVIEW WITH SKYE WARREN
Can you
introduce yourself and tell us what kind of books you write?
I’m Skye
Warren, the New York Times bestselling author of dark romance! Thank you so
much for the opportunity to share my new release, Love the Way You Lie. It
explores taboo themes like betrayal and redemption, overlayed with suspense. If
you’re up for something dangerous, disturbing and erotic, take a look…
What is
Love the Way You Lie About?
Love the Way
You Lie has a stripper heroine and a mysterious lone biker who is first her
customer, then her lover, then her… well, you’ll have to read to find out. What
you should know is that the book is dark, edgy, and sexy as hell.
This is the
first book in a new series set in a strip club called The Grand.
Who is your
favorite character in the book?
I love my
heroes—their gruffness, their pain, their occasional cruelty. But I have a real
soft spot for my heroines. So I would have to say I loved Honey the most. She
is beaten down but determined, bent but not broken. For me that’s what strength
is about.
What is the
hardest part of writing for you?
Nothing and
everything. I love the actual writing, coming up with a story and falling in
love with them. But reader expectation is such a tough thing—it’s tough in any
genre but has particular challenges for dark books. Even the word dark means
different things to different readers. But ultimately I can only write the
books I love and hope that my readers enjoy them.
What do you
love about alpha heroes? Or anti-heroes, if that applies?
Why are these
anti-heroes so damn appealing? Well, for one thing, they are tough and driven.
They don’t take crap from anyone…even the heroine, sometimes. They often do
follow their own code of honor, it just doesn’t necessarily match everyone
else’s. But I think it’s something more elemental than that. A man who takes
what he wants, damn the rules? Well…it’s plain sexy.
What makes
a sex scene sexy to you? Or alternately, what do you do to write hot scenes?
I love a scene
I can get lost in, both the physical sensations and the emotional resonance.
And what I find most sexy is when power comes into play. Not with games, but
where one side has the upper hand, the mingling of distrust and desire, of
wariness and want.
What else
should readers know about Love the Way You Lie?
There’s also a
free prequel to the series coming. The best way to stay up to date about my
releases is my newsletter here: http://www.skyewarren.com/newsletter
AUTHOR BIO:
Skye Warren is the New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author of dark romantic fiction. Her books are raw, sexual and perversely romantic.
Author links:
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