Begin Reading
Table of Contents
About the Author
Copyright Page
Thank you for buying this Swerve ebook.
To receive special offers, bonus content, and info on new releases and other great reads, sign up for our newsletters.
Or visit us online at us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup
For email updates on the author, click here.
The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you for your personal use only. You may not make this e-book publicly available in any way. Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author's copyright, please notify the publisher at: http://us.macmillanusa.com/piracy.
Prologue
Closing my eyes, I take a few deep, calming breaths as I stand behind a black velvet curtain in the dimly lit backstage area. An erotic song that I don’t recognize plays through the club on the other side of the curtain, the heavy, thumping bass from the music vibrating through my body.
“You can do this. It’s just like you’ve been practicing. Close your eyes and pretend you’re just dancing in your bedroom,” I whisper to myself.
“Do you normally have over a hundred complete strangers in your bedroom watching you take your clothes off while dancing to a horrible ’80s song?”
My pep talk is interrupted and my eyes fly open to find my friend, Ariel standing next to me backstage. It still feels weird to call her my friend, considering a few months ago I had no desire to ever speak to her, let alone get to know her. But, she’s one of the reasons I’m standing here right now, getting ready to do something I never thought I’d do. Sure, it’s an unusual way to make your dreams come true, but everyone has to start somewhere.
“I took your advice and chose another song. But just so you know, ‘Eternal Flame’ by the Bangles is not a horrible eighties song. ‘Is this burning, an eternal flame’ is a beautiful and passionate lyric,” I argue with her, my voice rising to be heard over the catcalls, whistling, and clapping happening on the other side of the curtain, as the woman who went on before me finishes up her performance.
“If it’s burning eternally, it’s probably chlamydia,” Ariel deadpans.
“Is this your idea of pep talk?”
“Do you need a pep talk?” Ariel questions, with a confused look on her face.
“Have we met?!” I shout hysterically. “Do you think this is something I’m a hundred percent confident about right now? I feel sick. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea. I don’t think I’ve had enough practice.”
I start to back away from the curtain when she reaches out and grabs my arm to stop me from running as fast as I can off this stage and out of this club.
“You’ve had enough practice. You finally let your hair down, literally and figuratively,” she reminds me as I tentatively run my fingers through my long blond hair, which she recently convinced me to put caramel highlights in and which has been curled and teased and hangs around my shoulders and halfway down my back. “This is where your future begins, babe. Right here. On this stage. This is where you take back your life and give a giant fuck you to that dipshit of an ex-husband. And that hot piece of man meat out there in the audience who has no idea what’s about to hit him.”
My eyes start to burn as they fill with tears, and I quickly blink them back before they ruin the perfect cat-eye eyeliner and false lashes she applied for me in the dressing room an hour ago.
“That was the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me,” I tell her with a sniffle.
“Just think: Instead of having that giant pole up your ass, you’ll have it in the palm of your hands and be swinging on it in about forty-five seconds,” she says with a smirk.
“And then you go and completely ruin it,” I mutter with a shake of my head, taking another deep breath and turning away from her to face the curtains again.
“You’ll be fine. It’s two minutes and thirty-five seconds of your life. It will be over before you know it,” she reassures me with a pat on the back.
“I need my Clorox wipes,” I mumble nervously, bringing one hand up to my mouth and chewing nervously on my thumbnail.
She smacks my hand away and rolls her eyes.
“You do not need your Clorox wipes. That pole is clean. Ish. You know what? Don’t think about the pole and all the vaginas that have spun on it before you tonight. Think about how freeing this will be. Think about your business. Our business. Think about being independent and paying your own bills and banging the hot-as-balls man out in the audience who will most likely lose his shit when he sees you walk out on that stage,” she says with a wag of her eyebrows.
“I’m not going to . . . do that with him,” I reply indignantly, even though just the thought of being naked in a bed with that man makes me feel all warm and tingly.
“For fuck’s sake, you can say the word bang. God will not kill a kitten if you say the word bang. And you’re totally going to bang that man like a screen door in a hurricane. Especially when he sees you in this outfit,” she states, looking me up and down. “Well, the outfit you have on underneath that thing.”
I take a second to look down at myself and smile. He told me to never, ever wear this costume again, and I did it just to irritate him. And to see the look on his face when I take it off. I’m not the prude he thinks I am. I can change. I can be sexy and outgoing and do something completely outrageous and not in my comfort zone.
“I can do this,” I state with a nod of my head.
“Hell yeah you can!” Ariel cheers, bumping her shoulder against mine. “Just don’t trip and fall on your face in those ridiculously high heels. Biting it and smacking your face onto the stage is not hot.”
I glare at her, and she holds her hands up and begins backing away.
“You’ve got this. Shake your ass and make momma some money!” she shouts before disappearing around a corner to go out into the audience and cheer me on.
“Let’s give a great big round of applause to Tiffany! We’ve got an extra-special treat for you next. Get your dollar bills ready, folks. Straight from the castle, looking for her very own Prince Charming, is the hottest princess you’ll ever meet! Put your hands together for Cinderella!”
Letting out a long, slow breath, I grab onto the velvet curtain and yank it open, pasting a smile on my face and ignoring the butterflies flapping around in my stomach as I make my way on stage.
I can do this.
I’m going to go out there and show everyone that it’s possible for a housewife to make something of herself. Even if she has to make it by being a stripper.
Chapter 1: Find a Job and Pay for Herpes
Three months earlier . . .
My fingers absentmindedly fiddle with the strand of pearls around my neck as I stare out of the kitchen window at the front yard, cocking my head to the side and mentally adding call the landscaper to my to-do list when I see a few stray weeds peeking up through the black mulch. Our yard has always been the most beautiful and well cared for one on the cul-de-sac of Fairytale Lane, and it just won’t do to have weeds popping up all over the place all willy-nilly. What will the neighbors think?
Fairytale Lane is located in an area most people in town refer to as “the wealthy area.” Gorgeous, large homes and pristine yards on a dead-end street where it’s safe for children to play and ride their bikes because the only traffic comes from the people who live here. Well, aside for Christmastime, when everyone’s homes are professionally decorated, and people from all over town drive by to see the lights and try to glimpse in the windows, imagining what it’s like to live in such a big, beautiful home on such a wonderful street. There’s actually a waiting list to l
ive here. Applications are piled a mile high, and the homeowner’s association goes through each one with a fine-tooth comb whenever a house goes up for sale, which doesn’t happen very often. Once you’ve lived on Fairytale Lane, you can’t imagine such perfection anywhere else.
I suddenly realize calling the landscaper will also mean paying the landscaper, and my skin breaks out in a cold sweat. My fingers drop from the pearls as I reach a shaky hand out to adjust a small black picture frame standing next to the sink that must have been bumped so it’s no longer facing east like all of the other pictures in the house.
“Cynthia, did you hear me?”
The sound of a shrill voice echoing through the kitchen makes me jump, knocking over the picture frame completely.
“What was that sound? Is everything okay?”
Keeping a deep sigh of annoyance to myself, because as my mother-in-law ingrained in me long ago, a lady should never scowl or be rude to anyone, I right the frame and scoop up my phone from the counter as I turn away from the window to look at the large, white, marble-topped island in the middle of the spacious room.
The counter is white, the cupboards are white, the floor is white, and the walls are painted white, just like the rest of the house, with a few pops of color here and there in paintings hung on the walls and throw pillows on the furniture. White is associated with light and goodness, and it’s considered the color of perfection. It’s exactly what I wanted when Brian bought this house and told me I could decorate it any way I wanted, as long I didn’t use loud colors or anything that wasn’t classy.
“Everything is fine, Caroline. And yes, I heard you. I just finished baking the last of the cupcakes, and I’m getting ready to frost them as soon as they cool,” I tell my neighbor, who’s on speakerphone. She hasn’t been getting on my last nerve at all, calling me ten times a day every day for the last week to make sure everything is coming together for the Halloween party we throw every year on our street.
“And you made them gluten free, nut free, wheat free, and sugar free, right? You know we had that issue with Corbin Michaelson’s mother during the Halloween party last year when she found out the cookies we were serving had gluten, and there are currently four children on the street with nut allergies, and—”
“Caroline, I’ve got it covered.” I cut her off, pasting a smile on my face even though she can’t see me as I hold the phone in one hand and start rearranging the two-hundred cupcakes cooling on the counter into a more uniform fashion with the other hand. “I’m the president of the PTA and chair of the homeowner’s association. I’ve planned and successfully executed hundreds of events over the last thirteen years since we bought this home, including our yearly Halloween party. I’ve always got it covered.”
I hear Caroline sigh through the line and realize she must have never learned the proper etiquette of keeping your cool when you’re frustrated.
“I know that, it’s just . . . you’ve been a bit distracted lately, what with Brian gone and all,” she says softly.
My hands move faster along the counter organizing the cupcakes into perfect, neat rows, and I let out a small, nervous laugh.
“I told you, everything with Brian is fine. He’s just been traveling a lot with work recently and that’s why he hasn’t been able to attend any of the functions with me. He’ll be home soon and everything will be back to normal and perfect, just like always.”
I realize I’m rambling and quickly clamp my mouth closed, blinking my eyes rapidly to stop the tears that have pooled in them from falling down my cheeks.
A lady never shows her emotions.
A lady should also never lie, but under the circumstances, it’s better this way. I have to believe that Brian will be home soon. Maybe everything won’t go back to the way it was, but telling everyone the truth would just make both of us look bad. At this point, my reputation is all I have, and there is no way I’m going to tarnish it by feeding the gossip mill in this town. I’ve spent too much time becoming the perfect mother, the perfect wife, the perfect head of every organization I come in contact with, and maintaining the perfect home that is the envy of everyone on this street, to let anything ruin it. Brian literally plucked me from the trailer park. He took me away from a home where I never knew when my next meal would be, freed me from a stepmother who made my life miserable and stepsisters who constantly tried to one-up her in the misery department. He released me from that prison and he handed me the world on a silver platter. Literally.
When he proposed, he put my engagement ring on a vintage Tiffany and Co. silver, oval, footed tray. I was blinded by sparkly things, and luxury I never imagined in a million years would be mine with just a snap of my fingers or a swipe of a black Amex card. I was so afraid of losing everything and being forced to go back to that trailer park with my tail between my legs, that for years I did everything I could to be what Brian wanted. I took etiquette lessons from his mother, and I spent every waking moment of our marriage emulating her, being perfect like her, being classy like her, and ignoring the signs that were right in front of my face. Ignoring the fact that Brian got a thrill out of rescuing the damsel in distress, but that once I stopped being the girl who needed him to be my knight in shining armor, he stopped wanting me.
Hearing the slam of the front door, I quickly end the call with Caroline, promising her I’ll meet her out on the street tomorrow afternoon to begin setting up for the party with the gluten-free, nut-free, wheat-free, sugar-free cupcakes, perfectly frosted with gluten-free, nut-free, wheat-free, sugar-free frosting.
A blur of black rushes by the kitchen doorway, and I slide my phone into the front pocket of the white apron that covers my knee-length, pale-blue tea dress, the heels of my matching pale-blue pumps clacking against the white Italian tile as I rush to the doorway and out into the foyer.
“Anastasia, you’re late.”
The black blur comes to a stop at the base of the stairs with her back to me, her heavily black-charcoal-lined eyes still midroll in annoyance as she slowly turns to face me.
“I told you, it’s Asia now. And I had shit to do,” my thirteen-year-old daughter mutters with a sigh, sliding her hands into the front pockets of her black skinny jeans.
“Language, young lady!” I scold, crossing my arms in front of me as I shake my head at her and take a few deep, calming breaths. A lady never shouts or makes a scene, even in the privacy of her own home. “You have a closet full of bright-colored clothing; I don’t understand why you insist on always wearing black.”
I decide against arguing with her on this Asia silliness. I’m hoping it’s a phase, just like this whole black-clothing thing. It will pass. We’ve both been under a lot of stress lately, and I know that has to be the main reason she’s been trying my patience so much. You have to pick your battles with teenagers. Unfortunately, it seems like recently, everything between us ends in a disagreement. At least she hasn’t touched her beautiful, long blond hair. Even though I always wear mine pulled back in a low bun at the nape of my neck and she lets hers hang in a stringy mess around her shoulders and down her back, it’s the one and only thing we seem to have in common these days.
“I insist on wearing black because it’s the color of my soul,” she deadpans. “Are we finished here?”
She doesn’t even give me time to answer before she’s turning her back on me and stomping up the stairs to the second floor. As soon as I hear her bedroom door slam closed, my arms drop to my sides and my shoulders droop.
I wish I could say I don’t know what happened to my sweet, loving little girl. Or that I have no idea when the exact moment was that she turned into a sullen teenager who always looks like she’s going to a funeral. But I know the exact moment down to the second. Six months, fourteen days and three hours ago. It was the moment my world came crashing down around me and I had to work extra hard to keep up the façade of having a perfect life with a perfect family in a perfect house on a perfect street aptly named Fairytale Lane.
&
nbsp; “This is just a tiny bump in the road, Cynthia. You’ve overcome worse and you’ll get through this as well,” I whisper, giving myself a pep talk as I turn and head back toward the kitchen with my head held high to start making the frosting for the cupcakes. I pause to reach out and straighten a crystal vase of flowers on the small side table in the foyer next to the kitchen doorway. “A place for everything, and everything in its place.” That’s what my mother-in-law always used to tell me, and now, after so many years of hearing her voice in my head with every decision I make, it’s impossible to remove it.
Any day now, Brian will come home, and the last six months will have just been a horrible nightmare. I will no longer have to worry about how I’m going to pay the bills, or how I’m going to keep pretending that everything is fine without losing my sanity, or spend another sleepless night wondering how I got to this point. I’ve managed to fool people this long by telling them Brian has been extremely busy traveling for work, instead of telling them the mortifying truth. I can do it a little bit longer. Things can’t possibly get any worse. I have reached rock bottom and there’s nowhere to go but up.
Taking a step back and smiling at the bouquet of blue hibiscus flowers I picked this morning, which are now in the middle of the table instead of off-center, I then take a few steps toward the kitchen when the doorbell rings.
Smoothing my palms against the side of my head to make sure I don’t have a hair out of place, I walk to the door and open it with a smile on my face. The smile threatens to falter when I see who is standing on my front stoop.
“Yo,” the stunning, redhead divorcee who moved onto Fairytale Lane seven months ago greets me with a nod of her head.
I still have no idea how her application was approved to move onto this street. It was processed when I was busy chairing a gala at the local zoo and I’m still not happy the homeowner’s association let it go through without my final say.