Shakin' It For Daddy Read online

  Back Cover

  Interracial Erotica Romance Novella by Tigra-Luna LeMar

  Mika Jamison’s dream of becoming a Showgirl of Simora is over. Not only that, she lives in a crummy apartment, works a crappy job as a waitress in a small town where everyone hates her. How can life possibly get any worse?

  Add Degan Moira to the mix and you get more than trouble.

  Degan Moira is a man on a mission—find the only woman he’s ever remotely felt human around, make her see that he’s the only man that can love her the way she deserves to be loved and live happily ever after.

  But will he still love Mika when he sees that she’s grown into a bitter, angry woman with nothing to her name?

  Shakin’ It For Daddy

  Book Two in

  The Panty Droppers Series

  Tigra-Luna LeMar

  MuseitHOT, division of MuseItUp Publishing

  www.museituppublishing.com

  ADULT CONTENT: Contains graphic sexual content.

  Dedication

  To TH—love you muchly

  Chapter One

  Mika Jamison stood at the edge of the stage and took a deep breath. She thought for sure she was used to the stress that came with waiting. This was the moment she had been waiting for ever since she’d seen the first Vegas showgirls on television when she was six years old. She remembered how remarkably beautiful they were, smiling with their long legs kicking out in front of them in a wonderful line. She also remembered she hadn’t seen any of them look like her—dark skin, brown eyes with larger breasts and well-rounded hips.

  She auditioned for a lost cause because year after year she was passed up for a part in the Showgirls of Simora. Her heart broke and she would go back to her crappy job as the local waitress. Every year she would be rejected and she took a deep breath, and returned to her job serving ungrateful bastards their coffee and enough fried goods to cause a small village to have a heart-attack. She lived through the name calling in the small town, people slashing her tires, and writing slut in giant letters on the back of her car. For about a week, she drove around with the red letters, tagged to the back window of her car because she couldn’t afford to take it to the mechanic and have him remove them. The spiteful asses had used some kind of paint she couldn’t wash off.

  She’d stopped complaining to the sheriff, about a year before, went home and sowed a red A to the front of all her outfits. Then, each morning, she would wake up, talk herself into facing them again and go to work.

  “Mika Jamison?” The woman in the overly expensive business suit called.

  Mika took a deep breath and moved even closer to the edge of the stage to the microphone. She clutched her fingers together wondering why the woman’s pony tail was so tight. Her heart hammered inside her chest as beads of sweat from the nerves and the stage lights trailed over her skin. Blinking, she took a breath and waited.

  “While we adore your audition…” The woman with the stick up her ass began the same old tirade they used each time they rejected her.

  Mika shook her head. “You know what?” she said into the microphone. All heads in the room turned to face her. “You can save the, ‘you’re not what we’re looking for’, or ‘you didn’t make the cut’, or ‘you need to lose ten pounds’ speech. I’m tired of hearing them. Quite frankly, you can take them and shove ‘em up your asses. My god! What is wrong with you people? I’m black! I get it! You don’t have to use it against me every chance you get!”

  “Miss Jamison! Control yourself!” The woman gasped.

  “Control myself?” Mika cocked a well-rounded hip, rested a hand on it and peered at the woman. “Control myself? Have you looked at the Showgirls line in the past twenty years? How many of them have been a visible minority?”

  Silence danced through the room except the periodical squeaking of the microphone.

  “I thought so. I don’t want to be a part of this charade and I don’t want to be your token minority! God…to think how many years of my life I’ve wasted on you people.”

  Stepping back, she picked up her small, tattered gym bag from where it had fallen, flipped her braids over one shoulder, and she walked, swinging her ass like no-body’s business, off the stage. She shoved roughly through the other girls, waiting to hear their fates, silently pitying them. Exiting into the sunlight of another sickening Simora day, she climbed into her second hand car, tossed her bag to the back seat and reached forward for the knob of the stereo. Janet Jackson’s Make Me wafted from the speakers and she cranked it until the old car began shaking with the force of the base.

  The next morning, tired and still highly agitated from the day before, Mika opened her eyes and stared at the wall before her. She could hear her neighbors yelling at each other again and it was beginning to wear thin. Shoving her feet from the bed she pushed the window open it and hung half her body out.

  “You annoying little asses!” she shouted. “How long are you going to keep bitching about the same god-damn thing? Astrid, move the fucking rose bush so we can all get some sleep on our days off and Becca, keep your dog on a fucking leash! If I step in his shit one more time you and I are going to roll! Problems solved, right?”

  She slammed the window shut and yanked the curtains in place. It was her first day off in months and she had no idea what she was going to do with it. The thought of going to the gym ran through her mind, but she descended the couple of steps from her bedroom wondering what’s the point? In the kitchen instead of making her regular healthy breakfast, she settled for a jar of Pralines and Cream ice-cream and a spoon. The first bit of cold comfort slid down her throat and she moaned. But that didn’t last long, because soon, her mind began playing the same old tricks it had been playing since her last boyfriend dumped her for not giving him some booty.

  What am I doing with my life? Why am I still alone at thirty chasing some little pipe dream of being a showgirl?

  I am too old for this shit.

  Stabbing the spoon into the ice-cream, she sighed at the thought. Her mother had been right. There’s no way she could make it in Simora. She’d been trying ever since she turned twenty six to get into the Showgirls of Simora and just like that, her dream was dead. Thirty-years-old with nothing else to her name but a car that’s constantly breaking down, an apartment in a building not even a roach should live in, and a crummy job in a town where everyone hated her.

  La-dee-fucking-da!

  Still she could hear the muffled sounds of her neighbors going at it. A slight throbbing in her temple started to get worse and she re-covered the ice-cream and shoved it back into the freezer. She dropped the spoon into the sink and returned to her bedroom before taking a quick shower, and then hauling on a tight pair of jeans. Mika slipped into a blue tank top and tied her braids back. Sticking in a pair of silver earrings she’d picked up at local garage sale, she squirted perfume on her neck and grabbed her purse and keys.

  Mika had no idea where to go, but anywhere beats sitting at home, listening to Astrid and Becca bitch at each other from across the fence.

  Chapter Two

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  LeMar, Tigra-Luna, Shakin' It For Daddy

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