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I nodded. “A daughter.”
“How do you feel about the Red Sox and Patriots?”
I snickered. “Hate ‘em.”
“We’ll work on that.”
“What?!” I jerked my head back. “I’m not running away with you after one lap dance, Mr…”
“Knight.” He smirked. “Ian Knight, and I’m not asking for your hand in marriage. I’m offering you a job.”
“I don’t fuck for cash, check, or card.” I tried to return his money. “You can have it back. My boss takes seventy-five percent of my private dance money, anyway.”
“Shit.” He scoffed. “No.” He pushed my hand back gently. “I need an assistant.”
“Why me?” I was skeptical as hell and his tall, dark, and handsomeness wasn’t luring me away.
“Why not you?”
A red light cascaded over us, causing me to grimace. “God, I hate those fucking lights. I feel like roast beef under a warming light at a cheap buffet.”
“That girl on the pole was definitely serving it between her legs.”
I cackled loudly, unable to hold it in while he remained stoic. Anyone who could make a joke that funny and remain straight-faced had a whole plethora of secrets. Okay, Mr. Mysterious.
“Ms. Sinclaire,” he continued, “I think we should go somewhere cleaner to talk. I feel like I’m getting an STD just standing here.” He reached into his pocket, pulling out his wallet again. Slipping out a card, he held it out.
I studied the black business card, flipping it around between my fingers.
“If you decide you’d rather work for a man who promises to run a clean gentlemen’s club, among some other businesses that may come up, I’m looking for an assistant in Boston.” He turned to leave.
“Again, why me?” I called after him.
He twisted around. “You’re the first woman who’s ever danced for me and got me hard, but didn’t try to fuck me. You did your job more than well. I think we’d work great together. Balls in your court. No pun.” He turned to leave, but spun back around. “If you decide to meet with us and like my offer, I’ll let you choose the new club colors.” He examined the old, stained drop ceiling tiles with exposed wiring in the decayed openings. “Your boss should be shot. This place is a fucking death trap.”
“They fucking stole all the money!” Raven, one of our veteran dancers, screeched in the dressing room as I marched through the door. Her long black hair was disheveled from whatever scuffle had occurred.
“Here we go againnn,” Trina sang, brushing her long, silky black hair with a purple brush. “You bitches need to calm the fuck down. The last girl that bitched about that shit disappeared.” While it was true, I knew she was trying to scare them. “Amber and Mrs. Knight are fucking fabulous. You’re just a jealous twat.”
“Whatever, we only pretended we liked Charity, anyway.” Kirsten took a step forward, her heels clicking on the black cement floor. “Jade, I heard what was going on from where I was working and came to help.”
Bunny scoffed. “Those girls out there?—”
“HOLD UP!” I held up a finger. “Everyone, hush!”
I turned my attention to Trina, then Kirsten. “You two! Get back to work. You ladies know better.”
They spun to leave.
“Kirsten,” I called out with a sigh.
She whirled around.
“Thanks.” I didn’t let the others know what I was thanking her for; she’d texted me before about what had happened.
The moment she and Trina were out of sight, I pivoted back to the five remaining, three of whom had only been working at the club for four months; Bunny, Paris, and Serenity. “Ladies, I understand your concern, but Amber always headlined anyway. And all we did was add Mrs. Knight to the routine. She used to headline as well. Nothing’s changed.”
“That’s fair.” Bunny smiled. “Sorry, I didn’t know.”
