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There’s no one to help ease that for me. But there’s also no point in dwelling on it.
“Well, not to make your night worse than it already is, but Dick is on the warpath.” Jewel pushes herself off the edge of my dressing table, tossing her bleached-blonde hair. “So focus up, or he’s liable to cut your shifts.”
I nod, inwardly groaning. Richard is the name of the man who owns the club, and we all privately call him Dick—because that’s exactly what he is. He’s a faux pimp, a man in his mid-thirties who has a rotating closet of jewel-toned velvet blazers to go with his poorly tailored suit trousers, because he thinks it makes him look cooler than he is. Paired with slicked-back black hair and a diamond stud in one ear that I’m pretty sure isn’t real, he’s actually the laughingstock of every dancer in this place. Privately, at least. We’re careful to give him the respect he thinks he deserves when he’s actually around, because he’s not opposed to roughing any of the girls up. And while we’re all technically independent contractors, he can easily make it miserable for us to pick up shifts.
“What’s he upset about this time?” I reach for my lipstick, swiping the pale pink over my mouth, and trying to quell the nervousness that’s settled into the pit of my stomach. If Dick figures out that I’m going to be running drugs through his club, at best, he’s going to want a cut. At worst?—
I don’t want to think about the possibility of at worst.
Jewel shrugs. “One of the girls probably refused to suck his dick. Who knows, really? He’s always got a stick up his ass about something.” She cocks her head as the DJ’s voice filters through the dressing room door and flashes me a grin. “I’m up first tonight. See you.”
She wiggles her fingers at me, her ass swaying in the gold Lycra skirt that she has on over her G-string, and slips out of the room. I look in the mirror, twirling a pale blonde curl around one finger, and I try not to think about Lorenzo.
Mostly, I try not to feel the anticipation that I’m going to see him later. Because right now, under the layer of nervousness, that’s most of what I feel.
I want to see him again. I want to see how he looks at me, after what happened in his office. And I want to know if I could tempt him into something more, as dangerous as that is.
I’m third on the roster for the main stage tonight. I try not to look for him in the crowd as I stride out onto the stage, my Lucite heels clicking against the surface, but I can’t help scanning the faces closest to me. The lights prevent me from seeing more than two people deep in the crowd surrounding the stage, and Lorenzo isn’t there. I try to ignore the swoop of disappointment in my stomach as I reach for the pole and begin my routine, moving to the beat of the familiar song.
Of course, he’s not close to the stage. If he’s here at all, he’d hang back. He’d hardly be up front, tossing dollar bills at you while you gyrate on a pole. I can hear my own thoughts mocking me as I swing around the pole, hooking one leg and arching backward, my hair falling in a waterfall of blonde waves. The crowd sways, upside down, but even from this vantage point, I can see that the money being tossed isn’t as much as I would hope.
Some nights are better than others for me at the Rosebud. Girls who look like Jewel—abundantly curvaceous—never need to worry about it. Tits and ass are what the crowd here is after, and most of the dancers have that in spades. I, on the other hand, have a delicate, slender sort of appeal that requires a specific audience. I’d probably make a lot more money in a place like the Neon Rose, where the clients are more interested in refinement and seduction than simply satisfying their basest animal lusts. But I’ve never been able to get so much as a callback to audition for a job at one of the fancier clubs.
Tonight looks like it’s going to be one of the slower nights. And as I swing down from the pole and sway towards the edge of the stage, gyrating for a smattering of dollar bills to be tucked into my g-string, it makes me all the more convinced that I have no choice but to take this job from Lorenzo.
When the dance is over, I still haven’t caught sight of him. I retreat from the stage back to the dressing room, tucking the bills into my makeup bag and tossing the clothing I’d discarded on stage onto the chair. For the rest of the night, as I circle the floor looking for men who want lap dances, I’ll go out there in just my pink G-string and matching pink-and-rhinestone bra. I take one peek in the mirror, running my fingers through my hair—it barely holds a curl, and it’s already falling straight again instead of in waves—and hurry back out. If I’m going to make up for the lackluster amount that was thrown at me on stage, it’s going to be in this part of the evening.
I’ve barely made it out onto the floor when I hear someone clear their throat behind me. I turn sharply, only to see Lorenzo sitting on one of the couches near the back wall, slouched insouciantly in the middle of it in a way that suggests no one else should dare try to share the seating with him.
He looks entirely out of place here. His suit is perfectly tailored—even without a tie and the top two buttons of his shirt undone, he’s too perfect for this place. His clean-shaven jaw, the arrogant lines of his face, the whiff of his expensive cologne—it all screams that he has more money and power than even the man who owns this club, let alone any of the men prowling it for a chance to touch a woman for a second or two.
If a man like Lorenzo pays, it’s because he likes the power of buying a woman’s submission for the night—not because he has to.
I swallow hard, knowing I’ve already hesitated too long. If Dick were watching, or any of the girls, they’d see that I know him. That there’s something going on between us, and that puts me in a vulnerable position.
Tipping my chin up, I do my best to walk towards him like I would any other man I approached here, a sway in my hips and a loose-limbed seductiveness to my gait. “I thought you might have decided not to come,” I murmur, straddling his leg as I lean forward, putting on the imitation of trying to lure him into a dance. And truthfully—a part of me wants to see his reaction, what he’ll do. How he’ll look at me—if I’ll be able to see desire in his face. This afternoon, I was in his office fully clothed, and he was rock hard. Now, I’m wearing less than a bikini would cover, hovering over him, and my heart flutters in my chest with an anticipation that I know is as dangerous as he is.
This isn’t a man to bait or tease. And yet, I’m lured in by the idea of doing exactly that.
Lorenzo’s face is carefully blank as he looks up at me, much to my disappointment. He looks almost bored, and I feel a slight pang in my chest. “How long before you can take a break?” he asks dispassionately, and I bite my lip.
“Twenty or thirty minutes, maybe. I’ll need to get at least one dance in, or I’ll get in trouble if Dick catches me.”
“Dick?” A bemused look crosses Lorenzo’s face.
“The owner.” I nudge my knee forward, between his legs, swaying over him as I plant my hands on the back of the couch. My breasts are inches from his face—and I have more cleavage than should actually be possible in this bra—but he’s done a disappointingly remarkable job of keeping his eyes fixed on mine. “If he sees that I came out here and then took a break without making any money, he’ll be pissed.”
There’s a faint suggestiveness in my voice as I arch forward. I could give Lorenzo that dance, and then take my break for whatever purpose he has in mind. But from the expression on his face, he doesn’t have any intention of that.
His gaze remains stubbornly on my face. “You should do that, then,” he says calmly. “And then take your break, and I’ll meet you behind the club. I don’t intend on spending my entire night here, Miss Ilenya.”
The formality of it stings. I know he wants me. I saw and heard the proof of it just this afternoon. But he seems intent on hiding it as best as he can to my face.
“Fine.” I move away from him, tossing my hair over my shoulder in an echo of what I saw Jewel do a little while ago. “Once I’ve gotten a dance in, I’ll go out back.”
I try not to look at him as I make my way across the floor. I really, truly do. But as I find a mark—an older gentleman who is eager to tuck a twenty-dollar bill into my thong in exchange for me to start grinding above him, I can’t help glancing back in Lorenzo’s direction. I see Jewel approaching him, and a flare of jealousy prickles over my skin. It dissolves a moment later when he waves her away, but I see another of the dancers approach him shortly after, and then another. I can’t blame them—he’s gorgeous, which would be enough to draw them like moths in a place like this, and oozes money on top of it. He’s like catnip to every woman in this place.
The man I’m hovering over lets out a dissatisfied grunt, and I do my best to refocus. I arch against his thigh, squirming in a way that I hope is a convincing enough display, my back arched so that my breasts sway enticingly—as much as they can, anyway. Two layers of foam in my bra are giving the suggestion that they’re much larger than they actually are.
