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Prologue Delilah

My six-inch, clear platform stilettos could kill a man.

And I intend to do that. Just not in the literal sense.

I stand backstage, wearing heart-shaped panties and a bondage bra with exposed cups and fringe. Baby powder on my feet. My hair, a honey blond with the ends colored bubblegum pink, tumbles around my shoulders.

“Here, Lili, pucker up.”

A familiar tattooed arm comes around my shoulders. I glance over at Melly, whose shift is just starting, and lean into the offered wand of sheer lip gloss. “Making me beautiful.”

“No help needed.” Satisfied I’m sufficiently dolled up, Melly slathers on her own black lipstick—going for goth girl tonight—checks her garter hooks, and gives me a grin. “You game for chips and salsa later?”

My thoughts stray to Javier’s, our go-to dive Mexican restaurant, and my stomach rumbles in hunger.

I finger the heart-shaped locket around my neck. “And the biggest margarita.”

Melly’s the devil to my angel. The one who befriended me when I first started at the club. She taught me all the tricks. How to slick my thighs with cream so jeans wouldn’t chafe them during a lap dance, how to soothe bruised thighs from the pole. She’s become my closest friend, someone who lights up the dark cracks around my heart. She’ll never replace my sister, but she makes me feel like I don’t have to take on this world alone.

DJ Dick’s deep voice comes over the mic. “And now, you’re in for one wild ride with our next dancer. Welcome to the stage, Lady Lawless!”

Lady Lawless. All the girls have to pick a stage name. It’s for our protection, and it works as an alter ego. I do things as Lady Lawless that I’d never do as Delilah Grant.

Melly winks. “Kill it, Lady.”

I blow her a kiss.

The music comes on—Britney Spears’s “I’m a Slave 4 U.”

My cue.

I smile brightly and stride onto the stage. Beneath the mirrored disco ball, my body glows and shimmers, as well as the stars on the outside of my lashes. Magic pulses inside of me.

I grab the pole and dip into a low squat, rolling my hips to the hypnotic beat.

A man with cuff links and curly red hair scoots closer to the front of the stage, mouth agape, eyes up. A forgotten plate of steak and potatoes sits in front of him. His hand hovers, stretches.

As I stand, I cast a surreptitious glance his way, then scan the club.

Saturday night, and it’s packed with men in suits. Doctors, CEOs, men of power. In a corner, hoots from a jostling group of boys celebrating a bachelor party. Boys in polos stare, leaning back in their booths like they’re trying to relax, but I notice the way they squeeze their hands into fists. Horny. Desperate. Sad. Lonely.

I’m used to it all by now. It’s work. My work.

A job that once put me back together when I thought I had lost everything.

The Velvet Belles Club is the biggest strip club on the outskirts of Las Vegas, a destination for the rich and horny. With two stages, six bars, and a roster of some of the hottest women I’ve ever seen, it’s high-end all the way. The walls are adorned with rich velvet drapes. No windows, no clocks to remind you of your responsibilities. Neon lighting bathes the club in a pink glow. It’s exclusive and clandestine and decadently Las Vegas.

Everything about the club—and us—abides by a set of perfectly crafted criteria. From the lingerie we wear—forty dollars for a G-string—to our stilettos—at least six inches—we provide a luxury service to our clients, and in return, Belle, our boss, takes great care of us.

I step closer to the end of the stage, gyrating, rolling my hips. Dollar bills rain onto the glossy stage. The honey shimmer on my arms glitters beneath the stage lights.

When I become Lady Lawless, I’m in control. Of my heart. My body.

Sexy, confident, free, and powerful.

No man can take that from me.

Not even this idiot.