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Every flirt, every move, every time she makes eyes with a customer, it feels like she’s taunting me. But deep down, I know it’s her usual schtick as a waitress.
Every girl has one, dancer or waitress alike. They have to in order to survive in a place like this. They find a mask, a mantle of fakeness they put on like a Halloween costume when they hit the floor. For some, they become sweet or sarcastic, and for some it’s femme fatale flirty or bitchy snippy. They find the personality type that attracts the customers, and the best girls know how to read their customers and behave accordingly to get the big tips.
For Meghan, that’s her natural innocent bubbliness. It’s disarming, enchanting, and very effective camouflage. I’ve watched her for long enough to see how smart she really is, and that while she’s innocent and maybe even naturally flirty, she’s no airhead despite her act. It’s in the flow of her words, the way she shoots guys down even as she compliments them, and how she can subtly manipulate every table into falling in love with her. She’s quickly gotten a small group of regulars who come not to see the dancers, but to get their beer and liquor with a side of her sweetness.
They see her as the girl they always wanted in high school, the good girl whose sparkling eyes and smile say she’ll be honest and pure . . . but that underneath is a kitten waiting to be unlocked if she can find someone able to teach her.
Although, I’m not entirely sure that part is an act. I remember the way she blushed at my tawdry comments, her eyes dropping even as her breathing quickened, and her awkwardness the morning after we’d slept on her couch.
I don’t think the innocence is all that fake, and though it shouldn’t, that just ramps up my interest in my little angel Meghan all the more. Because I know, deep down in my guts where the good and bad sides of me swirl in constant tension, that I could unlock that sex kitten.
All I’d need is one opportunity. Much like the thought I had in her apartment about sullying her white couch with my griminess, I can picture dirtying Meghan up—lipstick smeared across her face by my lips, long blonde hair a mess from my hands tugging and pulling her at my will, my cum all over her tits in her black bustier uniform as she sags, spent from spasming helplessly around my cock before I marked her as mine.
Suppressing a groan, I shake my head, trying to clear it. Meghan’s taken up so much real estate in my damn mind, I’m having to wear my compression shorts every time she’s on shift, or else I walk around with a tent in my trousers.
Needing something more, I head over to the bar for a cold drink. No booze. That’s unprofessional . . . but the bar has more than liquor. “Hey, Marco. Can I get a Coke when you get a chance?”
Marco doesn’t look my way, too far in the weeds with orders to talk, but he flashes me a thumbs-up so I know he heard me. While I wait, I lean against the bar, surveying the room. Meghan and two other waitresses are hustling about, Sasha is on stage crawling on all fours toward a front-row guy in a nice suit who looks like he’s going to have a stroke with as red as his face is getting, and every table is full. Best of all, the patrons are behaving themselves. It’s a good, easy night at Petals.
My eyes are drawn back to Meghan, and before I know it, Marco clears his throat from right beside me. Shit. I never even heard him approach. And in my job, letting myself get that distracted is dangerous.
“How’s she doing?” Marco asks as he hands me a Coke, no ice, just like I always have it when I’m on duty. “Any problems after the parking lot guy?”
I shake my head, taking a swig of the cold Coke. “No, she’s been fine. Seems to have moved on.”
Marco wipes the bar beside me with his towel, even though it’s already spotless. He’s a neat freak and compulsive in keeping up appearances both on the bar and in his personal habits, so I know it’s not just for show. I wait, knowing he’ll speak when he’s ready.
“So if she’s all good after the incident,” he says, flipping his towel over in a quick quarter-fold before tucking it in the strings of his work apron, “why are you staring at her like you expect her to need you to run in like a knight in shiny fucking armor to slay the dragon?”
“Maybe because some people attract the dragons?” I ask. “She’s different, you know? The other girls in here, they’re more experienced and harder than she is. They can handle their shit and not blink twice about it. But Meghan has a softness to her. Dragons are attracted to that and would burn her to ash without a second thought just to ruin her tenderness.”
