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Shane growls, his voice low and dangerous. There’s no weakness, no compromising with that voice. Fact is, Shane’s not afraid of anyone or anything. He might be the only person in the club not afraid of Dominick. “No touching. Or I’ll be the one touching you.”
The threat is apparent, and the guy’s face shows his fear that Shane will kick his ass. Shane’s words have the opposite effect on me, though, and my mind is filled with an image of him touching me, his strong, thick fingers tracing lines along my private silky areas, teasing and tantalizing me before taking me roughly.
Back in reality, finger-sucking guy has his hands up wide, backing down immediately. “No problem, man. Sorry, won’t happen again.”
Shane lets out one more growl before stalking off. I never even made eye contact with him, but under the slip of dark denim they call my miniskirt, my panties are soaked from being that close to him, having his voice wash over me, and that flash of fantasy.
Needing to save the tip, though, I smile at the forward guy, and he does at least offer an apology to me, a rarity in this place. “No problem, honey. Security is just really protective of us. I’m sure you understand.”
“I can certainly understand why,” he says as his eyes float down my body, taking an extra moment on my chest, my crotch, and the length of my legs sticking out of the skirt before tracing back up again. Despite my petite height, this slip of a skirt combined with my heels make my legs look a mile long, and it feels like it takes him forever to uncomfortably peruse every inch. “We’re good for now, but keep the pitchers coming all night.”
He says the last part in a filthy little cadence, emphasizing every word, and I can hear the obvious double-entendre. I nod and giggle, reverting to my innocent girl shtick as I promise to keep them coming.
I walk away, smiling as I hear the guys start loudly talking to each other. Two can play that game, and we’re both hoping to get lucky, just not in the same way. Tip me, tip the stage girls, and get out so I can get some fresh meat at my table with another full wallet.
It sounds crass, even to myself, but it’s the reality. No one is coming to Petals from Heaven strip club to find love, and really, no one is coming to find sex. Well, I guess some of the guys do come in with the fantasy of having an amazing night with a woman who ticks all their mental boxes, but the odds of that are worse than winning the Powerball.
I don’t really get it. Guys crowd in with their other guy friends, pay fart-tons of money for cover, drinks, and tips, then go home to flog their bishop? Why the game? Just watch some porn or something and take care of business.
Unless the guy is paying for a private show, where they’re not supposed to whip it out, but according to my dancer friends, they pretty much know they’ve got a fifty-fifty chance that they’re going to be dancing while the patron gets down to business.
Ew. Just gross.
I make another round of my tables, getting refills, flirting, dropping off checks, flirting, collecting cash . . . and more flirting.
As I work, I keep an eye out for any patrons who might be . . . somebody. That’s my real job, scouting for celebrities, major or minor, politicians, CEO bigwigs, Instagram-famous people, or anyone else who might be interesting and tends to frequent this particular club.
On one hand, they’re usually the best tippers. On the other, they’re why I’m really here, working as Meghan, a cocktail waitress at a strip club, undercover for the tabloid gossip rag I work for. Neither job is my dream come true, but since no one is knocking on my door to write for The New York Times, online trash talking pays my bills.
I got the assignment to get a second job at Petals two months ago, and to my surprise, they hired me right away. Petals is known for being exclusive and VIP-preferred, so I’d been nervous about their hiring plain Jane me. But I’d been hired as a waitress on the spot based on my resume and my other . . . ahem . . . assets. So far, the undercover gig has paid off in a couple of smaller celebrity-sighting stories, but I feel like there’s something bigger here. I just don’t know what it is yet.
But Petals from Heaven is sort of the place to go if you’re a celebrity who wants a taste of the salacious life but you don’t want to get caught out on the town because of your wife, your girlfriend, or just your reputation. There’s a sense of discretion at Petals, and Dominick fosters that, making sure the A-listers get what they want, whether it’s private rooms or flashy top-notch service. Plus, Petals employs some of the most beautiful dancers I’ve ever seen in my life. It’s almost artistic, just nearly naked too. With this combination, something gossip-worthy has to happen eventually, and I want to be here to report on it.
