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CHAPTER1
MEGAN
Sensual lights pulsearound me as the driving bass thrums through the club.
“You look good enough to eat, baby,” my customer says. His eyes flicker down to my chest, where my hard nipples push into my padded bra. He doesn’t look back up.
“If you’re hungry, you should try the jalapeño poppers,” I say.
“I’d like to do some popping with my jalapeño,” he says. His friends beat him on the back and laugh.
“Never heard that one before,” I mumble.
“What was that, baby?” he asks, leaning in and reaching for my waist.
“No touching!” Grover is there before the guy can so much as tickle the fabric of my black crop top. Honestly, it would serve him right to touch it. While black isn’t my favorite color, it certainly hides all sorts of stains that nobody patronizing my line of work wants to know about.
The guy lifts his palms in surrender and then motions for me to lean over. I sigh but keep my face neutral. It’s all about the tips. I don’t make as much as the girls on stage, so the least I can do is keep things friendly.
“What would it take to get you in one of those rooms?” he asks, leaning in.
“Would you like me to arrange a private dance for you with one of our dancers?” I ask, catching Grover’s eye. This could get uncomfortable quickly, and I want him on the ready.
“Yeah,” he says, shaking his head. “But I don’t want a dancer. I want to see what’s under this slutty outfit you’re wearing and suck your tits until you beg me to—”
“That’s not—” I interrupt him, but he chooses that moment to pull me down on his lap.
Everything happens so fast. My skirt flies up, a camera flashes, and then I’m in the air, huge arms carrying me toward the back room as yelling happens in front of the stage.
It’s not the first time a customer has gotten handsy. They forget that the waitresses aren’t dancers. We like to keep our clothes on. Not that there’s anything wrong with a good striptease. Alison does a killer number where she dresses like Veronica Lake that has her making bank in the private rooms. Then, in the morning, she goes to her day job as a vet tech.
Grover sets me on my feet in the dressing room and waits to let go until I give him a nod. He’s head of Pinky’s security team, the strip club I waitress at. Six foot four, he used to be a defenseman for the Oregon football team, and he looks it. He has a smooth, shaved head and rich brown eyes that are only a touch warmer than his dark skin. But when he smiles, you can see why so many of the dancers fall for him.
“You’re good?” he asks, waiting at the entrance, keeping his eyes on me and ignoring the half-dressed dancers milling around behind me.
“I’m good.”
“Take a breather. I’ll make sure you’re covered.”
“Thanks, Grove,” I say.
“Thanks, Grove,” Molly mimics in an unflattering voice. “Why don’t you just bend over already? Cock tease…”
I’m out the door before I can hear her next insult. There’s always been a divide between the dancers and the waitstaff. The dancers are the reason people walk through the door. The waitstaff keeps them hydrated, hence the reason the dancers get tipped so well. But occasionally, we’ll take a huge tip home from someone who didn’t tip the dancers well. That happened last night, and Molly is pissed.
I snort and scroll through my text notifications. I have a handful from Bee, my best friend from home, and a few more from my roommate Ainsley. But there’s a voice mail notification that has me sucking in a sharp breath. I click on it and hold the phone to my ear as I hug myself in Portland's damp March night air.
“Hey Megsy, it’s Bee. You need to call me when you get a break. Love you.” I let my eyelids flutter shut. It’s never a good sign when Bee calls instead of texting.
She picks up on the second ring. I can hear loud music in the background—she must be backstage. Shit.
“Megsy?” Bee says.
“Yeah, hey. Is this a bad time?”
“No, I have two scenes before I go back on. Hang on just a sec—” The rustling sound of a hand over a speaker covers the muffled conversation. After a little more rustling, the background goes quiet.
“You there, hon?” she says in a low voice. She sounds tired. She’s the only person I know who works harder than I do, bouncing between dance gigs and bartending jobs while also caring for her veteran father.
