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They’re the saddest customers we get in here, the ones who are down on their luck or cheating on a spouse or just so out of it that they come here just to feel something while everyone else is still at work.
After slipping into the bathroom, I change from my street clothes into my waitress uniform—a skimpy dress that rides high on my thighs and dips low in the front. My wavy hair tumbles over my shoulders as I tug at the hem of the dress, adjusting it a little the way I always do.
Still, no matter how much I tug at the fabric of the dress, the burn scars on my right arm, my right thigh, and my left leg are all still visible, although the ones that cover a portion of my ribs and back are hidden. They’re long healed by now, but the scarred flesh is still ugly and gnarled, and in the florescent light of the bathroom, the marks look even worse.
My soft blonde hair, delicate features, and light brown eyes might be considered striking on someone else, but I’m pretty sure the scars are all anyone ever sees when they look at me.
“It doesn’t matter, Willow,” I remind myself, whispering the words to my reflection. “Everyone here is looking at the dancers anyway.”
I take a deep breath and pull the skirt of the dress down as far as it will go, then slip out of the bathroom so I can get to work. The tables are starting to fill up, and I make my rounds on autopilot, my mind still buzzing with the ultimatum I got earlier.
I have to figure out a way to pay the rest of this semester’s tuition, or I’ll lose my enrollment.
Someone wolf whistles, the sound cutting over the hum of conversation and the beat of the music. I turn to see one of the dancers finishing her set, winking at the crowd and gathering her tips before she sashays her way off the stage.
Fuck, if only I could do that.
The dancers probably make ten times what I do. Even the ones who aren’t as popular usually leave with stacks of cash by the end of the night. The patrons should technically tip me for serving them drinks, but most of them save their bills to throw at the dancers or tuck into their g-strings, so I don’t make much more than the hourly wage Carl pays me.
As I drop off a tray of drinks at a table in the back, that thought sticks in my brain, and I chew my lip as a wild, insane idea pops into my head. Before I can talk myself out of it, I set down my empty tray by the bar and then head to the back of the club to my boss’s office, drawing in a deep breath.
The door is cracked, and I peek my head in to see him sitting behind his desk, watching a live feed from the floor of the club. Checking out the dancers, probably.
“Um, Carl?” I ask, knocking on the door frame. “Can I talk to you for a second?”
His eyes snap to me as I open the door wider, immediately flaring with irritation. Carl Gleason runs Sapphire, and there’s never been any need to question why he runs a strip club, considering how ‘friendly’ he tends to get with the dancers and the fact that he always has a live feed of the stage up on his computer screen. It’s just a step away from him lurking behind in the dressing room like a full-on peeping tom, and I don’t even want to think about what he does back here in his office where no one can see him.
“Willow,” he greets me, already sounding irritated. “What do you want?”
My stomach tightens, my skin prickling with nerves, but I lift my chin and dive right in.
“I wanted to ask about maybe… starting to strip. I need the money.”
That definitely catches his attention, his eyebrows shooting up toward his receding hairline. His gaze runs up and down my body, and there’s something dismissive and gross about it all at once. I can feel him taking in both every curve and every scar, and I fight the urge to try to cover myself up even more.
Finally, he shakes his head.
“Nah,” he says, his eyes lingering on the visible patches of scars. “You’ve got an okay figure, but no one wants to see that shit. The men who come here are already trying to get away from the ugly, nagging bitches they married, so they want to watch beautiful girls shake what they’ve got up onstage. Not see something out of a circus sideshow.”
My jaw clenches, and I have to swallow hard. His words are harsh, and they sting at the same time they piss me off. But I can’t afford to snap at him and risk losing this job. That would just make everything worse.
“That was actually why I was thinking maybe it would be a good idea,” I say. “My scars might be ugly, but they make me different. Unique. There’s a reason people go to the circus—to see things they couldn’t see anywhere else. You could make it a selling point, something no other strip club has.”
Although my voice stays steady, my heart pounds a little harder as I speak. I’m basically offering to turn myself into a freak show attraction for him, to let people gape at me or laugh at me or get off on some weird scar fetish as they watch me dance. It’s humiliating to think about, but at least it would make me more money than serving drinks does.
Carl narrows his eyes, cocking his head to one side as he considers my words. He pinches the bridge of his slightly crooked nose, then shakes his head.
“Nope. Sorry, sweetheart. No can do.”
Disappointment rushes through me, and I drop my gaze to the floor so he won’t see it in my eyes.
“Right,” I mutter, turning toward the door. “Okay. Sorry I wasted your time.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” Carl calls after me as I start to leave. “Hold on. You really need money?”
I pause with my hand on the doorknob. “Yes.”
“Are you a virgin?”
