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I doubt there’s any actual champagne served in the champagne room of this place. Still, it will give me private time with the woman who calls herself Athena; right now, that’s what I need more than anything else.
I need answers–and she’s going to give them to me.
Natalia
Their faces have started to blur.
They always do, by this point in the night. As the solo dancers have come out on stage, I’ve given lap dance after lap dance to customers on the main floor, teasing their arousal even higher as they watch the women on stage gyrating and bouncing and swaying for their pleasure. I’ve made trips back and forth to the bar, garnering a few extra tips for bringing the men their drinks myself instead of delegating it to one of the cocktail waitresses.
They always love that–the pretense that they have me to themselves for a little while, at their beck and call, delivering drinks and dancing for them and them alone while they toss the drinks back…until their attention is caught by another dancer.
I’ve been here a very brief time, admittedly, but I can’t seem to get the hang of thefawningthat so many of the girls are masters of. I can’t ever entirely shake the hint of disdain that I know drifts around me, the impression I give off that I think I’m better than these men, that I belong somewhere better thanthis. Some men like it and seek me out specifically for that haughty disdain,but most of them end up preferring to spend their champagne room rubles on the dancers like Ruby, who are capable of putting on an act like no other. They want big eyes and breathy whispers, gratitude, and desire that seems genuine, and it’s hard for me to fake that.
I would never have been good at the girlfriend experience.
“Athena!” A voice from a few feet away, carrying over the music and conversation, calls out my name. It’s deep and rough, and I know it immediately–it’s Davik, one of the staff who doubles between taking champagne room bookings and guarding the rooms themselves. He’s a man as wide with muscle as he is tall, with buzzed white hair and a stern expression. I’ve never known a single dancer to get in trouble with a customer taking things too far when he’s outside her room. I tip him well after shifts, even though I can’t really afford it, because I know he’ll keep me safe.
“What is it?” I step away from my last customer, whose attention is already wandering to a tall, lithe blonde dancer coming down after her turn on the main stage. “Please tell me someone’s bought private time with me.”
The night is still young, but even so, it’s been longer than I would have liked without someone asking to take me back to the champagne room. The money from floor lap dances doesn’t go far, especially after tip-outs at the end of the night. Though I got a decent amount from my solo dance, it wasn’t as much as I normally have gotten.
I was too distracted by that man. They could tell. They’re like fucking sharks; they can always smell it.
“Good news then.” He gives me a grin that changes his stern face altogether, making him look younger and more jovial. I like Davik–in some other world where I could have friends,realfriends, we might have been that. “Fella just asked for time with you. An hour. If you want to go back, I’ll bring him in.”
I frown. “Shouldn’t I go say hello, offer to escort him back?” That’s how it usually goes if a girl isn’t already back there entertaining someone else–just another way to make the men feel special and pampered.
Davik shakes his head firmly. “Not this one. I got a feeling from him, little lady. I want to make sure he understands the rulesrealthoroughly, before I let him back there with you.” He pats my arm, giving me what I think is meant to be a reassuring look. “Just go on back and get ready, and I’ll bring him to you.”
A small, cold shiver goes through me at that. Davik has worked at places like this for a long time, and if he gets a sense about a customer, I trust him.
What if you’ve got this all wrong? What if that letter wasn’t from someone who saw you at the club at all?
I swallow hard, forcing the feeling down as I nod and stride towards the velvet curtains that separate the main floor from the rooms in the back, to go and find an empty one.You’re overreacting, I tell myself with every step.The letter was just some random sicko who gets his kicks out of scaring women he thinks are beneath him. It wasn’t that man. And you should be happy about this. Seems he does have money after all–and you’re about to earn some of it. A decent amount, if you shake this off and do your job well.
The one open room is the smallest of them, which gives me a twinge of nerves at how close I’ll be to him without the space that some of the other rooms might have provided. The metal and white-lacquer-topped stage is in the center with its sleek silver pole, a white leather couch curved around it, and cool blue light fills the room when I switch them on. I pick a slow, sultry beat for the music, hoping it will help calm me down.
I don’t know why this man unsettles me so much. I’ve encountered customers of all types in the short time I’ve worked here–eager, aloof, creepy, and on rare occasions, respectful. More often, they’re eager and borderline obsessive, looking at me like hungry dogs faced with rare meat. It’s not something I’m entirely unfamiliar with–a young woman in any station of life gets used to being appraised by men who look at her as if she were a meal–but there’s an added desperation to it here that made me deeply uncomfortable at first.
I wouldn’t have thought I could get used to it, but in many ways, I have. I barely notice most of them now, and by the time I’m finished performing, I’ve more often than not forgotten about them.
This man is different.
It’s probably only a few minutes before the door opens, although it feels much longer as I wait, poised against the stage. I hear the rough, low tones of Davik’s voice saying something to the man, and then he steps inside.
The moment the door shuts behind him and we’re alone together, I feel that same chill down my spine. When he’d been standing next to the stage, there had been tension in him, a calculating appraisal of me, but now he seems looser, more relaxed.A few drinks in him, probably.I let my gaze slide overhim as if I’m appraising him in turn, but I’m not prepared for the warmth that pools in my belly at the sight of what’s standing in front of me.
That sharply handsome face, all chiseled cheekbones and jaw, and those startling ice-blue eyes, sandy blond hair falling to one side, artfully styled and tousled. A dark teal button-down, unbuttoned enough to show the hint of a muscled chest, smooth-skinned and inked with tattoos, just like the forearms visible where his shirt sleeves are rolled up. The chain bracelet on one wrist, the watch on the other, the shirt clinging to a flat stomach and disappearing into tailored trousers.
He sticks out in this place like a sore thumb–but then again, so do I.
That must be why he was so interested in you,I tell myself, to try and calm the riot of butterflies I feel in my stomach. He’s watching me now as he steps into the room, those blue eyes giving nothing away, the slightest smirk on his full mouth.
Unbidden, I feel that thrill of attraction again, and something else too–excitement at the idea that I’ll be the one arousing this man, making him want me, hunger for me,craveme. I’m usually disgusted by the carnal urges of the men around me, but suddenly the idea of him sitting on the couch, hard and wanting while I flaunt myself just out of reach, has my thong clinging to my intimate flesh with a sudden and unwanted arousal.
Get yourself under control,Athena, I tell myself flatly.This is your job. Don’t forget that.
Which, of course, is why I’m so thrown off by it all. I’ve never, not even once, been sexually aroused by a customer before.In fact, the idea of them coming in here, and purchasing our services like items on a menu, has always been repulsive to me.
