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Looking me up and down, the customer leers at me while his buddies chuckle and elbow each other.
It’s hard keeping the smile on my face while I seethe inside.
He’s not the first asshole in a suit to say the same exact words to me, and he probably won’t be the last.
But if I want to keep my job, I can’t let on how much I despise him and his kind.
Stretching my fake smile even wider, I put a hand on my hip and bat my eyelashes at him.
“I’m sorry, honey,” I purr, “but I’m not on the menu.”
I do my best to make it look like I’m truly disappointed I can’t give him a piece of my ass and under different circumstances I’d be up for it.
It seems to work.
Relaxing back in his chair, he lets out a heavy sigh and looks to his buddies for compassion. “A shame.” When his associates nod in agreement, he looks back to me. “I guess I’ll take a whiskey sour.”
I nod and scribble that down, relieved he let it go so easily.
Some of the customers don’t always back off after the first try and it’s a real pain trying to let them down without making them angry.
If I’ve learned one thing from this whole experience, it’s that there’s a lot of men out there that can’t handle rejection. Their egos are so huge, they tend to blow up in rage.
You’d think after working here for three weeks, in a strip club called Cloud 69, no less, I’d be used to it all by now and wouldn’t let it get under my skin.
But I’ll never get used to being treated like a piece of meat.
Especially by the kind of men that frequent this ‘high end’ establishment. The elite of the elite in this godforsaken city.
Entitled assholes dressed in designer suits who probably spend their entire days figuring out how to rip off the working class only to spend their nights away from their families.
Leaving their wives at home with the children so they can throw their cash at strippers dressed like angels.
All under the guise of business meetings.
After I finish taking everyone’s order, I turn away, prepared to strut my stuff over to the bar, only to be stopped by a hand on my arm.
This too isn’t unexpected, but it doesn’t stop my blood from boiling even hotter.
I fucking hate it when they touch me.
Sucking in a sharp breath, trying to cool myself down, I slowly turn my head to meet the eyes of the man who asked for a piece of my ass.
Blind to my anger, he slips a business card into my hand. Probably thinking he’s being slick.
“When you get off…”
I pointedly look down at his hand, at the platinum wedding band on his ring finger, then snap my eyes back up to his face.
Whatever he sees in my eyes doesn’t fill him with shame.
No, he has the audacity to grin at me.
Like he’s proud of what he’s doing.
My palm itches with the need to slap him across his face. To give him what he deserves.
I bet he’d like it, though.
