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Maybe I couldn’t work a pole so good with my crispy right hand, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t dance.
I used the pole as a prop, sliding my back down it as the bass throbbed in my chest. When I got low to the ground I opened my legs, showing off the goods covered by only a semi-sheer thong. What I was wearing tonight wasn’t my hottest ensemble, but short on time and short on cash, it would have to do.
Thank God I’d kept a few outfits in my locker, or I’d really be shit out of luck.
There weren’t a whole lot of men crowded around my stage tonight, which wasn’t doing much for my self-esteem. Ginger—not her real name—had twice as many guys as I did, all of whom were in various stages of professing their undying love to her ass. On most nights I drew a decent turn-out, including a few regulars. I had something of a cult following here. Guys had even followed me from my old club, the Dollhouse, just so they could keep watching me and my show, the one that kept their greedy eyes glued to me and my tits half the night.
It wasn’t rocket science. All I did was take a few classes—belly dancing, air aerobics, and some “stripping for exercise” course all the new moms were dying to try. Shit, I think I even got a Groupon for that one. It pissed me off a little that these middle-class thirty-somethings thought working a pole was all fun and games. They didn’t know jack shit about being a stripper. They wouldn’t have lasted five seconds in any of the clubs I’d worked in.
The classes paid off, though. Gave me an edge over my competitors. And that was what they were at the end of the day, all these women grinding on the stage—my competition.
And tonight, I was failing miserably.
I lunged forward and crawled toward my audience. It didn’t come off as sexy as it usually did—I had to sort of army-crawl on my forearms so’s to keep pressure off my bandaged hand. I tried to make my movements sensual and slow, but the guys couldn’t get a good view of my tits, and when I looked into their eyes, I saw frustration. Pity.
I wasn’t sure which made me feel worse.
But then I saw it: somebody holding up a twenty, waving it around like a matador flagging down a bull. I blew out a sigh of relief and sat up, sweeping my legs off the stage and putting my feet on the ground.
Thank God. I was starting to think I wasn’t going to make back my bus fare for the evening. Not to mention that the more money I put in my pocket—or my G-string—the quicker I could get the hell out of my stepbrother’s house.
Asshole thinks he owns me now, I thought, walking toward my customer with long strides that made my tits jiggle. Like he can just swoop in after all these years and start acting like we’re family again.
But Gunner wasn’t really acting like we were family at all. The way he’d looked at me when I stepped out of the shower. The way his eyes had roamed over every inch and curve of my body. The way his jaw twitched like he was just barely holding back. God, he’d looked at me like_._._.
Like he wanted to fuck me.
On the other side of the group of men, I finally caught a glimpse of the guy with the twenty. My heart sank. Motherfucker—it was Gino.
He folded up the bill in one of his pudgy hands and gave me an appraising look. His lips tightened into a thin, grim line across his sweaty face, and he slowly shook his head as his gaze snagged on my bandaged hand.
“Shit. If you’d told me it was this bad, I would’ve let you stay home.”
I did tell you it was this bad, I wanted to say, but I knew better than to argue with Gino. It was like playing chess with a pigeon. No matter how right I was, he was just gonna shit all over the board and strut around like he’d won, anyway.
“Chastity’s got your stage for the next hour,” he continued, using the bill to mop sweat from under his chins. “You got a visitor.”
I squinted at him. “A visitor? I’m workin’ here, Gino.”
“Yeah, and now you’re workin’ there,” he said, jerking his head toward the back of the club, “in the champagne room.”
The Domino wasn’t nice enough to have a real champagne room, but what we had did the trick. It offered the girls and their customer privacy whenever somebody decided to spring for a more intimate lap dance. I knew some of the other girls found ways to earn a little more back there—blowjobs, handjobs, full-on fucking. I wasn’t part of that club. That stuff led down dark paths.
We got a lot of lonely guys here. A lot of guys that came in because nobody else would have them. They ran the gamut from just a little awkward to real goddamn creeps. But one guy had transcended all the regular weirdoes we got around here. One guy had scared me so damn bad I’d almost quit working right then and there.
I shook off the chill snaking up my spine and said to Gino, “How’s the money on this one?”
Gino shrugged. “Not bad. Ain’t the world’s biggest spender, this one, but better than you would’ve made out here.” He handed me the damp twenty-dollar bill. “Here. Maybe this’ll sweeten the deal.”
Gross! I plucked the money from his hand with the tips of my nails. Twenty dollars was still twenty dollars, even sweat-stained and reeking of Crown Royale.
I wove through the tables, spying Ginger grinding on stage out of the corner of my eye. Her red hair flashed as she flipped it, stealing a glance in my direction. I saw her smirk—saw triumph glitter in her eyes. Whatever, bitch. I won’t be out of commission forever.
Maybe if I made enough money, I could get a new outfit. Something skanky. Something with higher heels. And then maybe Ginger could go jump off a fucking bridge.
I was halfway to the champagne room when Chelsea spotted me. She was on some drunk guy’s lap, which was pretty much where you could usually find her, if she wasn’t at home. Even when we went out to the clubs—the ones without naked chicks all over—Chel was a bloodhound for the guys with one too many drinks in ‘em and more money than they could spend. Sometimes I wished I had her nose for it. Maybe then I could get the fuck out of Gunner’s place, this club, and this whole damn city.
“Hey, look who’s here!” Chelsea said, giggling as she bent backward. With her tits straight up in the air she looked at me, batting her baby blues. “How’s the hand, sweets?”
“Shitty for dancing,” I told her, smiling as she straightened back up. She undulated like a snake, her flesh always moving. Her customer seemed pleased. “I got someone in the champagne room, though.”
Chelsea spun around, kicking her legs off the man’s lap to grind her ass into him. “Ooh, maybe you’ll get another regular? I’m tellin’ you, sweets, a steady stream of loyal customers is the only way to go.”
“You want loyal customers?” one of the fat, greasy men next to her sneered over the rim of his Jack and Coke. “Shut the fuck up while you’re on the job.”
The man under Chelsea winced. “Jeez, Dad. Leave her alone.”
I stood there for a moment, taking in the scene. Chelsea was ignoring the men pretty successfully, but I couldn’t. I just didn’t have her resolve.
It fuckin’ killed me to see the generational misogyny evolving right before my eyes. Maybe the kid wasn’t so bad, but he was still here, wasn’t he—taking advantage of women with no viable alternative for survival? Renting our bodies like we were any other whore on the street? He might not have been a blatant dick like his dad, but what would happen if Chel saw him in a Starbucks someday, and he thought he could get her into his car and back to his house because, hey, he’d bought and paid for her, right?
When she said no, what was the first thing he’d say back to her? No? You’re a fucking stripper. Who the fuck are you to tell me no? Fucking bitch. You’re nothing but a whore.
I’d seen it happen. I’d been on the receiving end of that shit way too many times. Thank God I’d always been able to walk away. I knew a lot of girls who never had that choice and came to work the next day with scrapes and bruises as a r
esult.
And here that vicious cycle was, perpetuating right in front of me. Men’s ownership of women, of our bodies. It made me think of what Gunner would say if he could see me here, shaking my tits up on stage.
That was why I had to get out of his house. He was just another Jim waiting to happen. I was sure of it.
Hell, they all were.
I left Chelsea to it after mouthing “we’ll talk later” and seeing her wink in reply. No way she was gonna give up a sweet tip just ‘cause of the guy’s fuck-face father. I understood it. Didn’t like it, especially since she was my friend, but money makes the world go ‘round.
I knew that all too well.
As soon as I neared the back door, the smell hit me: sweat, sex, and somebody’s shattered dignity. It hung stale in the air. I wrinkled my nose. It had smelled exactly like this the last time I was in here with a man—the one who’d turned me off to the idea of private dances for a long, long time.
Usually, all a stripper had to worry about was some guy who didn’t know when enough was enough. Some asshole who’d get too handsy, or who wouldn’t listen when a girl said “no.” Then we’d just call one of the bouncers and hope they got to us before the guy had a chance to clock us, or worse, get their bodily fluids in our hair.
But this guy... I’d known from the moment I shut the door that something about him was off. Maybe it was the mask he wore over his face. Like Comedy and Tragedy, only this guy had forgot the Comedy part.
I could see his eyes glinting through the dark socket holes, and I think that’s when I knew for sure shit would go wrong. There was nothing there. No hope, no desire, not even a drunken spark. His eyes were flat and dead. Like a shark’s.
He didn’t want me to dance, either. He wanted me to take my top off. He wanted me to stand in the middle of the room and he circled around me, looking me up and down, judging me, scrutinizing me. He’d made me feel like a slab of meat.
Then he’d bent me over the stage, spread my legs, and began grinding between my ass cheeks. I could feel him filling up, getting harder. When I tried to speak, he put his hand on the back of my neck and squeezed. And then he’d started talking.
