Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84968 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84968 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 425(@200wpm)___ 340(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Mostly, they were relatively harmless. Annoying, but fairly harmless.
Daytime patrons were an entirely different beast.
There were two types of men who came to a cheap, crumbling strip club for lunch.
The shady businessmen who got off on the power trip of demoralizing women in a way the other clubs wouldn't allow, and they couldn't afford, anyway.
And the men who used to be those businessmen, now retired, divorced, their kids refusing to speak to them. They came here because they had nowhere else to go.
There was something seedy, almost demoralizing about them.
Those older men weren't there to party, they weren't there for a night of debauchery and fun. They were there out of habit, routine.
They watched the women and made lewd comments, but behind their eyes they were dead.
We called them the zombies.
Going through the motions of life, but despite their animation, they were soulless, rotting corpses.
It was almost like they were trying to grasp a sliver of what the night patrons had but which was just out of their reach.
It would have been depressing and I would have pitied them, if they didn't work so hard to grab my ass every single time I walked past them.
There were only so many times an old man could call you a bitch for refusing to show him your tits or blow him in the bathroom before you lost all sympathy.
The zombies were all old men, who stank of alcohol, sweat, and a life of regret.
As for the shady businessmen, we called them vampires because they sucked every ounce of the will to live from the girls and gave nothing in return.
They were young, hungry, and always out to make a quick buck.
These assholes would talk big like they were high rollers but then visited low-end strip clubs, maybe cashing in ten-dollar bills for ones. They would talk like they were spending big money, and about how much they were going to make by selling counterfeit bonds or threatening some low-level senator.
They came to celebrate over lunch and to degrade the dancers. It made them feel big and powerful to boss around women with their tits out, or to put their hands on my thighs while ordering expensive whiskey and then leave a two-dollar tip.
As if two dollars made up for the way they treated me or the girls.
They thought that two dollars meant we owed them something. Like they were being magnanimous, and we needed to fall all over ourselves, display our gratitude on our knees.
Fuck them.
Those two-dollar tips didn't mean shit, and they knew it. They weren't really here to spend money, they were here to be treated like big shots as cheaply as possible, while bragging about the money they made taking from “suckers and losers.”
If the FBI ever wiretapped this strip club, they were going to be in a lot of trouble. But the FBI would never come here. The men on their radar would be at any establishment other than this one.
These men were criminals that not even the feds cared about.
Whether it was the vampires or the zombies, they were all like roaches creeping out of the walls when the city wasn't looking. The worst of the worst who, despite the shit they did, the lack of value they added to society, just never died.
Even if someone — or liver failure — killed one, another would take their place. And it was my job to make these assholes feel like men, like they had a shot so they would keep giving the club their money and I could keep taking home pennies on the dollar.
I pushed through the door of Velvet Dreams, the weight of exhaustion already dragging at my body. I needed more sleep, but in order to get sleep, I needed a roof over my head, so I needed to work.
The dim interior smelled like cheap perfumes, stale beer, and regret.
I made it two steps inside before my boss, Lou, clocked me, giving me an angry scowl as he lumbered over to me. I was hoping Chad would be in today. Lou was harder to manage.
"You're late," he barked.
"Not now, Lou," I said in a sickeningly sweet voice.
Bile rose in the back of my throat. I hated using that voice. It was demeaning, placating this man. Acting like he was doing me a favor made my stomach roll. "I had a really rough night."
He didn't give a shit.
He never did, but by putting on that sweet, almost childlike voice, he wouldn't fire me.
Instead, his beady eyes dropped to the denim shirt I had thrown over my corset, and he gestured toward it like it was insulting him personally. As if I could ride the Metro and the bus across town in my uniform without getting arrested for indecent exposure or solicitation.
"Take that off when your shift starts."