Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 113710 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113710 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
“I’ll be ready,” I reply, clutching the employment contract like it’s a lifeline. Because it is.
With a smile that matches mine, she gives me a quick tour of the club. It’s similar to every other strip club out there: dark, dingy, and the only option.
The impromptu tour ends in the dressing room behind the main stage. “We encourage the girls to bring their own outfits, but the props closet has everything from a nun’s habit to a prison guard’s uniform. Help yourself to anything.”
“I packed a few options, but I’ll take a look to see if anything will improve the customers’ experience.” She’s already peering at me peculiarly, so I run the skit I use anytime I apply for a new job. “Are there any protocols I need to know?”
“Protocols?” she asks, appearing lost.
“Like... ah… touching the dancers? Is that extra?” I only tack on my last question when her brow disappears into her hairline. I had a feeling this club was a one-for-all service. A handful of the rooms we passed had beds in them instead of gleaming silver poles.
Desperate not to hear the words I see ruminating in her narrowed eyes, I blurt out, “I have no issues if they want to touch. I just want to ensure the club receives what it is owed.”
A relieved sigh rattles in her chest. “Phew. I was getting worried you were one of those dancers who refuse to do private shows.”
“No, of course not.” I’m a terrible liar. However, Giana doesn’t seem to have an inbuilt lie detector. “That’s where the real money is made. Everyone knows that.”
She murmurs in agreement. Then says she’ll introduce me to the music coordinator and other dancers before I go onstage.
I wait for her to disappear down the hall before entering the dressing room. Pindrop silence engulfs the room when I stroll to a long line of mirrors. The bulbs above them cast a golden glow over the room that makes everything look less seedy.
After hiding the dark circles around my eyes with concealer, I change into an outfit clients will instantly approve of. It’s fitted and leaves little to the imagination. My reflection in the full-length mirror near the props closet already looks like someone else, but I still pin back my dead-straight locks and hide them with a fiery-red wig that usually litters the stage with notes.
Whoever said blondes have more fun has clearly never met a redhead.
Once my wig is in place, I ignore the butterflies taking flight in my stomach and enter the busiest part of the club. Surprisingly, the bar isn’t as empty as expected. The tables in front of the stage are filled with patrons, and over a dozen men wait at the bar to be served.
Two dancers attend to the VIP clientele, but they avoid those who seem unlikely to fork out for a private dance.
I veer straight for them. Just because they can’t afford a private show doesn’t mean they’ll be stingy with tips. Flashy people are usually the most morally bankrupt.
“What can I get you, honey?”
The man stares at me for a moment, letting my words sink in. I smile when he peers behind his shoulder, certain I’m speaking to someone else.
“You appear more a liqueur guy than a brown hard liquor fan. Am I right?”
Slowly, he nods.
“Amaretto or pistachio?”
His smile is the only genuine thing about him. He’s a creeper who doesn’t have the funds to bring his wildest and most likely criminal fantasies to fruition. “Surprise me.”
I hit him with a frisky wink before slipping behind the bar. The bartender looks up when I help myself to a bottle of almond liqueur from the back shelf and pour a generous serving into a glass, but my silent promise of a fifty-fifty split of any tips I make keeps his mouth shut.
“Hold on, honey,” I say when the patron snatches up the unfinished drink and slaps a low bill on the counter. “We’re not done yet.” His hooded eyes lift from my breasts to my face when I squeeze a wedge of lemon into the mix, then add sugar syrup and an egg white.
He’s hesitant when I slide the drink to him, wordlessly announcing it’s ready, but the instant the amaretto sour hits his taste buds, he adds two bills to the first one.
“Keep them coming, honey.” He uses my self-appointed endearment, hoping it will ease me into a false sense of camaraderie.
I’m not stupid, though you might doubt that if you saw the wink I gave him while slipping his tip down the front of my bra. He paid three times the retail price of his cocktail.
After placing one note in the cash register and another in the bartender’s tip jar, I wave for the next guest to come forward.
By the time the bar is free of thirsty patrons, I’ve racked up 120 dollars in tips and am already grimacing about the blister forming on my big toe.