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)
The workers ignore me as I hurry through the kitchen and out the front. I blend into the crowd before Marco can double back, then remove my cell phone battery and store it in my backpack.
By the time I reach the venue thirty long minutes later, my pulse has calmed. It’s a pity I can’t say the same about my nerves.
Even though the night has barely begun, the residence is loud and full of drunk men. Their predatory grins follow every woman who walks past—even the ones fully clothed.
Luna wasn’t lying about it being a high-end gig, but that must only apply to the clothes, not the clientele.
“Cici?” a woman in the foyer asks when she spots me.
I nod, and she drags her eyes down my body. “I thought you were brunette?”
“I will be,” I reply. “Do you have somewhere I can get ready?”
The skin under her chin wobbles when she jerks it up. I follow her into the residence with multiple rooms, antique furnishings, and floors scattered with dollar bills.
“You’re a special order, so you’ll be in the library.” She plucks a cigarette from a man’s mouth, takes a long draw, and then passes it to another. “There’s a pole upfront, but no stage.” My stomach churns when she murmurs, “These clients prefer up-close performances.”
I wet my lips to ensure my following question comes out clearly. “It’s a bachelor party, right?” She nods, but that’s the start and end of her reply. “Do you have a description of the groom for me?”
With her head thrust back and her narrowed eyes peering at the ceiling, she laughs. “You’re not here to critique our clients.”
“That wasn’t my intention. I just want to make sure the groom gets his money’s worth.” Stop giving me that look. I’ve been in this industry enough to say what needs to be said to keep the gig. “It’s not often friends fork out ten thousand for a stripper. I want to make sure he’s a repeat customer when whatever marriage he’s entering ends in divorce.”
See? I mention the amount simply to see if shock registers on the payee’s face.
It doesn’t. Mercifully.
“He’s six one and has tattooed hands and a porn stache.” She opens the door of a broom closet next to a massive library with wall-to-ceiling bookshelves. “I’ll take a sneaky pic while showing them into the library. Do you have a playlist?”
I nod before remembering I can’t turn on my phone if I don’t want it tracked. “I can work with whatever you’ve got.”
She smiles as sleazily as her guests, then leaves me to get ready.
After putting on a chocolate wig, I slip into the dress Dante bought me. It fits perfectly but clings to my skin like a lie I can’t shed.
I can’t stop thinking about him. Not all my thoughts center on how he seems to know my schedule before I do, or how he shows up in places he shouldn’t be. They don’t even pertain to his lipstick-smeared mouth last week, and the guilt that filtered in his eyes when he told me I couldn’t accept Camille’s invitation to her dance recital. They’re of the way his pupils dilated when I pranced off the stage in the Viper Room, and how he couldn’t catch his breath when he entered me the first time.
I tell myself I imagined the sheer euphoria that pumped from him every time we were together, that he doesn’t care enough anymore to worry that I dance naked for money. But the truth is, he’ll be disappointed in me.
That hurts more than wondering what he and the mysterious brunette did last weekend.
I don’t know what I want more. For him to stay away, or for him to show up and drag me out of here like he has some kind of claim to me. It should be the former, but when you’re on the verge of disappointing the only person who’s ever truly seen you, it’s hard to remember your objectives.
I want to succeed for Gabriele, but I can’t deny how much I long for Dante’s approval. Even while resenting his controlling nature, it burns through me.
I’m doing this for Gabriele, I murmur to myself on repeat as I apply a risqué makeup palette and place in moss-green contacts.
Within minutes, I barely recognize myself in the mirror, meaning I’m ready.
When I step out of the broom closet, the hostess gives me an approving nod before signaling for the music to start. After freeing a handful of butterflies from my stomach with a quick exhale, I brave the blinding lights bouncing around the room and sashay toward the pole.
Cigarette smoke and spilled alcohol linger in the air of the stuffy, crowded room, and the heat is cranked up to an almost ghastly level. I wipe my hands down my dress to keep from slipping before circling them around the gleaming pole.