“How much for a night, baby?”
There’s no power left in me, no goddess in sight. The men loom over me now, crowding me as I stand between them. I cock my hip and thrust my breasts in front of me, the picture of female sexuality. I am a lamb in a pack of lions. I wear my confidence like a mask. It’s the only way I’ve survived. But their smiles, cocky and sure, say they can smell the real me underneath. They can smell their prey.
Two of them step aside for another man, one with a sloppy drunk smile and a cruel glint in his eyes. I hear one of them call him Travis.
My throat squeezes tight. No, no. My gut is too good at picking out the genuinely violent guys from the generic asshole. Except I’m not paid to say no.
“Let’s get a private room,” Travis says, the slur scraping down my spine. “Do I get a discount? It’s my party. I’m getting married tomorrow.”
It’ll be a miracle if he’s even conscious tomorrow, but that’s not my problem. My problem right now is with a mean drunk who wants to buy my time. I have a lot of experience with mean drunks. I know that no amount of pleading or negotiating or fighting back will work.
But all that knowledge, all that experience doesn’t stop me from trying.
“I’ll give you a dance right here,” I say, drawing myself up close to him. Even if I could turn away a customer, I can’t lose out on the money he can give me. I’m already a few hundred bucks in the hole when I start the night, after my house fee and tip outs. And I know exactly how much I need to make, especially on a Saturday night, to pay the bills. And there are a lot of bills.
He grabs my ass and squeezes hard, pulling me flush to a small, hard erection. “Your ears broken or something? I said let’s get a fucking VIP room.”
Panic beats in my chest, and it’s familiar, almost soothing. If I’m not half-terrified, I don’t even know what to feel. My gaze scan the room, searching—always searching. What am I looking for? And then I meet Blue’s eyes. His eyes narrow. He must have been watching me.
I could call him over. I could get him to help me, tell him this guy is being rough.
Except that would be a lie. Technically all he’s done is put his hands on me, and I haven’t even told him to stop yet. I’d give a courtesy warning—or two or three—before getting security involved. So I make myself smile, both for Blue’s benefit and the man right in front of me.
“Mmm, whatever you say. I’m going to show you a great time wherever you are.”
“That’s right,” he says. “You’re damn right about that for what this shit is gonna cost me.”
Not going to be a great tipper, obviously. But then I could have already guessed that. At least security will make sure he pays me the hourly rate. As long as I come out with my fake smile in place and not too many bruises, I’ll consider it a win.
His buddies clap him on the back with send-offs like “cop a feel for me” and “this is your last night of freedom, don’t waste it.”
Charming.
The Grand used to be a nice theater before the city’s economy tanked and they ripped out the seats. Now there’s just a stage for us to dance on and gilded balconies that are kept dark. The VIP rooms are the old ticket booths with the front walls ripped off, replaced only by musky velvet curtains that don’t cover the small space.
We stumble our way across the floor toward the VIP rooms in the corner. He can’t walk straight, and apparently I’m his crutch. I pretend not to notice Blue’s gaze following us as we go.
Chapter Two
A lap dance may seem like a broad, blunt stroke—twisting my body right in his face, shaking my ass against his erection, almost dry humping when the rhythm is right. But really it’s a fine line. I want them worked up enough that they’ll pay for more time, but not so intense that they demand things I can’t give them.
I don’t fuck for money.
It’s not a question of right or wrong, of being a whore or a goddamn angel. I’ve known exactly what I was since I turned fourteen, and that’s not going to change because he puts the tip inside or not. I don’t fuck because it’s not safe, for a lot of reasons. I don’t fuck because I don’t have to. I make enough money through stripping to cover Mrs. Owens’s bills—even the medical ones.
I start the dance off slow with the soon-to-be groom. I sit him down in the creaky wooden chair and step back as far as the hollow gray walls will let me. He’s already more tripped out than I can handle, so I spend a lot of time against the wall, posing and touching myself and hoping that’ll be enough.
“Stop wasting time,” he says.