I nod. It’s the stage name I’ve been using at Miss Candy’s. Seemed fitting at the time.
“I’m Rose. George asked me to show you the ropes tonight.”
There’s always one mother hen in every club—an older woman who realizes she’s losing the fight against gravity and decides to make herself useful in other ways. At Miss Candy’s, it had been Tina, the aging bleached blonde who took me under her wing from moment one. Here, it’s the aging redhead Rose, who clucks over me as she guides me toward the metal rack of costumes.
When I reach for the schoolgirl uniform, she intercepts my hand. “No, that’s for later. Put this on.”
Next thing I know, she’s helping me into a black corset with crisscrossed laces and a lacy black thong.
“I’m dancing in this?” I can barely breathe in the corset, let alone reach in front of me to unlace it.
“Forget what’s up top.” She laughs when she notices my halted breathing. “Just wiggle that bottom of yours and ride Richie Rich’s pole, and you’ll be fine.”
I give her a blank look. “I thought I was going on stage?”
“George didn’t tell you? You’re doing a private dance in the VIP lounge now.”
What? But I just got here. From my experience at Miss Candy’s, normally you dance on stage a few times before any of the customers request a private show.
“Must be one of your regulars from your former club,” Rose guesses when she notices my confusion. “Richie Rich just waltzes in here like he owns the place, hands George five hundies, and tells ’im to send you over.” She winks at me. “Play it right and you’ll squeeze a few more Benjamins outta him.”
Then she’s gone. Flouncing off to one of the other dancers, while I stand there debating if this was a mistake.
I like to play it off like I’m tough, and yeah, I am, to some extent. I’ve been poor and hungry. I was raised by a stripper. I know how to throw a punch if I have to. But I’m only seventeen. Sometimes that feels too young to have lived the life I have. Sometimes I look around at my surroundings and think, I don’t belong here.
But I am here. I’m here, and I’m broke, and if I want to be that normal girl I’m desperately trying to be, then I need to walk out of this dressing room and ride Mr. VIP’s pole, as Rose so nicely phrased it.
George appears as I step into the hallway. He’s a stocky man with a full beard and kind eyes. “Did Rose tell you about the customer? He’s been waiting for you.”
Nodding, I swallow awkwardly. “I don’t have to do anything fancy, right? Just a regular lap dance?”
He chuckles. “Get as fancy as you like, but if he touches you, Bruno’ll haul him out on his ass.”
I’m relieved to hear that Daddy G’s enforces the no-touching-the-merchandise rule. Dancing for slimy men is a lot easier to swallow when their slimy hands don’t get anywhere near you.
“You’ll do fine, girl.” He pats my arm. “And if he asks, you’re twenty-four, okay? No one over thirty works here, remember?”
What about under twenty? I almost ask. But I keep my lips pressed tight. He has to know I’m lying about my age. Half the girls here are. And I may have lived a hard life, but no way do I look thirty-fricking-four. The makeup helps me pass for twenty-one. Barely.
George disappears into the dressing room, and I take a breath before heading down the hallway.
The sultry bass line greets me in the main room. The dancer on stage just unbuttoned her white uniform shirt, and the men go wild at the first sight of her see-through bra. Dollar bills rain on the stage. That’s what I focus on. The money. Screw everything else.
Still, I’m so bummed at the thought of leaving GW High and all those teachers who actually seem to care about what they’re teaching. But I’ll find another school in another town. A town where Callum Royal won’t be able to find—
I halt in my tracks. Then I spin around in a panic.
It’s too late. Royal has already crossed the shadowy VIP lounge and his strong hand encircles my upper arm.
“Ella,” he says in a low voice.
“Let me go.” My tone is as indifferent as I can make it, but my hand shakes as I try to pry his off me.
He doesn’t let go, not until another figure steps out of the shadows, a man in a dark suit and with the shoulders of a linebacker. “No touching,” the bouncer says ominously.
Royal releases my arm as if it’s made of lava. He spares a grim look at Bruno the bouncer, then turns back to me. His eyes stay locked on my face, like he’s making a pointed effort not to look at my skimpy outfit. “We need to talk.”
The whiskey on his breath nearly knocks me over.
“I have nothing to say to you,” I answer coolly. “I don’t know you.”
“I’m your guardian.”
“You’re a stranger.” Now I’m haughty. “And you’re interfering with my work.”
His mouth opens. Then closes. Then he says, “All right. Get to work then.”
What?
There’s a mocking gleam in his eyes as he drifts backward toward the plush couches. He sits, spreading his legs slightly, still mocking me. “Give me what I paid for.”