That was three years ago, and I sat in the parking lot for forty-five minutes before I found the courage to walk in. Looking back, I wish I’d just driven off. Fuck the fact that it doubled my Best Buy income. Best Buy never led to blowjobs just before rent deadlines or married assholes trying to slip their fingers past my g-string.
I have no great excuses for how my life has turned out. It was a simple case of poor planning. Laziness. A year of living it up, courtesy of Capital One and Jennifer Garner’s damn ads promising double miles.
I close my eyes, and sometime around dawn, sleep finally arrives.
CHAPTER 2
My rent’s salvation walks through the front doors at 9 p.m. I am moving through tables, my eyes dancing over prospects, when a firm hand grips my elbow, hot pink nails digging into my skin. “Look alive, Candy. Rick’s looking for you.”
I glance back, carefully prying Jez’s talons out of my arm. “Fuck Rick.” Yes, fuck Rick and his suggestive offer of a double shift. My desperation must be showing, something I need to get a handle on, ASAP. If there is anything our boss loves, it’s taking advantage of his harem in our times of need.
“Candy.” Rick’s voice cuts through the thump of the music and I roll my eyes, turning to face him.
“Yep?” I drawl, smiling for the benefit of the middle-aged man who passes, his eyes lingering across my gold-dusted cleavage.
“We’ve got a high-roller requesting you.” He pulls at my arm, not allowing me an option, and I stumble forward, my heels catching as I hop and skip to keep up with him.
“What the hell? Slow down!” I hiss at him, narrowly missing the sharp edge of a table as he drags me along.
“The guy’s up in VIP. He’s waiting for you.” Rick practically sprints forward, as if this “high roller” is moments away from disappearing. I fight the urge to laugh. The guy probably asked for sparkling water and Rick thought him fancy. Our club is an establishment for truckers and minivan driving tourist dads; anybody with any taste or money took their plane to New Orleans or Atlanta if they wanted high quality girls.
“I’m telling you, this guy is loaded. He already ordered a bottle of champagne—you know that bottle of Dom we keep in the back? Plus, he has private security and came in a limo.” Rick practically pants with excitement, his mouth so close I can smell the hamburger he had for dinner, his hand still pulling me along.
I allow myself a speck of excitement. This guy does sound loaded. Maybe this night will be different. Maybe I will actually meet someone worthwhile, someone who doesn’t try to haggle over the price of a lap dance, or who will try and cop a free feel. We round the corner and Rick pulls back the curtain that encloses the VIP section. He steps aside and I move forward and into the dimly-lit space.
It’s hard to put a diamond in the garbage, but our VIP room is a gas station trash can and this man is a Harry Winston diamond. My eyes skip over the empty center stage, over the empty black couches, their cushions ripped and saggy, and hone in on the man.
He dominates a center couch, his back against the leather, his arms draped out like wings on a plane, a lit cigar glowing from his right hand. Behind the couch, two men stand, their features hidden by the shadows, their silhouetted builds impressive. His security. From the end of the cigar, smoke drifts, a smoky trail across the man’s face, his smug smile widening as I approach. I take the final step, my heel dragging along the bumpy carpet before stopping. This close, I can see his eyes. Bright blue, vivid and turquoise, the sort that matches Caribbean waters and the neon glow of my bedside clock. Will I be staring at it tonight? Will this man ask something of me that will cause guilt-fueled-insomnia?
I mask my apprehension, holding my posture straight, tits out, stomach in, a smile across my face. “You asked for me?”
He brings the cigar to his lips, taking a slow drag on it, his eyes taking a slow and unapologetic tour down my body. I fight the urge to cross my arms over my chest. His eyes flit to the pole, then back to my face.
“Dance.”
A one-word asshole. I almost prefer them, the type that issue orders and shut the hell up. Better them than the romancers, the ones who fawn over you while detailing updates about every part of their lives. I nod, glancing at Rick, who steps back, toward the hall.
“I’ll turn on the system and load your playlist.” Rick does a ridiculous little forward bow toward the stranger, who ignores him, his eyes now trained on my face.
I shift my weight and clasp my hands behind me, my knuckles brushing against my ass, the Brazilian thong barely covering anything. I should have worn the sparkly back corset tonight, the set much nicer than this one—a bikini missing half of its sequins and faded from too many washes. “How’s your night going?”
The only movement comes from the fingers of his right hand, the cigar rolling slightly.
I let out a breath and step back, turning to the stage. Fine. Fuck small talk. I can wait in the back of the stage until the music comes on. It can’t take more than a minute, not with the haste Rick seems to be assigning to this jackass.
“Why are you doing this?”
Five words that stop me, his tone one which doesn’t allow for avoidance. I turn back to face him, the answer falling out quickly. “Student loans. Credit card debt.”
I used to lie. It’s the most common question from clients, followed closely by whether my breasts are real. I used to tell a detailed sob story about a sick mother and her medical bills. Clients ate it up and my G-string filled with their sweaty, sympathetic bills. Then my mom died. My dad got sick. Karma laughed, and I ditched the lies. They were unbelievable anyway. I can’t even cover my own bills, much less contribute anything to my dad’s care.
The man doesn’t respond to my comment, his cigar lifting to his mouth, obscuring some of that beautiful face. There is a crackle of a speaker and then the lights come on, the spotlights cutting through the room, the barren stage now pooled in color. I turn, grateful for the distraction, and move quickly to the stairs, my steps growing more confident as I climb the wooden rungs and stride onto the stage, the first DMX beat hitting hard in the moment that I grab the cool metal pole and swing into the air.
Flying. A hundred hours of practice, and the action is seamless as my heels fly through the air, my momentum perfect, one leg hooking on the pole, my speed increasing as I spin once, twice, three times, my muscles tightening on the pole, my speed slowing in perfect cadence with the beat, and I release the final ounce of breath in the moment I land.