Dance for Me (The Sinners’ Playground #1)

Harper

“Men ruin everything,” I grumble for what must be the thirtieth time today. It comes out more breathless than I would’ve liked, but considering most of my effort is being used to maintain my balance, I think I’m doing great.

Given that I own a club named Cirque, you’d think that being out of breath is due to some intense acrobatic feat, only to be attempted by professionals who have spent most of their adult lives hanging from ropes upside down.

Unfortunately, the only acrobatic thing I’ve accomplished is finding just the right way to dig my heel into the flattened-out palm of a man who couldn’t understand “hands off.”

In all fairness, the bouncers warned him twice, and much to his current despair, I don’t give three strikes.

Hell, I rarely give two. I’ve been known to kick someone out of my club after getting a bad feeling about the way they look at my employees.

There’s nothing, truly nothing, that matters more to me than the people who work here and making sure this is a safe space for them.

Mr. Cheap Cologne is learning that right now, in a very hands-on experience.

It could be considered cheating that two of my security detail are currently pinning him to the ground, but I like to think that the twisted look of pain contorting his face is from the stiletto end of my Louboutin digging into his hand.

Not the full body-slam he endured a few minutes ago, bringing him down to this lovely and convenient position.

“If you can’t keep your hands to yourself, then you simply shouldn’t be allowed to use them,” I murmur as I lean just a little more of my weight onto the heel embedded into his skin.

I’m what people would describe as an average build, fit enough to recognize I like to feel healthy and workout, but curvy enough to know that even without the pathetic apologies and whimpers coming from this sad little man, he’s certainly feeling the force of my weight bearing down on him.

I gingerly dismount from my human tightrope, instructing my security team to make sure he doesn’t have the ability to pass off groping as affection any time soon.

Relieved to be back on even ground, I glide back over to my desk, a large wood-framed monstrosity that’s centered against the back wall.

The office is a slightly elongated rectangle, giving the impression of a corridor more than an office.

The one and only entrance is at the opposite end from where my desk is perched, with an en-suite bathroom door to the right.

I added the private shower and bathroom when it became glaringly obvious that I spend more time here than at my horribly overpriced apartment downtown.

You’d be surprised how many people come in here with petty complaints and lose whatever nerve they had in the small distance that spans between the door and the desk.

It helps that there’s no other chair in this office besides the one I’m currently plopping into.

Can’t have people think they’re welcome to stay, or worse, make themselves at home. The horror.

As they carry the pathetic excuse of a man out the door, my hospitality manager and temporary assistant, Tessa, bustles into the room, clinging to the edge of the doorframe to avoid rubbing against the man and the blood that’s slowly dripping down his hand.

She yelps when his hand swings a little too close to the hem of her dress, but otherwise seems unruffled by the whole spectacle.

Should I be concerned that she isn’t concerned?

“You have an interview in a few minutes. Want me to get you anything before I send him back here?” Tessa offers.

Nah, I’m sure plenty of bosses have security issues that end in a little bloodshed.

“You’re a lifesaver. Just a seltzer with lime, please.”

“Of course,” Tessa says in an overly saccharine tone.

Her desperation to prove she can take on more duties is driving me up the wall.

As much as I’d love to have one of the bartenders make me an old fashioned, it sends the wrong message to the staff.

I don’t allow my employees to drink while working, and it doesn’t seem fair to hold my staff to a certain level of discipline and rules if I can’t follow them myself.

The work I put in to get insurance for a place like this was no cakewalk, and with a very silent co-owner, the heavy lifting to get Cirque up and running fell to me.

I don’t plan to get shut down because one of my acrobats missed his mark and came crashing into the front tables of patrons.

While the insurance company did their best to wring me for every penny I was worth, they handled it with more grace than any of the investors I originally went to.

All they seemed to hear was “prohibition clown slut,” and honestly, I didn’t hate it.

The original concept I introduced was whittled down until it was nothing more than a simple high-end strip club that catered to the elite.

Specializing in discretion that would allow more freedoms for high-profile patrons like politicians and celebrities. It was uncomplicated and elegant.

It was boring.

While it welcomed the Fortune 500 businessmen who wanted to impress a high-profile client, or an A-list actor looking for a thrill without the mess and headache of paparazzi crawling up their asses, I craved more. I needed it to be more.

With my savior investor, bless Grant’s oversized black heart, a membership to Cirque became a thing of envy, a carefully crafted list that no amount of bribery or fame would automatically land you on. So far, I haven’t had any issues that weren’t dealt with quietly and with discretion.

On top of everything else that I’ve had to deal with tonight, I hate doing interviews.

It’s why I’ve spent the last eight months avoiding replacing my personal assistant before she abandoned me for maternity leave.

Something about starting a family and the wonders of motherhood.

Now those months have come and gone, and her early labor came around to bite me in my procrastinating ass.

Tessa’s already been putting out feelers for a replacement, but realistically I should’ve had someone picked out by now.

She’s only been gone for one week, and I’m already drowning, evident by the fact that I had no idea I was interviewing someone for an open exotic dancer position today until an hour ago.

A very eventful hour, but still not an excuse to be dropping the ball like I have this past week.

That saying about not appreciating something until you don’t have it anymore, I hate how true it is.

Even worse is the brutal realization of how much I relied on someone else.

It’s fine. Everything is fine.

I open my laptop to see the little notification icon on my inbox has grown from ninety-three to one hundred and forty-seven in the span of one quick little punishment. Can’t I have just five minutes to enjoy myself.

My fingers curl over the top of the laptop as I inhale deeply, exhaling slowly as I lower the screen until it snicks shut. That’s a problem for later, and I have an interview to prepare for.

The dancer positions, unlike finding the right trapeze or lyra performer, are typically filled by me, since they require a different type of scrutiny. Do they make my palms sweat and my cheeks heat? Those are the types of boxes I can make sure get ticked off.

The compensation for the dancers is far beyond what a typical strip club would offer and is the biggest reason we are constantly fielding applications for interviews, including the one I have today.

Another benefit of conducting the dancer interviews myself is not having to disrupt the flow of Tessa’s or Marcus’s days with their respective oversight groups.

As the hospitality manager and head of performative art, they conduct their own interviews for positions that fall under them.

Marcus makes sure the fire breathers don’t set my stage aflame, Tessa makes sure the drinks are unique and poured with care, and I stay in my fucking lane.

Tessa returns, pressing open the door with one hand and balancing my seltzer in the other, along with her tablet and phone.

Never to be separated from either as she coordinates menus and plans orders throughout the day.

Luckily for me, her attention to detail and willingness to help have allowed me to continue my work while I sort through the applications submitted to hire a new assistant and conduct interviews like this one.

“Ms. Mathers, let me introduce you to Colton West. Colton, this is Ms. Harper Mathers. She’s one of the owners of Cirque and will be conducting your interview today.

” She barely spares me a glance as she drops the drink onto the coaster on my desk with a soft clunk.

Hearts dance in her eyes as Colton steps forward, and she stares at his form as long as she can before she leaves the office, too distracted to fully close the door behind her.

This process isn’t meant to make you swoon. She spoke to this man for five minutes before bringing him in here, and I can practically hear her reciting their wedding vows through the door.

Extending his hand, he attempts to reintroduce himself, “Hello, Ms. Mathers, thank you so much for considering me for the position. It’s a great opportunity. I know the only thing harder to get than a membership here is a position on staff.” He chuckles at his own comment.

How quaint.

I take a moment to stare at him. His outstretched hand.

So kind, cute even, that he thinks this is a job where pleasantries and flattery will get him anywhere.

Gentlemanly behavior isn’t something I particularly look for in my dancers.

I need them to command a scene, pull the onlooker away from the day-to-day drivel and business dealings left behind in an office.

To put their patron into a trance. Show me the magic you bring to the experience of Cirque.

Show me how you can make me forget where I am for a night and who I’m expected to be.

People don’t come here to be entertained; they come to get lost.

“You can begin,” I say, leaning back in my chair.

His hand is still thrust in front of him, eager and empty as his eyes dart from one side of the room to the other, searching for something and coming up empty as they repeat the motion. What is he looking for?

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I understand…” he trails off, his wide smile starting to wilt in the corners.

This isn’t the first time a dancer has come in and been a little thrown off at the boss conducting their interview, usually expecting to chat with me for a few minutes and then move on to whoever they are here to really audition with.

“Dance for me.” It’s a simple direction, yet his eyes widen, and his hand finally snaps back to his side, as if he suddenly realized he tried to shake hands with the devil.

“I…uh…what?” Colton stammers, the tips of his ears turning a beautiful shade of pink.

Everything about him is beautiful; that’s not really in question.

My eyes travel down from his pink-tipped ears to take in the rest of his features.

The heart eyes Tessa was sporting are making more and more sense.

His mouth opening and closing in shock reveals his full upper lip as he struggles to find words.

A perfect Cupid’s bow that doesn’t look like it’s ever lost itself between a woman’s legs.

Everything about this man is angelic. Sandy-blond hair that’s full and a little longer on the top than on the sides, with a ruffled, effortless style that probably took a solid forty-five minutes to get just right.

His blond hair and eager energy are a vibrant clash with the dark ambience of my office. Bright green eyes are currently staring into my soul, begging to give him some other form of direction.

“What was confusing about that, Colt? If you can’t strip for me, you certainly aren’t going to be trusted to do it in front of patrons,” I shoot at him, wondering if he’s going to prove me wrong, or scurry away, back to Sunday school.

“My apologies, Harp. Just not what I expected today.” A slight tilt to his lips reveals what I suspect is pride blooming in his chest for not backing down.

He isn’t exactly smiling, but the puppy-dog look has vanished, replaced by one that looks like it’s ready to meet me blow for blow.

“I can’t exactly approve you to be one of Cirque’s dancers if I can’t promise you’ll be up to the challenge. Wouldn’t be good business to hire you and then find you wanting.”

He bobs his head in understanding, seeming to weigh my words against what? His skill? His confidence?

He starts to turn around, and my shoulders sag slightly with the realization that this sparring match is meeting a swift end. Yes, he looks like a cartoon prince, but for one brief moment, I thought he was going to play with me.

It’s been a long time since I had a worthy opponent.

As he crosses the room back toward the door in two strides, I’m painfully aware of his long legs and tall stature for the first time since he stepped into my office.

Easily over six feet tall, with a broad back and a tapered waist. He’s lean, but not gangly, and I’d bet good money that he swam in school. It’s like watching a Ken doll come to life and stride across my office.

Headed right for the door.

When he reaches the handle, he seems to pause, battling out his fight-or-flight reaction.

After one beat too long, he closes the door, encasing himself within.

Turning back to me, one hand gravitates to the first button at his collar, his perfect mouth morphing into a seductive smirk as his eyes connect with mine.

It’s the first time in a long time I think I might have made a mistake.

Lucifer was once an angel too.