Healing Magic & Playboys (Casual Magic Book 3)

Chapter 1

The evenings after I teach, I refuse to wear the proper stripper uniform. I’ll still put on the lacy, bedazzled bra that adds enough push-up to make it appear as though my D-cups are about to spill out. And I’ll tug on my matching panties that seem sheer but have crystals clustered over all the important parts. I’ll even coat my skin in the glitter-infused lotion that makes my normally beige complexion look like I’m covered in glittering gems.

But I will not wear the heels.

The soles of my feet ache from hours standing in front of college students, trying to explain how Wikipedia may be a good starting point when learning about a new topic, but it is not a viable source to cite in a research paper. When I first applied to library school, I didn’t expect there to be an instructional component. I imagined I would be tucked away in some archive, examining old books, or I’d be cataloging collections in a public library. But I settled into higher education, and academic librarians wear many hats.

Though, I’m not sure how many of my colleagues across the country have a stripper hat in their skillset closet.

I technically don’t have a hat either. But I do have a mask. I tie the lacy disguise over the top half of my face and secure the material to my hair with a few strategically placed bobby pins.

But—due to my five-class-in-a-row-day—I do not put on the six-inch-tall pleaser heels.

Barefoot, trying not to wince at how even flatfooted my soles are still tender, I push through the door that leads from the dressing room to the area behind the main stage.

Without the soundproofing, I can hear the last bit of “Champagne Shit” by Janelle Monae. As the final cords trail off there’s the sound of cheering, the crowd showing their appreciation for the performance.

“Club is busy for a Tuesday,” Blue says. They pause beside me with a janitor broom. The cleaning implement looks badass with its chrome handle and pitch-black brush head. The Air Elemental is in charge of cash collection tonight, sweeping up all the loose bills after each dance. They make a big show of moving the broom around, but us magic types know Blue is actually manipulating the air currents to direct the money off stage. Making sure they don’t miss any. On slow nights we collect the bills ourselves, since it’s only a handful.

Not that I keep the cash.

“Oh,” I say. “Good.”

Blue snorts, hearing the lack of conviction in my voice. Most dancers would love a building full of eager customers. A part of me is glad to hear there’s a decent showing.

The problem is, I only need a few audience members to earn the payment I’m looking for. The more people there are, the more likely there’s someone in the crowd who voices dissatisfaction over my not-so-classic stripping style.

Also increases the chances someone might recognize me.

Stop it, I silently scold myself. No one from your job would come here. And even if they did, they wouldn’t recognize you on stage.

The curtains part, and Jade saunters in, her light green G-string stuffed full of bills. Normally we’re the same height, roughly five foot six, but since she didn’t forgo her pleasers, the woman towers over me. Jade swings a curtain of braids over her onyx shoulder to show her top is equally adorned with cash.

“A birthday party,” she announces by way of explanation, gesturing at her haul. Blue sneaks around the dancer, ducking through the velvet curtains and heading out to sweep up any earnings Jade received that didn’t end up in her panties. “Though, this one”—Jade tugs out a bill that sat snug under the bikini strap running across her collarbone—“was from your man.”

She waves the hundred dollars in front of my face and my heart rate trips. But not because of the amount.

He’s here. Of course, he’s here.

“I don’t know what you did to that man.” Jade grabs my face in a gentle but firm hold and plants a loud kiss somewhere in the mass of my white-blonde waves. “But gods, I love you for it. He tips me like he thinks I’ll put in a good word for him.” She tilts my chin up to grin directly into my face. “So here’s my word. Keep making him into a needy puddle of goo for at least a few more weeks. I’m almost done saving for my trip to Brazil.”

Jade—who’s working under a nom de plume like we all are—shared with me that she started stripping to pay off the student loans from her computer science degree. But she decided to keep going because The Jewelry Box is a decent place to work, and the combined salaries means she can fill her condo with luxuries and jet off to locations all around the world whenever she wants. Also, sitting at a computer all day is a demon on the body. Pole dancing is her workout.

I roll my eyes. “I didn’t do anything to him. I do the opposite of do. I ignore him just like I ignore everyone else.”

Jade lets out a husky chuckle. “I know! It’s delicious. I’m going to see if I can find a lap near him to dance on so I can watch his face when you give him nothing.” She kisses my cheek then lets me go. “You make Tuesday nights my favorite of the week.”

The beginning strains of “In Too Deep” by WDW drift to us just as Blue reappears, pushing a stack of crumbled bills in front of them.

“You’re up, Pearl.” All of us dancers choose what songs we perform to—after running them by our boss Yasmin for approval—and we can change them up as often as we like. But this is one of my favorites and everyone knows it. I’m a sucker for a good boy band.

Jade smoothly squats so she can scoop up handfuls of the cash and deposit her earnings into a nearby bin with her name embossed on it. There’s a container for each dancer. Ruby’s is also partially full from her earlier performance.

It might seem odd to leave cash basically lying around back here. But the workers at The Jewelry Box respect one another. Plus, a protection witch spelled the boxes to only allow the dancer whose box it is to reach inside.

The pros of working at a strip club run by and staffed with magical beings.

Speaking of magic, time for me to go get some.

I breathe through the tingle of nerves that always sends goosebumps racing across my skin the moment before I step in front of a crowd. I had the same reaction this morning before I walked into the intro level history course where I was set to teach a group of thirty about research databases. Now I’m preparing to tease a crowd of half-drunk club-goers with my body.

An interesting life I live. But I’m used to it.

Mostly.

As my fingers clutch the heavy velvet, I pull on my emotionless mask, wearing it underneath my masquerade one, then I step onto the stage.

Eyes turn toward me. Another jewel on display.

I saunter down the thin stretch of elevated walkway that leads to the round main stage, my bare feet making no sound on the cool wood. The bulbs along the edge of the platform fade from green to a soft white glow. Jade to Pearl, the shift silently announces. Though the lights highlight me, there’s no spotlight. No strobe lights or disco balls. Yasmin, the owner of The Jewelry Box, wanted her club to stand out and stand apart from the seedier joints in Phoenix.

The moment a patron makes it past the bouncer, they know this isn’t an average strip joint. The floors and walls are different shades of dark wood, the surfaces polished to the point they reflect a muted glow of the candles flickering on high shelves around the perimeter of the spacious room. All the club’s lighting is warm and low, providing a sensual ambiance. All the seating is simple and comfortable, and the couches in the VIP section are soft supple leather. Strips of silk dangle from the ceiling, appearing gauzy and delicate as the material shifts in subtle air currents, but each one is plenty strong enough to support the acrobatic dancers that dangle from them as part of their routine. Elegant chandeliers hang from the ceiling where the silks don’t, the only items that sparkle in this room other than me.

The first time I toured the place, the word that came to mind was speakeasy.

The Jewelry Box provides a sense of elegance along with erotic tantalization.

There is still a pole, and that’s where I head, knowing once I reach it my tender feet can leave the ground. Still, this short walk already has my body relaxing. Partly because I’m comfortable up here, completely in charge of this space.

But more than that, my tranquility arrives on a cloud of lust.

The men, and some women and thems, stare at me with hungry expressions, dragging their eyes over every bare inch of my body. In their gazes, I can see them imagining what it would be like to touch me. To fuck me.

Go ahead and wonder,I silently encourage them. Get creative.

I want them to fantasize about me. To play out personal pornos with me as the star.

Because every ounce of lust directed my way fills my internal magic cauldron. The often empty well in my chest that holds mystical fuel so I can cast spells.

The problems of a half-witch, half-succubus.

Well, more like a quarter, since it was my grandmother who decided to summon an incubus demon and sleep with him without using birth control. Two generations later, and I’m a healing witch who needs other peoples’ arousal to power my spell work. My mystical fuel is all external. Without these dancing shifts, I wouldn’t be able to access my magic.

And without my magic, I’m fucked.

A few more steps to the pole, and I’m already juiced up. So much that I’m tempted to direct some of the power toward my feet to ease the ache.

Don’t do it. You need that power. You’ll regret using it.

Since I’ve got my stoic stage mask on, I don’t sigh in annoyance. But the aggravated noise wants to get out. After working with Elementals like Jade and Blue, and most of the other Jewelry Box employees for the past two years, I’ve grown envious of how they seem to have an endless supply of magic. Jade, a Fire Elemental, can bring flames to her fingertips with only a touch of concentration. The heat lives in her always. And if she wants to supercharge it, she merely needs to strongly feel a particular emotion. For her, it’s annoyance, but each Elemental is different. Fire, water, earth, air, and metal. More often we use the silly nicknames, Pyro, Squid, Petal Pusher, Airhead, and Stoner.

Descendants of the Elemental gods, they carry magic in themselves and don’t have to syphon power from the surrounding world like I and many other witches have to.

To distract myself from my pity thoughts, I turn the last few steps into light skips then grab the pole and swing myself around, adjusting my grip and eventually bringing my legs to the smooth surface. With a burning flex of my biceps and a strategic squeeze of my legs, I climb, knowing by the end of the night I’ll have light bruises on my inner thighs from the moves I plan to do, all to keep my feet off the floor. As I let the set of songs I picked out guide my body, the pain eases to the back of my mind, and I enjoy the strength and sensuality of my movements.

And I keep my focus away from the VIP section.

Away from him.

I know he’s here. I would’ve realized even if Jade hadn’t said anything, though I don’t like how she labeled him as my man.

But I guess it’s better than calling me his.

That’s what he wants. I can tell from the way he continues to show up. Continues trying to get me to the edge of the stage by holding up larger and larger bills. Bills that I ignore, just like I ignore him.

But I ignore everyone, so he’s not special.

Only, he is. Slightly special.

Not that I’d ever tell him.

His lust tastes different. When the power converges on me, I breathe the force in, the magic passing over my tongue on the way to my chest where the force settles and heats my skin from the inside out. Lust magic tends to taste like cocoa, and it’s like everyone hands me a generic milk chocolate bar. But he slips a decadent peanut butter cup between my lips.

A little different.

A little more delicious.

And not something I plan to thoroughly examine. I’m here for magic. Not for some rich playboy interested in a stripper only because she’s the first person to ever ignore him.

Still, I should get a medal for effort because the guy is hard to disregard.

Even now, as I hang upside-down on the pole, my attention tries to latch on to him. I spy a perfectly tailored suit covering a tall, lithe body. A flicker of golden-brown hair, the color richer in the club’s warm lighting.

But I force my gaze away before I’m caught in his dark eyes.

I right myself and slide the rest of the way down the pole in a sensual glide that belies how strong my grip is. My toes touch the ground, and I let my body drop lower into a crouch, then arch my back and try not to shiver at the onslaught of lust that tastes largely of chocolate but leaves a lingering aftertaste of peanut butter.

My last song in this set is almost done, and I stand, considering if I want to climb once more. I like being high above everyone.

Then a movement at the edge of the stage teases the corner of my eye.

It’s him. My body knows it’s him.

My tastebuds tell me how much he craves my attention.

How high will his offer go this time? He went up to a thousand two weeks ago. But even if I want the money—which I don’t—he still eventually lets it fall. Those ten hundred-dollar bills scattered at my feet when I wouldn’t look his way.

I didn’t keep it. I don’t keep any of the money. One more wall of safety, like my mask.

Still, I find myself curious.

Instead of climbing, I hook my leg waist-height on the pole and take some lazy spins that match the beat. Meanwhile, I allow my peripheral vision to focus on his hands.

No bills appear in them. Not this time.

His fingers cradle a velvet box.

Different. Intriguing.

I expect him to open it. To show me whatever treasure he brought to draw me in. Instead, he sets the box down on the edge of the stage and waits. The hand that didn’t deposit the mystery gift in my territory clutches a glass with amber liquid. He brings the drink to his mouth, but I don’t watch him sip the rich alcohol. Don’t risk a glimpse of his lips.

Leave it. Walk off the stage at the end of the song like normal.

The problem is…it’s a box.

Money is money. I know what that is. But a box…

It’s a mystery.

Damn the gods, I love a good mystery. My favorite part of my day job is when a student brings me a fun research puzzle to solve. When we search through databases to discover an answer together.

The box is a puzzle.

Don’t do it, I tell myself even as I slow my spinning. This dancing is for you. Not for him. He doesn’t get anything from you.

But…looking inside the box isn’t giving him anything, I reason as I step toward the gift.

A gift I swear I won’t keep. Still, I need to see what it is.

What does he think will win me? What price has he placed on my attention?

In a graceful move, I glide across the stage and drop to my knees, thighs spread so the velvet box sits between them.

A wave of lust rushes down my throat, and if I didn’t have my mask of disinterest in place, I’d let out a dry chuckle. Or a groan of relief. My internal magical caldron is filling to the brim, and I’m set for at least another week if not more.

He likes seeing me on my knees.

But who cares what he likes? I’m not here for him. I’m here for the box. Impatient for the mystery to be solved, I open the lid with a snap, the velvet soft and teasing against my fingertips.

Inside, nestled on a silk cushion, is a string of pearls.

Pearls almost the exact same shade as my milk-pale skin and the white outfits I wear and the mask I don. Pearls like my stage name.

Pearls like the person I pretend to be.

And nothing like the woman I truly am.

Disappointment creeps up my spine and through the nerves in my body, shoving out the brief respite of dancing and leaving behind all the new and old aches of the day. I extend a single finger, hooking the necklace and lifting it from the box until the jewelry dangles in the low light of the club. There’s a gasp from nearby that sounds like Jade. She must’ve found a lap with a good view to occupy.

I lift my eyes to the unbuttoned collar of his dress shirt, up the strong, tan column of his neck, past his defined chin, and stop at the easy grin on his face. No need to meet his eyes when I can spy plenty of self-satisfaction in the pleased curve of his mouth.

He thinks he found my price. A string of gems in exchange for one.

Pompous playboy.

When will he learn that I can’t be bought?

Before he realizes my intention, I extend my arm, the pearls swinging in my grasp. But they settle with a satisfying thunk when I drop the entire necklace into his glass of whiskey.

The song ends, and I rise to my feet in a smooth move I perfected by the age of eight. There’s money strewn across the stage, tossed there while I spent my entire set on the pole.

But I’m not here for the cash. Blue will sweep it up, and Yasmin will donate it to the local animal shelter.

I leave every bill behind as I stride off the stage.

And I leave Sammy Reyes behind, too, not feeling even a pinch of guilt over the shocked expression on his handsome face.

The Squid can keep his meaningless gifts.

All I need is the decadence of his peanut butter lust.