Sneak Peek of Strip
Sage Cashman wasn’t afraid to perform. She’d been dancing for nineteen years.
Granted, most of that time she hadn’t been wearing a G-string and five-inch heels, but those things weren’t responsible for the nausea swirling in her gut.
She’d accepted them months ago. It was what was riding on this one shot, do-or-die audition at the Black Cat that was testing her nerves.
How was this the most important audition of her life?
Sage shoved the thought away. She was being melodramatic, and she despised drama.
Her sister, Rosemary, might not even be sick.
Her test results hadn’t come back yet, so the job at the Black Cat would be insurance.
An emergency backup plan. Just in case. Sage needed to work anyway, and the Black Cat was a step up from the Horny Toad.
She would make better money here. Plus, bad luck or not, she’d rather have a black cat than a horny toad.
The booming sound system rattled her molars.
The club was packed. She’d been lucky to find a seat at the shiny, lacquered walnut bar.
She shifted, crossing and uncrossing her legs to relieve the numbing press of the wooden barstool.
It was almost her time to dance, and she didn’t want her legs falling asleep.
Sage signaled the bartender for a refill of her seltzer water. What she really wanted was a glass of Torrontés or a splash of Tito’s in her club soda. Her limbs were stiff, like she’d been playing too long in the snow. Rigid and jerky wasn’t sexy. She needed to loosen up. Pronto.
Unfortunately, alcohol wasn’t an option. She couldn’t afford to be off-balance, mentally or physically. Princes didn’t come riding up on white horses to save the day. If you wanted something done right, it was always best to do it yourself.
The busty, strawberry-blonde, heavily freckled bartender topped off her seltzer water. “Are you here for auditions?”
“Yep. I think I’m up next.”
The bartender braced her hands on the bar, pushing herself up and forward, peeking over the edge. “No purse, no alcohol, and good solid shoes. It’s not your first time, is it?”
Sage slid a hand into the top of her black, strapless, skin-hugging, snakeskin-patterned dress and flashed her cash and fake ID at the bartender.
“Nope. Not my first rodeo. I’ve been dancing at the Horny Toad the past few months.
Working there, I learned quickly to keep anything valuable either on my body or locked in my locker. ”
“The Horny Toad?” The bartender chuckled. “Where do they come up with these names? I heard that place can be a little rough. It’s actually pretty good here. Especially with the new owner.” She angled her head toward the stage. “I hope they call you soon. That poor girl is struggling up there.”
Sage glanced at the twentysomething teetering around the stage.
Her lilac thong was the wrong shade for her pale skin, and that was all she was wearing.
She’d taken off too much too fast and didn’t know how to use her hands to cover herself, allowing only teasing sneak peeks of her breasts.
Her shoes were an accident waiting to happen. Literally.
“Those heels are way too narrow for dancing,” Sage said.
There was a reason character shoes had thick heels.
Even the best performer could stumble dancing on toothpicks.
Noreen, her first and only friend at the Horny Toad, had clued her in on the tricks of the trade, and “solid, stable shoes are worth their weight in gold” had been the first bit of advice she’d offered.
The girl attempted to swing around the pole but ended up tripping over her own feet.
Sage winced. Pole dancing looked easy when someone else did it, but there were physics and a heck of a lot of strength involved—and not every pole was the same.
Some were stationary. Some spun. Some fast. Some slow.
Noreen said stripper poles were like people.
Each had its own peculiarities. The Horny Toad had three poles.
One was slim, smooth, and fast; another was thick, strong, and steady; and the third was sticky, stubborn, and creaky.
That’s why she’d snuck into the Black Cat a few hours before opening and tipped the janitor fifty bucks to let her check out the club’s poles. She hated variables.
The girl onstage turned her ankle on her spiked heel, sending her into a graceless spin. Luckily, she didn’t fall.
Sage’s gaze traveled down to her own open-toed, black, patent leather stilettos.
The two-inch-diameter heels and platform soles provided the stability she needed to twist, turn, and slither across the stage, and men loved the royal-blue double straps at the ankle.
Still, quality shoes couldn’t prevent every mishap.
Even seasoned dancers took a tumble from time to time.
Her teeth dug into her bottom lip. Falling flat on her face was not an option. Not tonight.
Sage took as deep a breath as she could muster.
The Lycra dress shouldn’t feel confining, but the urge to gulp air overwhelmed her.
Her fingers itched to lower the front zipper that ran the length of the dress for some extra breathing room, but she didn’t touch it.
It might be amateur night onstage, but club employees were still working the floor.
She’d come dressed to impress, and every stripper’s eyes were already boring holes in her back.
Exposing extra skin when she wasn’t onstage or working the floor could make the other dancers think she was trying to steal their regulars.
No need to make enemies the first night.
A few patrons close to the stage yelled “Next!” and “Time’s up!
” The shouts increased in number and volume as purple-thong girl continued to flounder.
It sucked to figure out when you were onstage and nearly naked that you weren’t as coordinated or sexy as you thought.
The poor girl was probably desperate to get back to her table.
Mercifully, the song slowed and faded. Sage laid a twenty on the bar—Rule Number One: Never piss off the bartender—and scrunched her hands into her thick, almost-waist-length waves.
Showtime.
The spotlight circled a few times before settling on her back. The DJ’s rich, baritone voice cut through the laughter and conversation. “Who wants sugar when you can have spice? Our next dancer is sure to be a savory treat! Please welcome Savory Sage!”
Slipping the DJ a C-note was definitely money well spent, even it if meant she’d be eating pasta for two weeks. This was the attention-grabbing intro she’d been hoping for.
Sage spun on the barstool, uncrossing and straightening her legs simultaneously, making a quick V in the air. She pushed up from the seat, thrusting her breasts forward and hanging her head back in a catlike arch, then straightened, shimmied her shoulders, and flashed a saucy smile.
The DJ started playing her song, and Sage strutted toward the stage, working the room. She tugged on ties, tickled necks with her hair, and leaned her cleavage toward lust-filled eyes, teasing patrons as she sashayed across the club floor.
She’d scoped out the expensive watches, designer jeans, and custom-made suits while she’d waited.
She focused her attention on those wealthy customers, sending a message to management that she knew how the business worked and how money was made.
The stage was just a prop in the game. The real cash came from lap dances, private booths, and private rooms. A successful dancer identified who had cash to spend and convinced those men to open their wallets.
The hallway she needed to pass through to access the stage was a few feet away.
A tall man stood in the shadows. The reflection of the stage lights against his polished shoes caught her attention, and his sheer size and magnetism kept it.
The cut of his suit was expensive, and his posture had the quiet alertness of a lion waiting for prey. She spun toward him.
The man lazed against the wall, arms crossed.
His fitted suit was not nearly as slim as the ones her friend Justin wore.
Justin was thin, elegant, and dapper, and his clothing accentuated those natural traits.
This man’s suit was more like a disguise.
The material strained slightly at his shoulders and across the thickest part of his thighs.
His stance screamed confidence and power.
He was a broad-shouldered, thick-legged Viking warrior, hiding his true nature in business attire.
The stage could wait a few more seconds.
Sage shimmied closer to get a better look.
His strong-boned face was partially obscured by the dim light, but she could make out black, wavy hair, a straight forehead, high cheekbones, and a square chin.
A three-day shadow broke through his warm, bronze skin, like he’d just returned from a beach vacation.
That stubble would probably feel incredible against her skin.
Heat rushed to her thighs.
She froze.
Physical attraction to customers was not part of the game. Physical attraction to men was not a part of her life. She was here for a purpose, not to be distracted by some dark, dangerous stranger, but the spotlight still shone on her back, and at this point, retreat would look awkward.
Play the part.
Sage leaned forward and ran long fingernails down the lapel of the Viking’s suit jacket. She lifted her gaze and met two expressionless circles of glacial ice.
The Viking slid strong fingers around the back of her neck, calluses electrifying her skin. Warm breath touched her ear.
“Don’t waste your time on me, sweetheart. You’re not my type, and I’m not a pushover like the rest of the chumps in this place.”
Her cheeks blazed. Humiliation she thought she’d put behind her in her first few weeks at the Horny Toad rushed back, mixing with rage.
Who was he to judge her?