Sneak Peek of Strip #2
Men were all the same. They spent wads of cash to leer at naked women, then condemned them for stripping.
It was a ridiculous double standard. Her knee itched to slam up.
Hard. That would knock that condescending look off his face—and get her kicked out of the club faster than she could say “You’re an arrogant ass. ”
She needed this job. For Rosemary’s sake. So she flicked her long, thick, bouncy hair, spun, then strutted toward the stage, taking deep breaths to calm her pounding heart.
Sage mounted the stage just as the music changed from the slow, sexy blues tune she’d used for her approach to AC/DC’s “You Shook Me All Night Long.” It was a fantastic song for stripping, fast-paced hard rock, dripping with innuendo.
She took a few quick, graceful steps, then launched herself at the pole, spinning sinuously around it.
She slid down, landing firmly on her wide heels, spread her legs and arched her back, gripping the pole with one hand and sliding along it suggestively.
She threw herself into the familiar, crowd-pleasing routine, letting it soothe her.
Dancing always calmed her, so she let the music take over.
She slid her hands over her body as she shimmied toward the front of the stage.
She teased the crowd by rubbing the cool zipper of her dress in her warm fingers, tugging it down just an inch.
The audience cheered. A few boisterous voices yelled “Take it off!”
This was the worst part. Baring her skin was too much like baring her soul, but she’d do what had to be done, just as she had for the past several months. Rosemary needed her. That was all that mattered.
Sage eased the zipper down until her dress loosened and slid past her hips, pooling around her feet.
A step and kick sent the dress flying toward the back of the stage.
The overhead vent poured cool air over her body.
Dancing was hot, sweaty work, so the stage area was always air-conditioned no matter the time of year.
Goosebumps formed, and her nipples instantly hardened from the cold, rubbing against the red silk bows that barely covered them.
More cheers exploded, and patrons pressed close to the stage, hanging over the raised edges. This particular collection of red strings and bows was always a crowd-pleaser. There must be something about red. It was probably good she couldn’t afford red shoes. They might cause a riot.
She tugged teasingly at the edges of the bows as she shook her full breasts. Years of dieting hadn’t put a dent in them. Thank God her mother had talked her out of having them reduced. Sage would probably only be pulling in a third of the cash if she’d had that surgery.
Despite her teasing tugs, the bows didn’t budge. Nor would they. She’d sewn them shut with her own two hands. She never removed her thong or fully exposed her nipples. Those tiny pieces of string protected a piece of herself, a small measure of independence and pride, that she refused to give up.
Initially, management at the Horny Toad had balked at her refusal to dance fully nude, but after a week, she was the most sought-after stripper in the club.
There was no challenge in the blatant nudity of her coworkers, and men loved a challenge.
Every guy thought he’d be the one to whom she’d show her secret flesh.
That was the game. Making each man think he was special, even though none of them would ever win the prize.
The DJ turned the volume louder, and the booming base flowed into her body, demanding motion. She threw her head back, jogged three long, graceful steps, and leaped back onto the pole, gripping the unyielding metal with her thighs.
Madame Gursky was right. Ballet gave a body the strength to do almost anything, although she likely hadn’t imagined Sage hanging upside down, mostly naked, as the end goal of her years of training.
And Madame had been dead wrong about Sage’s body.
Her full breasts and curvy hips may have been “très horrible” for ballet, but at a strip club they left the audience with glassy eyes, open mouths, and most importantly, open wallets.
Her body had kept a roof over their heads and food on the table and would get her this job and the introduction she needed to the club owner.
There was nothing “très horrible” about that!
A professorial-looking, gray-haired gentleman held out a twenty-dollar bill, and Sage abandoned the pole for the green, leaning backward, sliding her hands to the ground, and executing a sharp back walkover.
Another cheer erupted. Acrobatics in heels was another big crowd-pleaser.
She glided to the edge of the stage and shimmied down to her hands and knees, pointing to the top edge of her garter belt.
The professor tucked the bill in with a polite smile.
When a floppy-haired, shy-faced boy who barely looked legal waved another twenty, Sage crawled toward him and gave the same nonverbal cues.
Clear instructions avoided hands going where they shouldn’t.
A group of rowdy frat boys tossed some bills onto the stage to get her attention.
Sage flipped, using her left arm to arch her body into a standing position.
Two quick spins brought her face to face with the group.
They were young, drunk, and cocky, just like some of the guys she’d been at school with last year.
Forcing herself to retain her saucy smile, Sage pushed the bills back toward the young men with the toe of her shoe while shaking her finger in a “no, no, no, you naughty boy” fashion. Throwing cash on the stage violated club rules.
She pointed a long, painted fingernail toward the rolled cash in her red-bowed garter belt.
The men got the message, picked up their bills, and slid them into her garter while she shook her shoulders and breasts to the beat of the song.
The bouncer who’d been battling his way through the patrons shot her a quick, grateful smile.
The bouncers always appreciated a woman who could manage the crowd.
When the song ended, Sage scooped up her dress, gave a quick wave, and pranced off the stage. Her heart hammered, and it wasn’t just from the exertion of the dance. Despite the deafening applause, her nerves wouldn’t settle until she was sure she had the job.
Bryce, the club manager, was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs.
He was a tank of a man, tall and wide and all hard muscle.
He was so large she could barely squeeze past him.
He probably started as a bouncer, and a damn good one at that.
Earlier that evening, she’d seen an obnoxious customer turn tail and retreat with only a cross-armed glare from Bryce.
If she hadn’t experienced his warm, friendly demeanor when she’d signed up to audition, he would’ve seemed imposing as hell.
She traded her fake smile for a real one and pointed a playful finger toward him. “I told you they’d love me!”
Bryce rubbed a massive hand over his bald head and chuckled, his bright white teeth flashing. “You were right. Can you start right away?”
“Sure. I can start tonight.”
Bryce shook his head. “Not tonight. The owner has to approve your paperwork. I’ll give you a schedule for the rest of the week tonight, then call you tomorrow after he signs off so you know you’re good to go. Do you have any questions?”
She was accepting the job regardless of the terms, but each club had its own financial quirks, and she needed to understand the Black Cat’s.
“Do you have a price list I can see?”
Bryce pulled a folded sheet of paper from the front pocket of his black dress pants and handed it to her.
Where did he shop? His clothes fit too well for a run-of-the-mill big and tall shop, but a strip club manager likely didn’t make enough to pay for custom-made. She studied the price sheet, noting the charge for lap dances by song and by time, private booths, and private rooms.
“What’s the stage fee?” she asked.
“No stage fee. At least, not now. The new owner got rid of it. House gets forty-five percent of the dances. You get the rest.”
“The house only takes forty-five percent? That’s a pretty good deal. What about tip-out?”
“Bouncers and DJ get a dollar a dance. The new guy wanted to get rid of that too, but I told him not to shake it up too much. Folks don’t like too much change at once. Do you have ID? We do everything by the book now, so you’ll have to fill out a W-4.”
The rumor mill was right on this one. No working under the table at the Black Cat.
Sage felt around for the little pocket sewn into the top of the dress she now held in her hand, pulled out her friend Olivia Dupree’s ID, and handed it over. “Sounds like this new owner runs a tight ship. When do I get to meet him?”
“I can’t say. He keeps to himself.” Bryce squinted at the driver’s license. “Olivia Dupree? Why did the DJ call you Sage?”
Because I’m a moron and blurted out my real name when the DJ asked me.
“That’s my stage name. Sage sounds a lot sexier than Olivia.”
Bryce shined a flashlight on the hard, white card, and the hologram sparkled.
Sage held her breath. She and Olivia both had brown hair, blue eyes, and a petite nose, but the similarities ended there.
Olivia’s face was square while hers was oval, and Olivia’s straight, shoulder-length hair was light brown, nothing like the long, thick, dark, unruly waves currently sticking to her perspiration-soaked back.
Plus, Olivia had a good three inches on her.
Bryce handed her back the card and thrust out his right hand. “Welcome to the Black Cat.”
Relief jellied her legs and shoulders. It was a good thing everybody looks like crap in their driver’s license picture.
Sage accepted the handshake. Bryce’s skin was warm and dry against her sweaty palm.
“Thanks for giving me a chance.”
He flashed his teeth again. “You’re a natural, kid.”