CHAPTER ELEVEN
Heather—
I’m about to take the stage for my slave girl number. Checking my look in the dressing room mirror, I add another spray to my hair to keep it in place.
Velvet comes into the dressing room after her number and meets my eyes in the mirror with a smirk. “Better be good tonight, headliner. The bosses are out there.”
My eyes flare, but I turn away, revealing nothing. I lick my lips, then casually stand and head to the dressing room door.
“Where are you going?” Velvet asks, already counting her money on the dressing table.
“I just remembered I need to talk to Marnie about my schedule.”
I slink down the hall to the stage and peer through the curtain where dancers make their entrance.
Coco is out on the floor. I crane my neck to see the audience and spot a group of men around a table against the back wall.
One dips his head to light a cigarette, in flagrant disregard of the no-smoking ordinance, but it gives me enough light to see the man next to him. He looks like Cody.
I press my back to the wall. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.
Part of me hoped to run into him again; after all, I came to this town for that reason. But now that he’s here, I’m scared to death. The last thing I want is to be half naked and stripping for him.
Now, suddenly, I’ve no desire for him to recognize me.
I rush back to the dressing room. I’ve only got about ten minutes before I have to hit the stage, and I’m not doing it in the slave girl getup I’d planned.
In a panic, I flip through my costumes and settle on a western bank robber outfit with a black lace mask that will cover my eyes. Hopefully, with my hair all teased out and the mask and cowboy hat, he’ll never recognize me.
I hustle to the door and peer out, spotting Tiny walking down the hall.
“Psst. Tiny.”
He swivels his head. “Yeah, darlin’? Whatcha need?”
“Could you do me a favor and tell Derek to change my song to the cowboy number? I had a wardrobe malfunction with my other costume.”
“Sure thing.”
Once he heads off, I shut the door and change, then sit and touch up my makeup and fix my hair. I’m adjusting my hat when Marnie pokes her head in the door.
“Come on, Ginger. You’re up in less than two minutes. They’re almost to the end of Coco’s number.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I stand and do a quick check of my look in the full-length mirror.
I’ve got on a pair of ass-less chaps with toy guns slung low in a holster buckled across my hips. My top is a black satin shirt tied tight under my tits, pushing them up and giving me plenty of cleavage. The lace mask covers my face, and I hope it does the trick.
Marnie snaps her fingers. “Let’s go.”
Hurrying down the hall, I adjust the cord that holds my cowboy hat on and take a deep breath.
Coco’s music hits a crescendo, the lights strobe on, and the crowd cheers. Then the spot goes dark, and I know she’s busy gathering her money.
A minute later, she dashes through the curtain, and my song starts playing. I strut out onto the stage to Wanted Dead or Alive by Bon Jovi.
I swagger the length of the stage, shaking my hips to the driving beat and pulling my gun. I wrap my leg around the pole and lick the barrel from bottom to top.
I know every man in the place is imagining my tongue running up the side of his dick. I lose myself in the music and dance, trying to ignore the table at the back of the room.
I do my act, putting everything I’ve got into it.
At the end of my performance, I tear off my top and flash my tits for two seconds before the spotlight goes dark. Any more than that, and they have to pay for a private room.
When I finish, bills rain down on the stage. Gathering them up is always my least favorite part. It’s demeaning scrambling on my hands and knees grasping for money thrown at me. But I think of Tucker and am grateful for every dollar.
I head to the dressing room to change clothes.
After my performance, I, like every other dancer, am expected to hit the floor and work the crowd, selling lap dances.
Quickly changing into a skimpier outfit that makes it easier to move around the crowded room, I choose one that isn’t too revealing, considering Cody is out there.
It’s a red bra and panty set that’s more satin ribbons than anything else. It has no cups, but at least my nipples are hidden by rhinestone-covered hearts held in place by gold chains. A red satin bow on the thong rests just over my crotch.
I add a matching red lace blindfold to cover my eyes, and lace cuffs with satin ribbons that tie around my wrists.
I check my new look in the full-length mirror before heading to the floor. My back for the most part is completely naked, covered by just a ribbon thong and bra clasp. I’ve got a good ass, and showing it makes me lots of money. My lap dances are usually in high demand whenever I wear this number.
I scan the room. Some girls struggle with this part of the job, but I have an easy way of talking to men. I make them feel comfortable, especially the shy and awkward ones.
Because of that, I don’t go near the MCs table in the back, instead leaving them to the other dancers.
I find my mark and head toward a shy, nerdy-looking guy in the corner.
My goal is always to try to convince a man to accompany me to one of the VIP rooms we call the champagne rooms. That’s the golden goose—the main attraction and every dancer’s gold mine.
Not only can I make a mint off those private dances, but the club’s cut makes it the number one thing Marnie and Ronnie push for.
Get them back to the champagne room—that’s always goal number one.
When I first started, I was terrified of this part of the job, but an experienced dancer took pity on me when she found out I’d recently lost the love of my life, and was a single mom trying to make it from month to month.
She was the kind of woman who didn’t waste her time giving out free advice, so when she took me under her wing, it really meant something. She was good at what she did and taught me everything she knew. I still remember the first thing she said to me.
Lola shook her head in pity at my pathetic lap dance skills, then pulled me to the side. “Look, honey, I’m gonna give you all my best tricks. First things, first. Do you feel beautiful?”
“I guess so.”
“There’s no guessing about it. You are. You need to know it, to feel it, to believe it.
If you do, and if you paste a smile on your face, even if you don’t feel it at first, you’ll make a fortune.
I guarantee it. Just remember, customers hate jaded strippers.
We indulge in fantasy here. They don’t want to hear about how hard your day has been or how much your feet hurt, and they definitely don’t want to read it on your face.
A smile makes you approachable. See, I’ll let you in on a little secret, sweetie.
Pretty women are really intimidating to most guys.
“In fact, inability to talk to women is what brings most money customers into this club; so, make yourself as easy to talk to as possible by letting your wall down. Just remember, eye contact makes all the difference. Connection makes a sale. But don’t get too touchy on the floor.
Make him wait until he’s in the VIP room. Got it?”
I took every word to heart and studied everything she did, every move of hers, I copied, and I learned the most important lesson—dancing is all about an illusion of intimacy with the customer, the desire for the unattainable, an implied message with just the right layer of fantasy.
Approaching with a smile, I immediately put the man at ease. “Hello, handsome. Have you ever been in here before?”
He shakes his head.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Louis.”
“I’m Ginger. Well, Louis, do you know how this works?”
“Not really.”
I place his hands on the armrests. “First off, there’s no touching, so it’s best to keep your hands right there.”
“Okay.”
“Tonight, we’re running a twenty-dollar dance special that takes place right here in your seat.
I leave my top on for lap dances on the floor, or we can go against the wall back there; those are forty dollars.
We also have private VIP rooms where the dances are way more intimate; we allow touching in those, and they’re really fun.
Which do you think you’d want to do with me, sweetie? ”
“Think maybe we could just talk for a while?”
“Sure, honey. I’d love to talk with you.”
“Can I buy you a shot?”
“I’d love that, thank you.” I motion the waitress over, and he places his order.
I glide my hand up his neck and toy with his ear. “Tell me about your week. What do you do?”
“I’m a manager at a storage facility.”
“That sounds interesting. I’ve watched that show where they auction off units when people don’t pay. Does that really happen?”
“Sure does, but it’s usually never as exciting as it is on tv. Mostly it's old junk. But one time this guy did find a complete Beatles album collection, and two of them were autographed by John Lennon. “
“Wow. How cool is that?”
“I like talking with you, Ginger. You’re sweet.”
“I can be even sweeter. How ’bout we go somewhere more private, like one of the VIP rooms? I really want to be alone with you.”
“You do?” His brow lifts in surprise.
“I do. I could get one of the girls to bring us a bottle of champagne. What’s your favorite brand?”
Just then, Tiny taps me on the shoulder and looks at the guy. “Sorry, sir. I’ve got to steal her away for a few minutes, but Ruby here would love to take her place.”
I frown, because I’ve never had this happen before, and I was just about to close a deal. I’m kind of pissed off, and I feel bad for Louis because he looks uncomfortable with the new girl who’s already climbing on his lap.
“Sorry, Louis. I’ll try to come find you later, okay?”
“Okay. That would be great.”
I follow Tiny to the bar. “What’s this about? I was about to get him into a VIP room.” I can’t hide my annoyance or the edge in my voice.
“Sorry, Ginger, but we had a special request, and we don’t say no to these guys.”
Everything in me stills, because there can only be one table who drives that kind of power.
Tiny lifts his chin toward the back wall. “They requested you. One of ‘em is having a birthday. They came in to celebrate.”
“Of course,” I reply, because really, do I have a choice? I move toward their table, taking in their faces as I approach. At least they’re all on the young side and not some gross old men with beer guts and missing teeth. These guys are all fit and attractive.
And they’re badass in their leather. So was Snake, I remind myself, then shake off all thoughts of him and paste a smile on my face.
One of them turns and drags his eyes over me, then elbows his buddy, who turns.
It’s Cody, and I take in his face. It’s been months since that day in the cemetery, but suddenly it feels like yesterday.
With my hair teased-up and sprayed, I look like some eighties rock star from the “big-hair” days, and with the lace mask over my eyes, I don’t read any recognition on his face, but I do see desire flare as he sweeps my body with a bold look.
The man next to him slaps a hand on his shoulder. “Got us a birthday boy here tonight, darlin’. Think you could take real good care of him?” He slides folded bills into my G-string.
“Of course,” I say, squeezing around to Cody’s chair. I climb on his lap. He seems to know the rules and keeps his hands on his armrests without me telling him. I notice the bottle of tequila and the shot glasses and wonder how drunk they all are. “What’s your name, handsome?”
“Cody,” he replies.
“I’m Ginger.”
He seems to catch me glancing at the table. “You want to do a shot with me, Ginger?”
“I’d love to.”
He pours us both one.
“Happy birthday, Cody,” I say before tossing mine back. He goes to fill it again, but I wave him off. “Just one. Thanks.”
“I guess a lot of men buy you shots, don’t they?”
“Some do.” I start to move my body, bringing my breasts close to his face.
His eyes drop to the sparkling hearts over my nipples. “That’s some outfit.”
“Do you like it?”
“I do. I’m amazed how it stays in place.”
I giggle and lean close to his ear. “Tape.”
He grins. “You don’t say? Bet that’s fun to pull off.”
I undulate over him. “If you take me to a VIP room, I’ll let you find out.”
“A VIP room,” his buddy says, slapping his shoulder. “Now, that’s a good idea. My treat. We’ve got a tab at the bar. Put it on that.”
The man on his other side slaps a wad of folded bills at Cody’s chest. “Be sure to tip her good, asshole.”
“I could get one of the girls to bring us a bottle of champagne. What’s your favorite brand?” I ask, figuring I might as well milk this for all its worth.
“Um, champagne’s not really my thing. You choose, darlin’.”
“Great. Let’s go, handsome.” I pull him to his feet, wondering just how much special service the MC expects. Tiny’s words ring in my head. We don’t say no to these guys.