Chapter 3
“I told you. Only send me PDFs. I don’t want to open random internet links. That’s how you get computer viruses.”
Somehow, I manage to keep a pleasant smile on my face even as Professor Fellows lectures me. The guy is in his late forties with a decent-looking academic vibe going on, but his arrogant personality ruins his salt-and-pepper hottie potential.
“I appreciate your diligence when it comes to cyber security,” I say, proud of my ability to fake a sincere tone, “And I’m sure the IT department does, too. But I thought since you were the one to initiate our email exchange—and because the links were to library databases—that there wouldn’t be a problem.” I explain this with my pleasant customer service voice.
“I’m not taking the risk.” He leans across the reference desk, close enough that I can smell his cologne. The scent is pleasant, a subtle sandalwood. It does not match his condescending tone at all.
I can’t decide if I want Abraham Fellows to be smelly so every part of him reflects his bad attitude, or if I should be grateful that I’m not under assault on multiple fronts.
“And this source,” he continues. “Why did you send me this when I told you I’m not researching the Colorado River?”
Glancing down at the printout of the email I sent him, I see where it does in fact list a book titled The Winding History of the Colorado River.
I bite back a sigh.
“Yes. I recall that from your original message. But this book,” I point at the citation and my extra note beneath it, “has a chapter that mentions the river you’re interested in. Because it feeds into the Colorado River. I thought you might want to read that chapter specifically and take a look at the pictures.”
Goddess save me. I swear Fellows just skimmed my email, printed the thing out in a huff, then stormed across campus five minutes before the end of my workday because he wanted a boost of superiority before heading home.
Meanwhile, I have a shift at the club tonight. A shift I’m very much looking forward to after this conversation.
Normally, I’m overjoyed to help faculty and students with their research. Emphasis on help. Because during a collaborative effort, I know they’re learning how to discover sources themselves in the future.
But then there are the academics who think they’re above looking for their own resources.
“Well. Fine.” He straightens and taps a finger on the reference desk, the gesture scolding. “But I’ll still need the PDF.”
“The PDF of the book is attached to the original email I sent.” And I am not your personal research bitch, I want to hiss at him.
But I don’t, because he’s a tenured professor, head of the history department, and has the power to decide if the instructional librarian will be invited to teach information literacy lessons in the intro level courses. An instruction I enjoy doing, is part of my job, and is necessary for the students at this college to succeed.
That last fact should make the decision about having librarians visit classrooms simple. But there’s this ridiculous layer of politics in academia. Apparently, my predecessor was not a team player, and therefore never got invites to be a guest speaker. The past two years of working here, I’ve tried my hardest to change that mentality among the faculty, but it’s been slow going.
And pissing off Fellows won’t help.
“Good. Glad we straightened that all out.” The man offers me a smile that I might have found charming if he hadn’t spent the last ten minutes berating me.
“Happy to help.” I already have all my things packed, so I can’t even shuffle papers around to look busy and encourage him to leave. “And I’m looking forward to talking to your students next week.”
“Yes. That’s right. That’ll be nice for them. To have you at the front of the room for a bit. I’m sure they get tired of staring at me.” The comment sounds innocent. A casual joke.
But there’s a sudden sweetness on my tongue and tingling flush under my skin. An influx of magic. Which can only mean one thing.
Abraham Fellows is aroused. And he’s turned on because of me.
Over the years, I’ve had to figure out the parameters of my powers. I’m not simply a witch. I’m a succubus witch. A suck-witch.
No, I do not call myself that out loud.
But it seems accurate because my magic sucks energy from the arousal of people near me. The problem is the arousal also has to be directed at me. I’ve tried to simply be in the proximity of someone who is turned on, but I get nothing from them. The attraction must be elicited by me or pointed at me in some way.
Which means when I taste a power boost, I know someone has the hots for me.
I welcome the sensation at The Jewelry Box. Not so much at my day job, where I want to be seen as something other than a sexual fantasy.
“Okay then.” I keep on a placid expression. “Have a good day.” Jerk.
He nods, satisfied the librarian has been thoroughly chastised, and strolls out the door.
The moment he’s gone I let my face relax out of the inauthentic smile. I move my jaw around and massage my cheeks. This is another reason I’m glad all I need to do at The Jewelry Box is dance. The other strippers put on an entire performance, simpering and coy smiles and sultry laughs. Everything to create a sensual reality for the customers that earns them large tips. Money they deserve by the end of the night because that acting is no easy feat. Just a few minutes of the falsity exhausts me.
Luckily, on the pole all I need to do is move my body and that earns enough lust to last me until the next week. Still tiring, but in a way I like. The day after a shift, my muscles ache in a well-used way. The way that makes me feel as though I moved and tested myself.
Not that I forced myself into a personality that doesn’t fit.
“Is he gone?” The squeaky question comes from my student worker Kathleen, who peers out from the doorway that leads to the staff-only space.
“You’re not a Professor Fellows fan?”
She wrinkles her nose, then pushes her glasses back into place when they slide down. “He can be really critical. I’d rather not run into him outside of class if I don’t have to.”
I completely understand, but since Kathleen is a student first, I can’t shit-talk a faculty member with her. The best I can do is offer a commiserating nod as I vacate my seat.
“Well, he’s gone. And the desk is yours. Make sure to let Rodrigo know when you’re leaving.” I gesture toward the circulation library associate who’s currently troubleshooting a computer issue at one of the public units.
“Will do.” She settles at the reference desk, straightening in the chair with an eager grin. Kathleen may be a history major, but she told me she wants to get a master’s in library science when she graduates. I’m fond of her and will be bummed at the end of the semester when she’s gone.
“I restocked my cards.” I point to the business card holder as I scoop up my bag and travel mug. “If someone brings you a question you can’t answer, don’t feel bad about sending them my way tomorrow.”
“Yes, Ms. Bellarose,” Kathleen intones with a teasing smile.
I wave at her, then call out a farewell to Rodrigo as I pass. He grunts in acknowledgment, but I don’t take it personally. He always gets surly when the tech goes down because it’s a stark reminder of how the college still hasn’t gotten us the new computers we were promised a year ago.
The library always seems to land at the bottom of the list when funding is brought up. And then we get chewed out when we cancel database subscriptions to keep to our miniscule budget. I sigh and roll my head on my shoulders, trying to ease the tight muscles of my neck. Goddess, I’m looking forward to dancing tonight. I started at The Jewelry Box for the magical boost, but now I find it’s my best stress relief.
Better than sex.
At least, better than any sex I’ve ever had.
As I walk across campus, a natural snarky smile comes to my face as I think about how horrified the administration would be if they knew what was going through my mind. If they knew what I do every Tuesday night—and sometimes weekends if Yasmin is short-staffed or if I’ve had a particularly stressful work week.
College of Freedom Faith is not exactly progressive. They have a beautiful set of buildings and a gorgeous, old library I fell in love with the moment I took a tour. But they also have a strict morality clause in the hiring contract. One that I break on a weekly basis.
I refuse to feel bad about it. For one, I think morality clauses are ridiculous and archaic. Two, stripping is necessary for my continued physical health, aka my ability to perform my job.
Most healing witches have the freedom to use their magic to benefit others. But ever since I was fifteen, I’ve suffered from chronic migraines. The only solution: dosing myself with healing potions in an effort to stave them off.
I’m not about to risk that pain because my administration is full of prudes. Besides, as a magical being surrounded by humans, I’m used to hiding parts of myself from the world.
What’s one more?
What I know is that I’m good at my job, and I’m passionate about helping students succeed. That should be what’s important, so that’s what I focus on.
My shift at The Jewelry Box doesn’t start until nine, so I head home for a quick dinner, sighing in relief when I change into soft shorts and a loose T-shirt. If only I could strip in this outfit. But Yasmin does have an image of sensual elegance she seeks to maintain at the club, and I respect her reasoning far more than the strict dress code enforced on me at my day job.
Long pants or skirts that fall past the knee. All shoes must be closed-toed, and heels can’t be taller than one inch—not that I want to wear taller ones, but I chafe at the fact that I’ve been restricted. Are my male colleagues afraid I’m going to tower over them? Plus, we live in the fucking desert, and I’m not allowed to wear sleeveless tops or necklines that fall below my collarbones to the library.
It’s a cruel form of torture.
After double-checking I have everything I need in my duffle bag, I climb back into my car and head over to the club, parking in the gated lot for performers. A recent safety measure to keep over-enthusiastic customers from following us to our cars.
The backstage area is full of laughter and half-naked women. Well, full is an overstatement. There are only four other women because Tuesday nights are never as packed as later in the week. But the ladies are big personalities and seem to take up every inch of space.
Diamond waves at me from her makeup station, her acrylics glittering as brightly as her crystal-covered outfit. She leans toward the mirror and carefully presses adhesive gems to the corners of her eyes, decorating her sienna skin. All of us make an effort to match our outfits and makeup with our stage names. Amber has on a bikini that somehow shimmers both orange and gold, bringing out the natural golden notes in her complexion.
“Shit!” Ruby hisses as I pull out the cushioned seat in front of my station. “My strap snapped. I knew this top couldn’t handle my tits.” The woman holds up a scrap of crimson that’s edged with gold discs. The red shade is warm against her beach-girl tan.
“Let me see.” I extend my hand, and she passes it my way. “Give me a few minutes. I’ll sew it.”
“Really? Oh, my goddess, Pearl. You are perfection.” She claps and gives a little happy jump that makes her brown curls bounce, then settles back at her mirror to apply a set of false lashes.
I sit three down from her and fish out my emergency sewing kit, smiling all the while. This brings me back to the days when I’d earn some extra cash sewing costumes for Mom’s coworkers at the burlesque club. Not that I’d make things from scratch, but I was great at letting out or taking costumes in, fixing torn seams, and adding intentional tear-away pieces for those show-stopping moments.
Some people would probably find my childhood horrifying, but I had plenty of love and support from those ladies.
The Jewelry Box has the same vibe. Not competitive and cold like other clubs I’ve worked in over the years. The unique feel can be attributed to the owner.
Yasmin wants to own a strip club unlike any other, and happy dancers are a key part of that plan. Most clubs have their dancers working like independent contractors, coming and going with little control over their schedules and owing the house money to strip even if they don’t earn tips. Yasmin, meanwhile, established a full-time option and offers it whenever interviewing a new performer. Get a salary, benefits, and keep all your tips as long as you work a certain number of hours a week.
My bet is this works so well because Yasmin is a marketing genius and is a master at bringing in high-end clientele. The club makes plenty of money from cover charges, VIP memberships, and drink sales. No need to shortchange the dancers who help bring in even more customers.
“Here you go. All good.” I snip off the loose end of the thread and hand Ruby her top.
“You’re a goddess.” She hooks the clasp, slips the straps over her shoulders, and gives her tits a shimmy. Everything stays in place. “Thank you!” she sings while sauntering toward the door that leads to the floor of the club. Diamond already left that way, and Amber arrows toward the stage entrance, giving her arms a last stretch before she starts her silks routine.
Meanwhile, I slip into my outfit for the night then fish a book out of my bag and settle in a cushy chair in the corner. Amber usually goes for twenty minutes, then I’m on. Other women would work the floor right now, get some extra cash for lap dances.
But I only need some stage time. I get enough lust up there without having strangers up close and personal. I doubt anyone from College of Faith Freedom frequents The Jewelry Box, but it’s possible. Hence the mask and my distance.
Amber times her set perfectly, strolling off the stage with her handfuls of cash just as I finish my chapter.
“Good crowd tonight.” She smiles wide and holds up her fistfuls. “They’re in a giving mood. I’m gonna grind some laps so hard.”
“Get after it.” I salute her then take a moment in front of my mirror to settle my mask in place. Once I know it’s pinned tight, I rub my trademark glittery lotion over every inch of exposed skin.
Time to shine.
As I push aside the velvet curtain, step onto the stage, and stroll toward the pole, my eyes make an automatic sweep of the club. Once again, sitting in the VIP section is a familiar form.
Samuel Reyes is back.
A slight jolt and tingle flow through my body. I tell myself it’s a magical lust wave and not something naturally occurring within me. Because there’s no reason for me to have any type of reaction to the Squid.
Yes, I know he’s a Water Elemental. When I saw Cat chatting with him a few months back like she knew the guy, I questioned her at the end of my shift. Mostly to find out if he’s potentially dangerous. I’ve had customers fixate on me before—more than simply deciding I’m their favorite dancer at the club. She told me he’s a Squid, rich, and a cocky, charming playboy. Overall, her opinion was that he’s harmless as an overeager golden retriever, but she wouldn’t hold it against me if I asked Yasmin to slap him with a ban.
The Pyro wore a smirk when she said that last bit, and I got the sense she’d take a bit of evil pleasure in seeing Sammy barred from The Jewelry Box.
But he’s a big spender, and none of the other performers have a problem with him. I don’t have an issue with him either. Not really.
But I don’t get why he finds me so interesting.
Maybe, like me, he enjoys a bit of mystery.
He wasn’t here last Tuesday. I try not to ponder on why he comes to some of my shifts and not all of them. In the beginning, I didn’t have a regular schedule. When I presented Yasmin my proposal of dancing without taking funds, only taking lust, she agreed and told me all I needed to do was text her at least twenty-four hours in advance when I planned to come in.
For the first year, that worked perfectly well for me. There were some weeks that I didn’t come at all. But then the stress of my day job amped up my migraines, and I needed to be sure that I would have a regular fuel source. Hence my request to have a scheduled slot on Tuesday nights supplemented with other shifts when needed. Yasmin welcomed me. At some point, Sammy seemed to catch on that Tuesdays were my regular days.
At least I think he’s caught on. For all I know, the Squid is coming multiple days a week, and he’s drooling over more dancers than only me. Maybe it’s just that when I am here, I’m his favorite. But other nights he could prefer Jade. Or Ruby. There are some dancers that I never cross paths with anymore because they don’t dance on Tuesdays. Maybe Opal is his favorite. Or Emerald.
It doesn’t matter, I tell myself. He can pant after every single woman who comes up here. If he wants to rub one of those big hands over the crotch of his pants while Amber twists herself up in the silk scarves hanging from the ceiling, then that’s his prerogative. I’m not looking for anything else from him.
Just a touch of lust. Enough to keep my pain at bay.
Tonight, though, as I’m used to, Samuel’s entire focus is on me. I don’t let my eyes catch his. But I can still taste his attraction. The weight of his stare drags over the glitter I’ve massaged into my skin.
I tease the pole tonight, not in the mood to climb when my heels already have me towering. Instead, I pretend the pole is my lover. That it is a frozen, stoic being I need to seduce and make mine. There are moments when my lips are less than an inch from the metal, as if to kiss it. But no one sanitizes the prop between uses, so I keep my mouth to myself.
Halfway through my final song, I take note of movement in the VIP section.
It’s him, of course. The Squid strolls up to the stage, clutching an item against his chest.
More jewelry?
Maybe tonight I’ll see what emeralds look like in whiskey.
But when Samuel Reyes sets down his armful, the wooden box doesn’t look like a jewelry case. Not unless the container houses a crown.
If it’s a crown, I might keep it.
Only because wearing the regal adornment while I’m reading a fantasy romance novel would be fun.
No, I chide myself. Ignore it. Ignore him. Walk off this stage without touching that super cool-looking wooden box!
Only, I don’t think I can…