5. Posie
CHAPTER 5
Posie
I ’m grateful Bentley’s fever went down in time to celebrate his fifth birthday. When we returned from shopping, I noticed he felt warm, and it progressively got worse. It wasn’t until he finally fell asleep and his temperature started lowering that I could message Paula, but half of my shift was already over. I’m hoping I don’t lose my job for it, but no matter what, Bentley comes first.
I spot Paula straight away as I enter the club. Tom, the security guard who usually walks me out at night, offers me a nod as I pass him and go straight to the back.
“Mr. Taylor wants to see you before you take the stage,” Paula says with an apologetic expression. I figured it was coming. I technically did a no-show for my last shift. But why is that asshole around so much lately? How had I been so lucky to avoid him for two months, and now he seems to be here all the time?
“Sure,” I say with a bright smile. I show everyone what they want to see. The smiling blonde, the happy-go-lucky girl. All the things I am anything but. When Paula leaves, I move closer to Samantha. I look at her ankle and notice it’s not bandaged, so she mustn’t have done too much damage last weekend. “Care to swap?” I ask her as I wiggle my brows.
“My song’s up next.” She rolls her eyes as I unpack my bag. She’s always considered me a troublemaker, but I know she secretly loves it. And I help her out when men get too handsy without paying. Where she might be the best dancer, she still has a lot to learn in the way of intentionally influencing men by being sickly sweet and sometimes being a little rougher when need be.
I quickly touch up my makeup. “I can dance to that. You have plenty of songs, right?”
She nods and glances in the direction that Paula just left. Farther down the hall is the office where I’m assuming Mr. Stalker Boss is. “You won’t get in trouble?” she questions.
“I’ll probably get fired, but I would at least like to make some money before I do,” I say, taking off my loose dress, my work lingerie already on underneath.
She lets out a bark of nervous laughter but agrees. I change into the schoolgirl outfit and slide on my black heels before I lean down and kiss her cheek. I wait only a few moments before the music starts playing, then I open the curtains. Men catcall, but I don’t give them the privilege of eye contact. I sway my hips as I go straight for the pole. I grab it and hook a knee around it, twirling in circles as I eye those closest to the stage, spotting which of them I think are the biggest tippers.
I come to a stop, gripping the pole with both hands, with a smile, as I throw my long blonde hair over my shoulders. I drop down into a crouch and look over my shoulder, winking at the man who looks like the biggest fish here. I lift my skirt, smack my ass, and grab a handful of flesh. Men begin cheering and throwing money on the stage. I smile as I lay down on the stage. My hands caress down my body until they reach the waistband of the skirt, and then I shimmy it down my hips until it’s off. I turn around to get on my hands and knees. As I reach for the pole again, someone lifts me and drags me off the stage.
“What the fuck! Put me down!” The men boo as I’m carried off over a shoulder, even as I kick and punch. I don’t recognize who it is until we are behind the curtains, and he speaks.
“You. On now,” he roughly commands, and that’s when I notice Samantha.
“Get my tips!” I yell out after her. She slips through the curtains, and the moment they close, I’m a fiery, chaotic bitch.
My boss lowers me to the ground, and the moment my heels touch the floor, I shove him away. This infuriating man stares at me, and I fucking glare back. Most men would ogle my body, the G-string and barely-there schoolgirl top. Not this man. He takes me in as if he’s entitled to my every movement, never averting his gaze from my eyes. He’s fucking intense and purposefully trying to intimidate me.
Good fucking luck.
Dutton is dressed in a black suit. His lips are pressed in a hard line as if expecting me to actually be scared. I don’t ever feel intimidated by men. I’ve been around all types of powerful men in my life. And although none of them have ever put me on edge like Dutton does, I fucking refuse to bow at his intensity just because he expects it.
So, I might be a brat.
I don’t give a fuck.
When I don’t say anything, a tic runs through his jaw, and he grudgingly breaks the silence. “I requested you to come see me when you got here, and you ignored that and went on stage.”
I place my hand on my hip.
“I was coming to see you after work to display why I’m a valuable asset.” I beam at him, and the vein in his temple throbs once, then twice before he shakes his head.
I know he wants to call me a smartass. I can see it written all over his face.
“Is this fun for you? You do need this job, correct?” he asks, crossing his arms as if trying to look at me in a different light.
“I do need a job, but I don’t do well being micromanaged by a man who doesn’t know how to shake his ass or show his tits,” I throw back at him.
The corner of his mouth twitches, and I’m not sure if he’s trying not to laugh or if he’s so furious that his face is starting to spasm in weird places.
“I should fire you. I have fired women for far less.”
“Fire me then if that’s what you want to do. But at least get my tips off that fucking stage. I earned that money.” I point in the direction of the stage. His gaze remains on me.
“Are you always this much of a brat?”
The question surprises me but also fills me with a weird amount of pride. “So it seems.”
Wait. Am I getting away with this?
“Stay off the fucking stage for the night,” he orders, and it’s like a bucket of cold water thrown over me.
“I need my tips,” I yell out as he turns and walks away. “I don’t work here for free!”
He’s gone, and I throw my hands up in disbelief. Maybe I wanted to get fired or for that asshole to return to whatever trust fund hobbies he was up to before he decided to make weekly visits to his club.
Huffing, I walk back into the dressing room, remove the shirt, and then head out to the bar area in my lingerie.
I’m a woman who lives off technicalities. He said I should stay off the stage, but that doesn’t mean I can’t make money from working the floor and performing personal dances.
I spot him standing at the bar with Mike, but their conversation comes to an immediate halt when his gaze lands on me. I offer him a small wave before I focus on my job and start walking the room. I feel him tracking me, even when I do my best to ignore him. I sit on the lap of a guy who offers me a hundred-dollar bill, and I stroke his tie as I ask what he’d like to drink.
“You’re really beautiful,” he says, and my nostrils flare at the offensive smell of alcohol on his breath and the wedding ring glinting in the lights from the stage. Disgusting, really. His wife is probably at home, clueless about what’s happening here. And men wonder why women have trust issues. It’s because men act on impulses and always want what they can’t have. I’ve been burned by this personally when I discovered Bentley’s father was cheating on me throughout our relationship. I hate myself because, even at the time, I had my suspicions. It wasn’t until I became pregnant I gathered enough courage to leave.
But I’m here to make money to give my son everything he deserves.
So, unfortunately, I have to ignore my moral compass.
“Well, thank you, handsome.” My hand pauses on his chest. “How about a dance?” He nods eagerly, and I stand, offering him my hand.
“She’s booked,” Dutton says and pulls me to him by my waist.
Fucking hell.
Really?
Is this man hellbent on making me lose all my clients tonight? For what purpose? To teach me who’s in charge?
Fuck that. I’ll just find another job and tell him to shove this one up his prim and proper trust-fund-baby ass.
I don’t say that in front of the customer, but my fists curl as I wait to explode when he escorts me to the back. Except he doesn’t guide me to the back; instead, we step into a private room.
He shuts the door behind us, then turns to look at me.
I cross my arms over my chest. “Do you plan to fuck with me my entire shift?”
“Fuck with you?”
“Yes. I’m here to work and earn money. And you keep on fucking that up,” I say, frustrated.
He scoffs. “You seem to mistake me for a member instead of your boss.”
“I don’t care who you are. I only care about who’s paying.”
“I pay you to work here,” he reminds me.
His harsh blue eyes never leave mine, as if he’s studying me like I’m some sort of oddity. Then he reaches into his pocket and drops a wad of hundred-dollar bills on the table. My eyebrows furrow as he takes a seat and leans back, his arms stretching along the back of the couch as he nods to the money.
“But if that’s not enough for you, then dance,” he commands.
I don’t completely understand what his game is, but that’s a fuck ton of money that would usually take me multiple private dances to make. We don’t earn that much for a private dance unless the client is an excellent tipper. Even then, it’s very rare. There’s easily a thousand bucks on that table.
I lick my suddenly dry lips, then say, “Okay.” I approach him slowly. When I do private dances, it’s about matching the customer’s energy and anticipating their needs. Luring them to believe they’re getting more than a dance. But with Dutton, there’s an uneasy energy around him. He’s so fucking cold and calculated I can’t figure out what he’s thinking, let alone what he might want. And I don’t know if I want any fucking insight into this asshole’s mind, either.
If my boss wants me to dance for him, I will make him fall hard.
He wants my paid services, then this asshole’s about to get the most incredible show of his life.
I place my hands on his knees and separate them, keeping eye contact with him the whole time. He doesn’t blink or pull away as he watches me. It’s intimidating, but I don’t bend to the will of powerful men. I rest a knee on either side of him, pushing my tits against his body as if riding him.
“Why do you keep stopping me from working?” I ask.
“Did I ask for a conversation?” he replies.
I lean in close to his lips, careful not to touch them. It’s the first time his gaze dips lower, and I curve a satisfied smile. This man doesn’t seem like the type to let people touch him, which gives me confidence that I can rattle him. I place my hands between us and caress his inner thigh as I roam my other hand up and over his stomach to his chest.
“I want to know. You are my boss, after all.”
“Yes, and you would do well to remember that.” His gaze flicks back to mine knowingly.
It’s disturbing how I can’t seem to break through that fucking icy wall of his. I don’t dance for other men like this, ever. But I want to ruin his night the way he’s ruined mine.
But maybe I’ll have some fun in the meantime.
“Do you get all your women to dance for you?” I ask huskily as I lower my hips and start grinding them, purposefully brushing myself against his cock. I smile with satisfaction as I notice his eyes dilate.
“Only the annoying ones,” he replies, and I can tell it’s taking all his discipline to keep his hands on the back of the couch.
I smirk as I stand and turn, bending over in front of him and looking over my shoulder at him. There’s still no music playing in the room, but there seems to be a tune and rhythm only we can feel.
I sit back down on his lap, my ass directly on top of his cock. It fills me with satisfaction that he’s hard, so he’s not entirely immune to my charm.
“Some would say you’re the annoying one since you keep stopping me from working.” I move in his lap, and he keeps his eyes trained on me. “I’m a very hard worker, you know.”
“You’re working now, aren’t you?” His voice is gravelly.
“Seems very unprofessional that you’re getting me to dance for you.” I pout over my shoulder, and when I look back at him, his eyes remain an icy blue, but an inferno rages within them.
I bounce once on his lap, with a grin, and then twice, fully bringing his cock to attention. Okay, maybe I’m enjoying this way too much because I notice a sudden heat trickle into my lower abdomen. A sexual curiosity that has been dormant since Bentley’s father.
He smirks, as if he knows, and I hate that he sees me. His arms lift from the back of the couch, but when he goes to touch me, a knock comes at the door.
“Come in,” he commands as he lazily places his arms back where they were. I continue to move in his lap.
The door opens, and two men walk in. I haven’t seen them before. They look like criminals, and it’s obvious they’re twins. Both seem surprised to see me as they take seats near him.
Suddenly, the room crackles with dangerous energy, and I’m certain the men who just walked in are not law-abiding citizens. The bulkier one speaks first. “You paying for entertainment tonight?”
“Pay for us as well,” the one with the shoulder-length hair says, not looking up from his phone.
“You can both afford it yourselves,” Dutton says. “And, no, she will not be dancing for either of you.”
His hands finally land on my waist, halting my movements. When I look over my shoulder at him, he orders, “Take your money and leave.”
“Greedy.” The bulkier one chuckles.
“You don’t want me to finish dancing?” I ask, standing and laying my hand on his chest with a pout. I can tell he’s agitated when I put on the childish act that everyone else usually devours.
His hand covers mine, and he leans in. “Take your money and fucking leave. You’re done for today.”
Fucking asshole.
You don’t have to tell me twice.
Smiling, I grab the cash and saunter out, knowing his gaze is glued to my ass.
An ass he’ll never have the chance to grab again.
What the fuck is wrong with that man?