Chapter two
Guilty Pleasures Gentlemen’s Club, London
Samantha
“The suit is here again,” Mia announces.
I shrug, trying to act relaxed about the fact that the guy I’m dating’s brother appears to be obsessed with me.
My roommate pulls her abundance of red waves into a knot and secures it on top of her head with a pin.
“That’s what, five nights in a row? He’s sitting at the front again, with a perfect view of the pole.”
“I’m sure he is,” I mutter, keeping my attention fixed on myself in the mirror as I apply another coat of bright red lipstick.
“Does he know you know that he’s following you?”
“I would assume so, considering he’s shit at it.”
“Does his brother know?”
I turn to face my friend, and she smirks.
“No,” I answer bluntly.
“Why would you not tell your boyfriend that his brother is following you?” she says, her lips widening into a grin.
“Connor is not my boyfriend. We’re fucking. I don’t do relationships, you know that. Who else I’m involved with is none of his business—he agreed to my terms when I accepted his invitation to dinner.”
“You’re involved with your stalker?” she teases, picking at the open wound. The bizarre enjoyment I am getting out of being followed increases with each day.
“Stalker is a bit far-fetched, don’t you think? Stalkers are meant to be dangerous.”
“As far as I know, the definition of a stalker is someone who follows you.”
She lifts her phone from the table beside her and starts tapping at the digits.
“Yes, according to the Cambridge English Dictionary, a stalker is someone who illegally follows and watches someone over a period of time.”
She grins, then adds, “Especially a woman.”
“He’s not doing anything illegal,” I mutter. “He’s just…there. Watching.” Still sitting at the dressing table, I look into the mirror and my friend's eyes stare straight back at me.
“And that doesn’t freak you out? Especially after…”
“No, I mean it did at first. But he’s not like him. It actually makes me feel…” I pause, finding it difficult to explain how having a dangerous man following me around the dark streets doesn’t bother me like it should. “I feel safe. I just know he won’t hurt me.”
She pushes her lips together, trying to hide her laughter. Her face is lit up with amusement at my pathetic response.
“And you’re enjoying it,” she says, teasing. “Two brothers, and both of them want in your panties. And from the color of your cheeks, you wouldn’t be against the idea. Dirty bitch.”
“I do not—” I begin to protest, and she waves my argument away with a red fingernail.
“Yes you fucking do. Anyway, back to my question. Do you not think the brother you’re officially seeing should know about the other one’s obsession?”
“No. My situation with Russell is not any of Connor’s concern.”
“I have a feeling your fuck buddy may have a different opinion than you on that.”
“That’s his problem, not mine. He knows the situation. Open relationship or none.”
“Relationship,” she says with a chuckle. “Fuck’s sake, Sam. One minute it’s fuck buddies and stalkers, and the next you’re creating relationships with multiple men.”
“Stop twisting my words,” I snap.
Mia shrugs her shoulders, then slips the white silk robe covering them off before marching to the dressing room to collect her attire for the evening.
I glance in her direction, but she’s lost interest in our conversation about my current romantic predicament.
Her position is clear—I’m playing two men whether I want to admit it or not.
In all honesty, any romance that enters my life always ends up in a mess, so the circumstances should come as no surprise.
After my last long-term partner decided to drag me off stage at the club where I work, I implemented the no-boyfriend rule.
For the past twelve months, it’s worked well.
That was until I met Connor Chase. I allowed myself to be romanced by a man who isn’t husband material and lives a life I should stay far away from.
A few weeks ago, a lonely brunette stumbled into the clothes shop I work in to help pay rent.
She looked lost, confused, and on her own in the big city.
I remembered that feeling well, and my instinct was to help.
Little did I know that my small gesture of kindness toward Violet Chase would turn my life upside down by throwing me into a world of dangerous families and domineering men.
Sure, working at the strip club has prepared me well, but here we’re protected, most of the time.
But the world Violet and her brothers live in is a terrifying one, and no one can ever be fully trusted. Not even your closest family.
Guilty Pleasures Gentlemen’s Club is one of a select few discreet, members-only establishments in London.
From the outside, a passerby wouldn’t know it was here.
The entrance is a single blue door nestled between a fast food joint and a dry cleaner.
There are no signs or prominent details; it looks like a normal entrance to an apartment above the stores on the ground level.
But when you push the door open, you’re met with a security guard in a tuxedo who only allows you past if you hold the shiny, gold members’ card.
Those allowed admission must scale a narrow staircase via yet another simple blue door before entering the club.
Inside, a circular stage sits at the center of the room with a pole that extends to the ceiling.
Leather armchairs are placed around its edge in pairs, with small glass tables between them.
A long, well-stocked bar sits to one side of the room.
The whole place screams opulence and wealth, everything trimmed in gold or wrapped in dark velvet.
Private booths are scattered around the venue.
What happens within these walls stays here.
Those who attend are never named, even though we all know who they are.
The men who hold memberships to this club include the most influential and affluent in London.
They come here for business and pleasure, and the utmost discretion is guaranteed.
When we signed our contract to work, we also signed a non-disclosure agreement.
We promised never to discuss who we entertain or what we do for them; information such as that can be dangerous for the patrons if it falls into the wrong hands.
The club itself is owned by a powerful family, the Parkers of Glasgow.
Joel Parker, head of the Glasgow mafia, runs a tight ship.
He looks after both his staff and clients.
We girls are never forced to do something we don’t want, but the facilities are here if we choose to provide additional services.
Security is tight, and unwanted wandering hands are banned.
The no-touch policy is concrete unless an agreement is made in advance, and Joel Parker ensures that rule is enforced with no exceptions.
Last week, a member became overzealous with one of the girls on stage.
As she approached the edge, he lunged forward to grab her ankle.
Two security guards escorted him from the premises within minutes and his membership was suspended.
No discussion, no second chances. If you touch the product without paying, then it’s theft, and you are removed, no refunds.
My role within the club changes from day to day. Sometimes I work in the club, usually on the pole, and other times I recruit girls from around London to work here. Our clients attend regularly, and fresh entertainment is always appreciated.
I love my nights performing. The freedom of being on stage and able to express myself is something I’ve always craved.
When I originally moved to the big city, my hopes were immense and unrealistic.
In my mind, my feet would be dancing on a Westend stage within days.
In reality, it’s been six years and, at the age of twenty-seven, I’m running out of time.
Perhaps the world of show business isn’t for me and I need to consider a career change.
I have a niggling craving to work in nursing, but with no qualifications or funds to train, my chances of succeeding are zero, so I may need to accept that my body will have to pay my wages for years to come.
The bright red leotard cuts high over my legs but low across my breasts, which swell within the fabric.
My blonde locks are long and straight, stopping halfway down my back.
I slip my feet into sky-high black heels, their platform encrusted with diamantes.
The music changes outside, and I know there are only a few minutes until I am expected on stage, so I make my way to the club, ready to strut into the center with all eyes on me.
My colleague finishes her set, dismounting from the pole before waving and blowing kisses to the crowd.
Men holler like schoolboys, and she beams at them.
I roll my eyes. As much as I love performing, I hate the sleazeballs who gawk.
Their eyes on my body make my skin crawl—most of them, anyway.
There are a few whose attention I enjoy.
No one touches me, though. Those days have passed, and I won’t be giving anyone a private performance for cash.
The familiar beat fills the air, and I take my cue to step out of the shadows.
The whistles begin as they do every night after I climb onto the stage and cross the sleek, black-tiled floor.
My hands rise above my head, and I spin three hundred and sixty degrees, keeping my chin up and focusing on the mirrors covering the walls behind the men.
My fingers wrap around the stainless steel, followed by my leg. I spin again, then launch into the routine I know so well. Lost in the music, the watchers become irrelevant. The stares fade into the shadows, no more than a hum in the air.
My body vibrates to the beat as my skin slides over the slick metal.
Every movement is on point, my heels hitting the floor before rising immediately to fly again.
I pull myself higher into the air, wrapping a leg firmly around the bar, then allowing my body to fall backward, leaving me upside down and spinning slowly.
I extend my arms and free leg dramatically, and my hair touches the floor with gravity pulling at the tips.
The final beats of the tune sound, and I know it’s time for my dismount.
Clutching the pole, I release my leg. I stretch lengthways, every muscle tensing to maintain the shape, then raise my ankles high to resemble an L-shape.