chapter 3
Remi
IT’S ALMOST MY TURN ON the main stage. Caliber is crowded tonight—more so than usual. When I asked Fantasique what the chaos is all about, she told me there’s a music festival in town this weekend, which means a bunch of hyped-up out-of-towners wanting to see some tits before they head home.
Backstage, I roll out my shoulders and stretch my back, limbering up for my set. Then, through the speakers, the DJ announces, “Now on the main stage, the mystifying Mirage.”
There’s a round of applause and whistling as I step through the curtain. Tonight, I’m wearing a royal-blue lingerie set, with silver heels and matching body glitter. Deciding what to wear each night is a big part of my process; it determines what kind of energy I step onto the stage with.
The DJ starts my music, and I walk slowly toward the pole.
Every element of the performance is important, even the way I walk. It’s part art, part intense workout—especially in five-inch heels.
When I make it to center stage, I wrap my hands around the pole and do a slow fireman spin, then roll my body and toss my hair. A few flecks of glitter drift down around me, twinkling in the stage lights.
The crowd watches, eyes glued to me, drinks in hand. The bass thumps, heavy and slow.
I smile, and I give them a hell of a show.
By the time my second song starts and I’m about to take my top off, I glance into the VIP section, and two guys in one of the booths catch my attention.
Because I recognize them.
It’s pretty common to get celebrities in here: musicians, athletes, actors and actresses.
I know these two from their music. They’re in Loaded God Complex, probably here for the festival.
But I don’t know their names, only their faces. One has shaggy blond hair and the kind of sharpness to his eyes that warns you to steer clear of him. The other has a face that’s way too pretty for his own good: a square jaw, strong cheekbones, and big brown eyes.
Eyes that are currently meeting mine from across the crowded club.
It’s hit and miss with the celebs who come into our club, but it’s always worth a shot.
So I hold his gaze steadily as I pull the ties on my top loose and let it fall to the stage.
His eyes shift down as I run my hands across my breasts, fingertips flicking the piercings in each nipple. But then he meets my eyes again. And it sends a bit of curiosity through me.
Usually, the men don’t spend much time looking into my eyes, wanting to see my body instead. But this guy keeps staring right at me.
I continue my dance, combining pole and floorwork, and every time I glance back into the crowd, those same brown eyes are still focused on me.
“Give it up for Mirage,” the DJ says, and a few extra bills come fluttering down onto the stage as my second song comes to a close. But the guys in the VIP booth don’t move.
So I’ll go to them.
After gathering my tips and touching up my hair and makeup backstage, I prepare to go work the floor. And sure enough, some of the other girls are talking about the guys from LGC. It’ll be a race to see who can get one of them into a private room first. And I’m determined to win that race.
I strut back out into the club, but I don’t immediately head for the VIP booths. That’d be too desperate. Just like with James, I’ve learned it’s best to make a man wait, make him think you aren’t going to give him the attention he so badly craves.
And besides, the booth is already teeming with half-naked girls. I’m not going to throw myself into the swarm. Best to bide my time.
An hour passes as I work the room, giving lap dances and making conversation—a lot of people come here for that, wanting to talk to someone who’ll actually listen, and boobs are just a nice addition.
Finally, close to three a.m., I glance up and find the crowd around the VIP booth has dispersed, and both men are still sitting there.
Seems none of the other girls were successful.
Now’s the time to make my move.
I extract myself from the woman I was just dancing on, then head across the club, weaving through the teeming crowd, making my way slowly to the booth.
When I get there, the blond one has a girl in his lap. But the big brown-eyed one doesn’t. And he looks startled by my direct approach.
What kind of rock star is spooked by a stripper?
It almost makes me smile.
“Do I know you?” I ask as I slide into the booth next to him. Immediately, he tries to scoot over to give me more room.
And again, I almost smile.
“Uh, no.” He blinks. “I don’t think so.”
“That’s a shame,” I say. “Because I’d like to.”
His thick brows arch toward his buzzed brown hair. “Really?”
I tip my head and nod, then offer him my hand. “You wanna go talk somewhere more . . . private?”
His brown eyes widen a little more. But he hesitates. Maybe this is what he’s been doing all night, gently turning girls down when they offer him private dances.
Across from him, the blond one glances over at us and sighs. “Dude,” he says, reaching across the table to jostle the big one’s arm, “just go already. We’re supposed to be having fun.”
The girl in his lap—Shania—meets my eye. Then she whispers something into his ear, drawing his attention back.
Slowly, like he’s still not sure about it, the big guy reaches out. His hand finds mine, and I wrap my fingers through his, guiding him out of the booth after me.
“Where are we going?” he asks as he trails me through the club.
“To the private rooms,” I say, then glance back over my shoulder. “Are you always this adorable?”
Apart from the lights swirling overhead, it’s dim in here, but I can still see the color rise to his cheeks. And immediately, I get the feeling that he doesn’t do this very often. Which somehow endears me to him, even though it shouldn’t.
He’s just another rich guy in a strip club. If I can get him into a private room for an hour, that’ll be good money for my shift.
As we walk to the private rooms in the back, the other girls shoot me looks—some scathing, some impressed. The dynamic in the club is always changing. Some girls get along, and others treat one another like the worst type of competition.
When Fantasique catches my eye, she smiles, then lifts two fingers in a V and sticks out her tongue.
I roll my eyes.
The music from the main room starts to fade into a dull thump as I lead the way down the hall lined with doors leading to private rooms. A few of them are already closed, but my preferred room is open.
“Come on in,” I tell the guy. He steps up to the threshold, glances into the room, and hesitates. I don’t want to lose him now—not when I’m so close to getting him alone. So I flick a glance up at him through my lashes and say, “You’re not afraid, are you?”
He smiles, revealing dimples in both cheeks. “Terrified,” he says.
But he steps into the room anyway.
Finally.
I follow him in and close the door behind us. Immediately, it gets quiet. Each room has a private sound system, so the dancers can pick their own music depending on their clients’ preferences.
He stands there, looking lost, hands in his pockets. He’s wearing a loose tank, and his arms are huge; he could probably bench press me one-handed. One bicep is tattooed, though I can’t tell yet what it is.
“Take a seat,” I say, gesturing to the velvet couch.
He does as I say, moving to the couch and sitting down, though he doesn’t look comfortable about it. He continues to glance around, then scrubs his hands along his jeans a few times.
Now I do smile.
“Are you nervous?” I ask, moving to the panel on the wall to select the song I want to dance to. Next to the panel is a small discreet button: a panic button. If a girl presses it, it immediately alerts the management. But I’ve never had to press one before.
The guy laughs, and it’s a surprisingly boyish sound coming from such a large man. “Kind of. Is it that obvious?”
“Not at all.” I flick a look at him over my shoulder. “You’re doing great.”
His cheeks take on that slight pink color again just as my song starts: “Don’t Know” by Lithe.
It has a slow start, giving me enough time to cross the private room toward him.
Sometimes I start with a dance on the small stage in the corner, but tonight, with this guy, I decide to get right to it.
And when I ease into his lap, my knees sinking into the velvet couch on either side of his hips, he swallows hard and sits back.
“You can touch me here,” I tell him, guiding his hands to my hips.
His palms are calloused, rough against my skin.
From his instrument, maybe, though I can’t remember what he plays.
Drums? Bass? I don’t know the band that well; Riley would be able to tell me in a heartbeat though. She’s obsessed with LGC.
He nods once. “Okay.”
“And,” I say, slipping a finger beneath his chin and tipping his head back so he’ll look me in the eye, “it’s okay to have a little fun.”
The bass hits, rumbling through the speakers, and I start to twist my hips in time to the slow beat. My hands slip into my hair, and I roll my body against his, grinding my scantily clad pussy into his lap.
Beneath me, I feel him start to harden. He clenches his jaw, muscles feathering along either side of his neck. He’s obviously fighting not to react to me.
It’s cute—but ultimately futile.
I lean forward, letting my long hair fall around us like a veil. “Good boy,” I whisper into his ear. When I sit back, his cheeks are red again. I try not to grin at how easy it is to make him blush.
I slip out of his lap and turn around, slowly twerking my ass in his face. Fantasique taught me how to do it the right way, and ever since, my tips have gotten much better. It’s all about the pop, the rhythm.
Over my shoulder, I watch him watching me. His hands are back to his thighs now, rubbing along the coarse fabric. He glances up and catches me watching him.
Holding his gaze, and with my back still toward him, I reach up and unclasp my sequined top. I slide each strap off my shoulders, then drop the fabric to my feet, kicking it away with one of my heels.