Chapter 11
Hannah
Hey Hannah Banana.
His body presses into mine with a need I can feel. Urgent, consuming. His mouth finds my neck, teeth grazing, claiming. My hands roam the hard lines of his shoulders while his slip beneath my shirt, leaving a trail of desire in their wake.
Using his thumb and forefinger, he applies the perfect pressure to one of my hardened nipples. Walking the fine line between pleasure and pain. My back arches into him, driven by the intensity of his touch and the need to be closer. To close every inch of space between us.
I’m still in my usual sleep clothes, a thin shirt and panties, but they feel like too much between us. His hand finds my core through the fabric, his touch deliberate, wordless, full of intent.
“You’re fucking soaked,” Sarge whispers in my ear, “Needy for me. Wanting me to fuck you, to fill you till you can’t take any more.”
The alarm on my phone buzzes, and I practically punch it trying to make it stop. I keep my eyes shut until the noise dies, hoping, praying, I can slip back into that dream. It was just getting good.
Apparently, Sarge has taken up permanent residence in my head, because now he’s showing up in my dreams. Great.
I stretch and roll onto my back, staring up at the ceiling fan as it spins in slow, lazy circles. For a second, I consider staying in bed all day. My shift didn’t end until two this morning, and my body is still feeling it. Who needs a gym membership when I get a free workout every night?
But then I remind myself—I like my job. And if I’m being honest, I kind of like getting ready for my shifts.
Velvet isn’t a high-end place, and it certainly isn’t in a nice area of town, but the staff is amazing, and I enjoy my nights with them.
First order of business for my “morning” is coffee. Always coffee.
Never mind that it’s noon, this is my morning, and the rest of the world can deal with it.
I like mine the way I like my men—light and sweet.
The first sip hits just right, warming me from the inside out. I reach for the bottle of my favorite sugar-free creamer and sigh when it gives that pathetic last slosh of emptiness. Figures. I add it to my grocery list before I forget. Again.
My stomach growls, so I toss a whole wheat bagel in the toaster and lean against the counter while I wait. Living alone has its perks. Silence when I want it, no one around to judge me for dishes in the sink or wearing yesterday’s t-shirt.
No passive-aggressive comments about how I have “a little bagel with my cream cheese.” So what if I like a generous layer of cream cheese? It’s good, and it makes me happy.
The bagel pops and I smother it with cream cheese, consuming it while scrolling through my phone.
Martin’s already posted some thirst-trap story with his flavor of the week.
Typical. Ellie’s at the shelter again, kissing puppies on her Instagram feed.
And me? I’m trying not to think about a certain biker with gray-green eyes who kissed me like I was his oxygen.
It’s easier said than done. There’s something about him that I can’t shake, and it’s not only the way he kissed me. It was more in all the things he didn’t do.
There was no lecture about how I shouldn’t have gone out with Martin if he was going to leave me alone. No insults about “dressing like a whore”. There was no gaslighting or guilt-tripping to let him inside and take him upstairs to properly thank him for the ride home.
No, instead, he left me at my door and waited until I was safely locked inside. I am both annoyed and impressed.
After I shower, I throw on leggings with a loose tee and head out for errands before work. Dunkin’ run, gas, grocery store.
People would never guess the girl in the cereal aisle comparing organic boxed breakfast prices is the same one who’ll be in a bikini and fishnets by nine o’clock. And I like it that way. My life doesn’t have to be anyone’s business but mine.
Most people picture strip clubs as a blur of neon, glitter, and girls with dollar bills hanging out of their thongs. And sure, that’s part of it. But for me, it’s more than that. It’s independence. It’s steady income. It’s mine.
When I lace up my top, it feels like armor. Tight, secure, turning “just Hannah” into someone sharper, bolder, untouchable: Lilly. She’s the part of me that helped me leave Collin. Helped me put distance between myself and my mom without feeling guilty for protecting my peace.
Lilly helped me find my voice again.
People assume you have to be broken to work in a strip club, or that you must be high to get through the night. But I’m not.
Maybe a little broken, but I’m learning to rebuild and love myself again.
I don’t smoke and I’ve never touched the hard stuff.
I’ll drink if a customer insists on buying me a shot, but otherwise I like to keep my head clear while I’m at work.
I don’t need anything to distort the reality of my line of work.
The club doesn’t scare me; if anything, it empowers me.
When I step through the back door of Velvet, the music is thumping. The air smells like cheap perfume, hairspray, and money.
Most of the girls are clustered in the dressing room, trading gossip, lighting up, or popping something stronger. I don’t judge, but I don’t join in either. My rebellion has limits.
“Hey, Hannah Banana,” one of the dancers, Misty, teases as she smacks my ass playfully on her way out to the floor.
“Hey yourself,” I shoot back, smiling.
I like most of the girls at Velvet. They’re not at the level of being like “sisters”, but they’re great coworkers. Everyone’s got their own reasons for working here, same as me.
I secure my phone and purse in a locker, not that I think any of the girls would steal, and log into the dressing room tablet before heading out to the floor.
My routine is to greet the regulars before the new customers. Regulars love feeling special when they’re the first to be noticed. Being on the floor has become second nature for me since this is where I started before picking up the stripper heels.
Sometimes I forget that I initially took this job as a middle finger to Collin. Call it petty but I’ll take my wins where I can.
He wouldn’t care about other men lusting after me. He’d hate this job because he couldn't handle the confidence it gives me. Because how dare I feel good about myself?
I flirt, laugh, and offer floor dances. We’re all allowed to set our own prices, and I charge everyone the same unless the customer is a douche. In that case, I raise the price. I take my clothes off for money, but I still have standards. Plus, it’s amazing what these men will pay for.
There is a guy in a corner booth I don’t recognize. He’s in a suit that costs more than my car and wearing an expression that says he thinks he owns the place and everyone in it. He’s already snapped his fingers at a cocktail waitress. Cardinal sin in my book.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he croons as I make my rounds. He doesn’t bother looking at my face; instead, he openly stares at the space between my neck and waist. “What’s it gonna cost to get you off your feet and on this lap?”
I offer him the same smile I’d perfected back when I was carrying trays of overpriced seltzers. Bright, professional, and entirely hollow. “Standard is forty a song, fifty to lose the top,” I purr.
Feeling the itch of the asshole tax, I add, “But for you? It’s a hundred per song. Plus a four-drink minimum for the waitress you insulted. What do you say?”
I keep my Barbie smile plastered on, not giving a shit whether I upset this man or not.
His grin falls. “A hundred? You’re joking. Not paying that much for some overweight stripper.”
“Then I guess I’m out of your budget,” I wink as I turn away. Knowing I hit both his ego and his pride.
As if on cue, the music dips as the DJ’s voice cuts through.
“Alright, gentlemen, keep those bills ready. We’ve got the gorgeous Symphony finishing up on Center Stage... coming up On Deck, we’ve got the girl who knows how to give you exactly what you want, the incomparable Lilly.”
I’m thankful for Mack. As the DJ, he runs our rotations like a clock, ensuring every girl gets equal stage time.
Since we pay house fees and aren’t employees, we don’t owe the club any explanations for our whereabouts.
Mack is the only one who needs to know if we’re available.
He’s been here longer than I have, and he has a way of remembering exactly what music each girl prefers. It’s the little things.
When we need a break, we mark ourselves “unavailable” on the tablet. It’s been a lifesaver. Before, we had to sign in and out on a whiteboard, making it more difficult to track who was on break and who was tucked away in VIP. Now, it’s seamless.
I weave through the crowd toward the stage, throwing Mack a quick wave before taking the steps carefully in my six-inch heels.
Only a few notes of my first song filter through my ears, and I already know which one he chose.
Grind for Me by Ruby Darkrose. Hell of a way to start my shift.
Expensive-suit-guy can kiss my whole ass.
By the time the lights go up on my final set, my feet ache, and my makeup is smudged, but I feel pretty damn good. No one can say this isn’t a workout.
After tipping out Mack, I wander over to the edge of the bar. Scanning the room first, I push a stack of bills across the wood counter to tip out the bartender.
To my left, the door swings open, and in comes a mass of leather and heavy boots. Motorcycle club. You can always tell. The kuttes, the swagger, the way they move as a unit. My heart stutters before I can stop it.
For a second, I think maybe it’s them. Maybe it’s him. Even though I’ve never seen the Saints in here, I can’t help but hope. Maybe Sarge will be sitting at one of these tables, drink in hand, those smokey green eyes locked on me like they were the night he kissed me.
But no. Not the same faces I saw at Rawhide. They sport different colors, too. Another crew looking to blow off steam, stuffing dollar bills into garters and buying rounds of liquor.
I exhale, realizing I’ve been holding my breath. What the hell am I doing?
What if he did walk in?
What if he saw me here—mesh bodycon dress, heels sky-high, giving lap dances to men who can barely keep their hands to themselves?
Would he look at me differently? Would he think less of me?
I love my job and the independence that comes with it. But the idea of Sarge’s judgment, of him seeing me as nothing more than another stripper, makes my insides twist more than I care to admit.
I grab my bag and slip out the back door, the muffled bass still vibrating in the walls behind me. The cool night air hits my skin, crisp and refreshing after the stale air in the club.
Blue, one of the bouncers, spots me and escorts me to my car like he does every night.
This is my life. It’s not glamorous or special in a tragic kind of way. It’s normal and average.
For me, it’s enough.
I think.