Within the Sin Bin (Brookhaven Lakes #2)

Chapter 1 Rosie

“Stop being weird,” Amelia hisses at me, her voice sharp but laced with amusement.

“Sorry. I’m not trying to be,” I mumble, dragging my eyes away from the absolute goddess that’s standing across the room.

“You’re staring. Openly. At Angel.”

“Can you blame me? Her tits are amazing.”

Amelia smirks, glancing over at the woman I was looking at.

“They really are. Hey, Angel!” she shouts, waving at the stunning redhead who’s adjusting her fiery colored, barely there costume. Tassels swing from her nipples, and sheer fabric with delicate flame designs clings to her hips like they’re painted on.

Angel catches sight of us, flashes a smile, and saunters over, her fire engine-red hair glowing under the lights like a halo.

“Angel, this is my friend, Rosie,” Amelia says, gesturing to me with a sly grin. “It’s her first night.”

“My stage name is Rose,” I blurt out, a little too eagerly as I extend my hand. Angel takes it with a polite smile, her grip firmer than I expected.

Up close, I realize she’s probably about our age—late twenties, early thirties—but there’s a weathered quality to her beauty, like life’s taken a few extra swings at her yet she keeps getting back up.

Still, she’s magnetic.

I've met thousands of celebrities in my career, worked with countless stars, but somehow, I'm fan-girling over this professional dancer in the middle of a New Jersey club.

A woman who is unashamedly herself each night when she gets on the stage, ready to perform.

Probably because she isn't acting right now like the artists and influencers that I work with who won't hesitate to lie straight to my face just how about how important they really are.

“Nice to meet you, Rose. Good name choice. You look just as beautiful as a rose.” Her voice is smooth, and the compliment sends a hot flush of embarrassment up my neck.

I’m not used to receiving compliments about my looks. Tell me I made a good argument, praise my brain, I can handle that. But my appearance? That’s always been the soft spot, the thing I’ve been insecure about for as long as I can remember.

It’s extra difficult to accept a compliment in this setting where women are walking around either naked or close to it.

I didn’t think I’d be this flustered tonight, considering this whole situation was my idea.

But here I am, pink-faced and fumbling like I’ve never seen a naked woman before.

It doesn’t help that I’m wearing next to nothing underneath my sheer robe that I've cinched nice and tight around my waist as if that can cover up my body.

“Rose was just admiring your boobs,” Amelia announces, pointing directly at Angel’s very bare, perfectly proportioned chest.

Angel laughs and arches her back slightly, putting them on full display. They’re so close I could probably feel their warmth if I leaned in another inch.

“Why, thank you. All-natural. They got this big after my second baby. Go ahead. Take a good look.”

I shake my head with mock disbelief. “I feel like I should snap a photo of them for my plastic surgeon.”

She winks at me, her grin playful. “Maybe after the show. Good luck out there tonight.”

With that, she gives a small wave and turns back to finish her preparations, her hips swaying as she walks away.

“Um… seriously, though. She’s perfect. How am I supposed to compare to that?” I ask, gesturing to Angel like she’s a freaking mythical creature.

Amelia waves me off. “It’s not about comparing.

Everyone brings something different to the stage.

Besides, you’re new. People like new. You’ll make a few mistakes, but it’ll be fine.

Mistakes can be cute. Just don’t freeze up.

Also, you have incredible tits too. They just aren't big like Angel’s.

Yours are nice and perky, though. Pinch your nipples a few times before you go out there and the men will be drooling over them. ”

I laugh but my mind is still hung up on ‘mistakes.’ That word grates against my nerves.

Mistakes aren’t something I tolerate, or something I've ever been allowed to make. Not in my career, not in my carefully curated life outside this strange, glitter-dusted world I’ve decided to step into for just tonight.

Raised as the only daughter of an overbearing, bulldog of a father and an equally perceptive older brother, perfection isn’t just a goal. It’s the standard.

Mistakes aren’t allowed in the Prescott family full of three generations of lawyers. Not for me, anyway.

“And what do I bring, exactly, other than nice perky tits?” I ask her.

I'm a twenty-nine year old woman who is wholly uncomfortable in her sexuality, rocking size-A breasts most of the time—occasionally size-B when I’m ovulating or on my period—and what I’d call an above-average pretty face with hair so thick it feels like both a blessing and a curse.

It’s one of the few nice things I got from my mom, who skipped out on me and my brother Cain, leaving us with Dad when she ran off to Europe with her new husband.

Amelia smirks, her confidence a sharp contrast to my rambling self-doubt.

“You bring a sort of… shyness,” she says with a knowing smile.

“Innocence. People love that ‘awkward new girl just discovering her sexuality’ type vibe. It’s like catnip for them.

Plus, this is breakout night. For most of the girls in the lineup it’s their first time stripping, too. ”

Stripping. Right. Because that’s where I am right now. At a strip club in Hoboken, New Jersey with Amelia, my old law school classmate turned professional dancer.

Amelia and I graduated from Harvard Law a few years ago and while I walked straight into a cushy position at my father’s prestigious entertainment law firm—a birthright, really—Amelia took a different path.

She dove headfirst into criminal law, representing defendants who were part of New York City’s underground mafia and eventually introduced her to a world far removed from the courtroom.

That world led to stripping, and, as she gleefully explained to me over cocktails one night when we were catching up, it turned out to be both more fun and more lucrative than any high-profile law career in New York City could ever be.

And no, I’m not trading my juris doctorate, something I worked my ass off for, to become a stripper. My father would kill me.

This isn’t a career change. It’s more… an experiment.

A chance to do something wildly out of character.

To step away from my shiny, nepo-baby bubble and mingle with people I’d never meet in my usual circles.

To see how the other half lives, because, frankly, I’ve lived my entire life tucked away in privilege.

Silver spoon tucked so neatly in my mouth that I hardly noticed it until recently.

Probably right around when my brother fell in love with Rhiannon Carpenter, a woman from a blue-collar family in Brookhaven, Connecticut where they own a used furniture thrift store, and decided to start a family with her.

For as long as I can remember, my life has been dictated by my father, Maxwell Prescott of the Law Offices of Prescott it’s about having confidence with what you have. Because confidence can capture anyone’s attention and every body is a beautiful body.

It helps that I won’t have to take everything off tonight. Some dancers stick to lingerie, performing sensual routines without ever shedding another layer and still make thousands.

Not that I’m doing this for the money. Tonight isn’t about that. Tonight is about liberation.

Or maybe rebellion. Honestly, I’m not sure anymore. I just know I’m tired of carrying this innocence around like a badge I didn’t ask for. Tired of living under the weight of always being the “perfect, obedient daughter.”

I spend my days surrounded by social media influencers and movie stars. Clients who have lived ten lifetimes of wild experiences I can’t even begin to imagine.

Meanwhile, I’m about to turn thirty and have never done anything remotely reckless and I want to live a little. I want to feel a rush of adrenaline that doesn’t have to do with winning a case.

Maybe I'll decide this was pointless and crawl back into my carefully curated world tomorrow morning but at least I’ll have the memories.

“Okay,” Amelia says, snapping me out of my thoughts. “I’m going to check our position. You wait here. I’ll wave when it’s your turn to join me at the curtain.”

I nod, my head bobbing like a nervous puppet as my foot picks up its’ bouncing.

Beneath the silk robe, my skin is slick with sweat, even though the air in the club is chilly.

I’m woefully unprepared, brimming with self-doubt, and certain I’ve set myself up for a catastrophic failure or at least some serious embarrassment.

Amelia disappears, and the second I’m alone, my body is threatening to take off in the opposite direction.

Normally, I’m the picture of composure. In the courtroom I’m calm, calculated and serious, even if I’m nervous on the inside. But here I feel like I’d rather retake the bar exam than step foot on that stage full of strangers expecting a show.

Just as my anxiety peaks, a flash of bright red hair appears beside me. It’s Angel, carrying two shots of some sort of dark and ominous liquor in her hands.

“Hey Rose. Do you want one? You look terrified,” she says, using my stage name now with a grin.

I nod, my trembling fingers closing around the frosted glass. Without hesitation, I tip it back. The liquor scorches its way down my throat, a sharp burn that blooms into warmth in my chest.

Normally, I wouldn’t touch bourbon, which I’m sure that shot was, but tonight, I’m shedding Rosie and stepping fully into Rose.

Angel smirks, watching me closely as she hands me the second shot. “Take one more.”

I take the second one just as quickly, feeling the fire spread through my veins, grounding me enough to breathe steadily.

“Thank you.”

“Good luck,” she says with a wink, disappearing just as Amelia waves at me from across the backstage area.

“It’s showtime! Come on!” She hisses motioning for me to join her at the curtain.

I roll my shoulders back, pinching my shoulder blades together before shrugging off the silk robe.

My pulse is pounding, but I straighten my spine, stick my chest out as confidently as I can, and step forward to where Amelia is waiting.

She squeezes my bicep affectionately then says, “Go get ‘em, Rose.” And I’m off.