Chapter 15 Red Flags
In the dressing room, I down my second bottle of water since walking off-stage.
I need to pull out and stash all the cash tucked in my panties and garters, then freshen up before I hit the floor.
It’s a full house tonight, and with that many patrons, there’s more than one opportunity to snag a private dance or two.
I think about checking on Gray, but with a cursory glance at my phone, I see no missed calls or unopened messages.
He’s old as fuck, Millie. You don’t need to babysit the guy, I tell myself, stunting my disappointment. It’s only a little rude that I haven’t gotten a single message after I spent all that time teaching him how to do it.
I mean, we even went over gifs and memes! I expected something.
“Whatever,” I mumble as I tuck my phone inside the drawer of my vanity. I put the cash in with it, then turn to freshen up my make-up.
“Hey! Millie, are you back here?” I hear one of the girls call. Not a second too soon does Kendra pop back into the dressing room, the reflection of her appearing in my mirror. I top off my lip gloss and turn to face her. She hasn’t gone on yet, but she looks like she’s just run a marathon.
“What’s up?” I ask.
She points to the door behind her. “Someone is out there asking for a dance.”
I give her a weird look. “And, what? You couldn’t do it?”
“No.” She shakes her head. “The guy said he wants you.”
I point a finely manicured nail to my chest. “Me? He specifically requested me?”
She nods. It isn’t uncommon for a patron to request a specific girl, but usually that’s something they book in advance before opening.
Dax and Trace, our bartender, manage the schedule like a couple of hawks.
They text us ahead of time to let us know if we’re booked, and then Dax or a bouncer escorts us to the room.
It’s kind of a hassle, but there was an incident a while back that made Dax reconsider his processes.
In fact, he changed so much that the club doesn’t manage the way most strip clubs do anymore.
The regulars didn’t mind, though. They seemed happy enough to book their private dances according to their schedules. Happy customers, happy employees.
String Theory prides itself on boobs, butts, safety, and consent. It’s in the mission statement.
So, Kendra coming to grab me herself instead of Trace or Dax is a big red flag.
I stand and cross the room, noticing for the first time the weird, glazed over look in her eyes.
There isn’t much about Kendra that I know, except that she comes from a pretty rough family and an even rougher relationship.
She’s dabbled with drugs, and I know a haze when I see one.
Having a junkie mother isn’t a one-up over anyone, but it does help me recognize when someone is a little in over their head.
“Are you okay?” I ask, reaching for her. She sways on her feet, a frown overtaking her lips.
“I’m fine!” she snaps, avoiding me altogether. “Just go already.”
“Chill, Kendra. I’m gone.” I throw my hands up between us and shift past her to the door.
Out in the hall, past the stage door, I head for the floor.
The music in the club greets me, bumping to the beat of whatever new song Jay has playing.
There’s more than a few girls on stage, with patrons crowding every available space.
I steal a glance toward the bar, noticing that Trace has her hands full.
I hurry over to help when she catches my eye.
“You’ve got a John waiting for you in room two,” she says when I pull up behind the bar.
The fact that Trace knows about the guy makes me feel a little less uneasy about the whole thing. Maybe Kendra really was just gone in some kind of haze.
“Bottle service?” I ask over the music.
“Never hurts.” She winks. “Can you make it there alone?”
I cast a hesitant glance around the packed club. No one is in sight. “I guess I can.”
“I’ll watch from here,” Trace says, then gestures to the crowd at the bar behind her. “Gotta stay here.”
“It’s fine.” I take a deep breath. “I’m a big girl. I can handle it.”
With that, I pull together a tray of liquor, garnishes, and some ice.
Trace gives me a nod as I walk away, heading for the second room in the VIP row.
It’s a nice little strip of soundproof rooms far enough away from the main stage to give higher paying patrons more privacy.
Sometimes there are bachelorette parties taking up the little red couches inside, and sometimes it’s a bunch of college interns trying to impress their new bosses.
I’ve seen just about everything, so it doesn’t surprise me to find a party of guys and young women huddled together on the red leather sofa sucking face.
Everyone seems too preoccupied to notice me, but I certainly notice them.
At first glance, they look pretty average for a group of clubbers.
The clothes, the shoes, the blatant disregard for privacy, are all signs that point to rich kids.
Another night on the town spending Daddy’s money.
At least, that was my initial thought.
“Here she is,” says one of the guys on the couch. At the center of his party, he sits with a girl on his lap and a younger guy wrapped around his side, stroking his arm and shoulder.
“Here I am,” I say, putting on my best front. With a hard sway of my hips, I walk around the pole in the center and set the tray on the empty surface of a low table.
The guy who first spoke looks up at me with a gleam of amusement dancing in his dark eyes.
Even with subpar lighting, his beauty is undeniable.
Long, brown hair falls around his face in perfect, shiny waves, and he’s got a killer jawline, with a dimpled chin.
I see the shadow of his cheekbones, highlighted by the low blue and silver light.
It’s easy to see why he’s the center of attention.
The arrogance that flashes in his eyes tells me that he knows he’s hot shit, too.
“What’s your name?” he asks, raking his eyes over my body.
Normally, I’m used to being eye-candy, but something about his expression makes me feel slightly uncomfortable.
I have a hard time believing he requested me by name, not because I feel unattractive, but because he isn’t the usual type to step inside a strip club.
He’s too polished, too blue-blooded, which makes me wonder what he’s really here for. Or who.
I turn, stepping up onto the little platform, and swing myself around the pole. “Everyone around here calls me Cheeks.”
The girl in his lap giggles, and the man jolts her upright with his leg. He hisses low, “Be nice.”
I ignore them, mostly, and distract myself with the dance.
There’s music playing in the background, but it isn’t anything I immediately recognize.
The rooms are built for privacy and hyped for the mood, not the music.
If I wanted to lose myself in the sound, I would have to retreat to the main floor.
“Do they call you that because of your ass?” one of the other guys croaks.
I do another spin, and in passing him, my eyes catch the sight of his mouth.
It’s streaked black, reflecting the blue light with a purple-like glimmer.
Beside him is the woman he was glued to, but she doesn’t move.
In fact, it doesn’t look like she’s even breathing.
Is that… blood on his mouth? My mind whirls and the alarms are ringing at full blast.
“Christ, Julian,” the first man snarls, throwing the woman off of his lap.
She lands on the floor with a thud and a loud ‘hey.’ I stop mid-dance, eyeing them all cautiously.
I know the door is behind me, but with the first guy now standing, I realize how much bigger and broader he is than me.
I wouldn’t make it two steps to the door if he is what I think he is.
“I said ‘be nice.’”
“Fuck you, Dante,” says Julian. The bigger guy, the beautiful one whose name must be Dante, grabs his friend by the throat and lifts him from the couch. With inhuman speed, he cracks Julian’s neck with his other hand, turning it completely around. I startle, stifling a scream of my own.
“I asked for one thing,” Dante sighs impatiently, dropping his “friend” to the ground. He crumples around his booted feet, kicked away as Dante turns back to his own seat. “Silence and compliance while I work. Is that really too much to ask?”
No one in the room answers.
Dante sits and waves at me. “Resume, please.”
I swallow my fear and shakily pick up where I left off. After a few beats, the mood resumes, as if the little outburst never happened. I keep my eyes off the bodies to my left hoping that by not seeing them, they aren’t actually there.
“Come a little closer,” Dante purrs. I hear the command underneath, and it isn’t one I feel like challenging.
Stepping down from the little stage, I move between his open legs. The other two with him are huddled together now, groping each other on the side, kissing or sucking each other’s blood. Probably.
“Right there,” he says, spreading his legs wider. We don’t touch, but I know what he wants, and I’m a little afraid to do so. “Just relax, precious. I only came to watch.”
“Okay.” My voice is little more than a whisper. I start up again, moving to the sound of the music the best that I can. It’s easier to focus on the sway of my hips and the movement of my feet than every single red flag waving itself around in my head.
“I bet you want to know who I am.”
I don’t answer.
“Rather, what I am.”
Again, I remain silent. He snarls and snaps, grabbing my arm with such force that it knocks me sideways. “Don’t fucking ignore me.”
“I-I don’t know what to say,” I stutter, trying to maintain my balance. Dante’s eyes hold mine for a long minute, and then he relaxes, letting my arm go.
“Take off your top,” he commands.
“I’d rather not.”