I let Cherry’s words, and the emotion behind them, work their way into my consciousness. I didn’t respond—I wasn’t sure if I breathed—until they’d taken root and started to spread. “If this whole stripping thing doesn’t work out for you, I’d say you’ve got a promising career in politics after that speech.” My voice was back to normal, and I’d stopped quivering like a leaf in the breeze.
“Well, a girl’s got to have an exit plan, right? Botox and exercise only wards off the aging process for so long, and I don’t want to be that wrinkly old stripper the clients are tossing quarters at in hopes she’ll get off the stage.”
“I’ve got a lot to learn from you,” I said before rushing forward when Cherry went to open the door. I shoved it closed. “What if someone asks me for a lap dance? What do I do?”
“When . . . when somebody asks you for a lap dance, it’s as simple as a rock your hips, roll your hips.” Cherry grabbed my hips and gave me a quick lesson. “Then turn around, arch your back, lean over a bit, and rock your hips, roll your hips.” Cherry turned me around and guided my body. She had to tap my back a few times to get it into the proper arch because, really, it wasn’t a natural or even comfortable position. “Voila, you’ve got it. That’s the first trick we learn in stripper school, and it’s a customer favorite.”
Cherry’s hands left my hips, but I gave a couple more rocks and rolls before turning around. “Stripper school?” That was one I’d never heard of.
“What do you think this whole half hour has been? Me, the teacher, showing you, the student, how to dress, what to do, and how to be the best stripper you can be.”
“Should I start calling you Mrs. Cherry then?”
She smiled humorlessly. “Only if you want me to peel the no-slip-grip from your shoes when you aren’t looking.”
I laughed a few nervous notes then grabbed the door handle. I could do this. I had to do this.
“Hey, don’t worry. You’ve got this,” she said. “Jake doesn’t have you scheduled up on stage or on the pole tonight, so you’ll be milling around the room, meeting clients and giving lap dances. For a first night, you’re really getting eased into it.”
Nothing about what was happening felt like I was getting eased into anything. “When will I be expected to be on stage or working the pole?” God, that sounded so bad. When will I be working the pole? If only my ancestors could see me. They’d be so proud.
Cherry shrugged. “Probably tomorrow night or the night after.”
My mouth fell open a bit, and I dropped the door handle.
“Which is why you and me are staying a few hours after our shift ends to work out a floor and pole routine. Nothing too difficult, just something that’ll get you by. We’ll keep working until you’re able to choreograph your own routines and you’re twirling around that pole like you own it.”
“Can’t wait.” I gave her a thumbs-up.
“You ready for this finally? Before Jake comes back here and throws a tantrum?” Cherry was already pulling the door open.
I supposed it wouldn’t have mattered if I’d said no. But I was ready. Not eager or even prepared, but ready. With the curve ball life had thrown me, and two sisters to take care of, I’d just have to settle for “ready.”
I followed Cherry through the door into a dimly lit hall. A curtain of glass beads was all that separated us from the rest of the clients and dancers. The music wasn’t deafening like it had been at the last place I’d worked, but that was no doubt strategic. If you could barely shout above the music, it was difficult to talk to the customers.
Cherry stopped when we were in front of the glass bead curtain. “Make eye contact, smile, be a good listener, no sob stories, rock ‘em, roll ‘em. That’s all you need to remember to get you through tonight.” She adjusted her mask just a bit before sliding the curtain aside with her arm. “I’d wish you luck, but I’m a firm believer in luck only being for suckers. Go get ‘em, Noelle.”
She waved me through, and after wiping my palms on my thighs, I took my first step inside the business end of The Body Shop. The curtain of beads clinked closed. Then Cherry slipped past me. I was on my own.
I inhaled. I exhaled. I repeated.
The club was busy. Not standing-room-only busy but definitely buzzing. The energy in the air was unmistakable. I had yet to take my second step inside the club, and Cherry had already gone up to some middle-aged man in an expensive-looking suit and was steering him to a private corner in the back. The girl didn’t waste any time. She really did create her own luck.
I was about to do the same.
I scanned the room, getting a feel for the lay of the club and who would make a good potential first customer. I didn’t want someone surrounded by a bunch of friends or other guys—that would be too much too fast. I wanted to find someone on their own, a guy with an expression that didn’t scream lecherous like the majority of them seemed to have. I knew I was in a strip club—lecherous came standard—but I needed to ease myself into this if I were going to make it through the night.
After scanning the room for a few seconds, I started milling through it. The mask made it difficult to see clearly as the feathers covered a good part of my field of vision. I was keeping my fingers crossed for some sweet-looking boy-next-door, but when I’d made it halfway through the club, I realized there were about as many of those there as there were girls-next-door.
I didn’t miss the cursory glances to the penetrating stares that fell on me as I moved through the room. I was used to getting checked out every now and again, but this was different. Those looks had been an appraising I-can-look-but-can’t-touch sort of thing —save for the assholes who got their asses kicked out for touching mine—but as I saw and felt the looks around me, they were mostly about appraising to see if they liked the look enough to pay to touch. It was fucked up in the way only a girl who’d gone from being in college last month to stripping this month could understand.
“Hey, sweetheart.” A hand wrapped around the bend of my elbow and stopped me. It wasn’t rough or demanding or even obtrusive, but it startled me.
My stomach clenched when I realized this would be the tone of things every night. Men approaching me whenever they wanted to—men touching me whenever they wanted to. Walking into the club last night and being prepared to beg Jake for a job had been humbling. This realization might have been more so.
I took a breath then turned around. Remembering Cherry’s words, I made eye contact and forced a smile. It was an artificial one, but since the guy didn’t know anything about me—other than the way my body looked in a glorified piece of lingerie—he wouldn’t know or care if my smile was real.
“Are you going to prance around the room all night? Or do you want to dance and make some money?” he asked.
The guy wasn’t my ideal first customer. He looked to be close to my age, dressed like he either was or was trying to become a rapper, and had a legion of similarly dressed friends watching with wide grins a couple of tables over.
“So? What do you say? My friends and me want to see what you’ve got hiding beneath this.” His hand moved from the bend of my elbow to the curve of my waist. His thumb traced the boning of the corset all the way up to the rise of my breast.
He was waiting for an answer, but it took all my effort to keep from shifting away from his touch.
I could do this. I could do this.
I couldn’t do this.
My consciousness had just gone all split-personality on me. I thought it was going to rip me down the center when a second man approached me. Thankfully, he was a man I was familiar with.
“Hey, Noelle. You must have just been on your way to meet the client in the V.I.P. room you and I talked about earlier, right?”
I didn’t miss the not-so-subtle nudge Jake gave me. If he was serious and I was actually expected to be in the V.I.P. room, I might as well have had a heart attack. But I’d take any excuse to get away from the gold-medallion-sporting, ultra-bright-white-s
neaker-wearing guy.
“Whatever you say, Jake.” I reformed that fake smile and stepped closer to him.
“Hey, man, not okay. We were just about to go talk,” the rapper wannabe said.
I was one-hundred-percent positive talking was not what he’d had in mind.
“And for that, my sincerest apologies, Mr. . . .”
“Richards,” the man answered.
Jake nodded. “Mr. Richards. I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but Noelle here is already scheduled for the night. Might I make it up to you by sending Tina and Trixie, the Icelandic twins, over to you and your friends?” Jake inclined his head at a couple of blond girls who were similar looking but definitely not twins. One looked to be about eighteen and the other was closer to thirty.
Mr. Richards took about half a second deciding. “I’ve never been to Iceland but always wanted to. It looks like I’m getting the full tour tonight.”
After shaking hands with the guy, Jake motioned at the “twins,” who were working a couple of poles on the center of a long table where guys were slipping bills out of their wallets as fast as they could pull them. The girls collected the money before slipping off the table and heading for Mr. Richards. I got a double glare when they passed me. Then each one took an arm before Mr. Richards escorted them to his crazed and rabid-looking friends.
“Thanks for that, Jake,” I said with a sigh.
“Thanks for what?” He slid his hands into his pockets and angled toward me. “I know you’re not thanking me for stepping in and ‘sparing’ you from one of the club’s customers, right?”
I bit my tongue to keep from answering.
“Because unless the customer’s way out of line and needs to get bounced out, we don’t turn our noses up at customers. We treat each one like they’re the best customer that’s ever walked through that door.” Jake pointed at the entrance, keeping his eyes locked on mine. “Any questions?”
Jake wasn’t lecturing me; he was informing me . . . this time. I didn’t doubt the next time I got all tongue-tied and sweaty-palmed with a customer, I would get lectured.
“The V.I.P. room? That’s just a joke, right?”
Jake’s expression didn’t change.
“Right?” I asked.
“Two things, Noelle.” Jake lifted two fingers. “One, I never make jokes inside my business. And two, I never even think about joking when it comes to the V.I.P. room. Any questions?”
Was he going to end all his speeches with Any questions? That would get old. Fast.
“You’ve got me, on my first night, scheduled to work in the V.I.P room?”
I didn’t miss the eye roll Jake did before he headed for the back of the club.
“Can we not argue about this like an old married couple in the middle of my club?” he said.
I followed him, but because Jake was moving like a whip was being cracked behind him and I was moving like I could crack my neck with every step I took in my heels, a wide space opened between us. As I passed the bar, I smiled at the bartender who’d been there last night too.
He smiled and waved. “Looking good, new girl.”
I waved back, but I didn’t share his enthusiasm. I’d only been on the club floor for maybe ten minutes—I was still very new—but something about the environment had a way of sucking up the newness. I was a bunch of things right then, but one thing I wasn’t was “new.”
I caught up to Jake leaning into the wall beside a fancy door with a crystal doorknob. I didn’t need the three letters etched into the gold plate on the door to know what room was behind it.
“Okay, shit, you really are serious,” I said more to myself than to Jake.
“If it makes you feel any better, I didn’t have you scheduled to work the V.I.P. room tonight.”
“The only way that would make me feel better was if I actually didn’t have to work the V.I.P. room tonight.”
Jake pinched the bridge of his nose and muttered, “Pain. In my ass.” After a few more muttered phrases, he cleared his expression and inhaled. “Here’s the deal. There’s this friend of the family, my family, who I’ve been begging to come into my club for months. I call him just about every week, and every week his answer’s been no.” Jake crossed his arms. “Except for tonight.”
“This ‘friend of the family’”—that had to be code word for something—“this guy you’ve been begging to come in, finally does tonight, and you think the best plan is to send me?” My voice was a couple notes high. “Because this might be his and my first night, but I can guarantee it will also be his last night if you send me in there.”
Jake lifted a brow.
“Oh, come on, Jake. I don’t have a damn clue what to do in there. I haven’t even gotten my feet wet on the main floor, and you’re sending me deep into stripper territory. Why don’t you send another girl? One who has more than zero experience.”
“I would love to send another girl. Love to. In fact, that would be my preferred choice in this situation, but here’s the clincher . . .” Jake shifted and glanced at the door. “I might have mentioned I’d just brought on a new girl, and that got his attention. He said that the only way he’d let me drag him in here was if I hooked him up with the new girl.”
“Hooked him up?” I repeated, making a face.
“Do you have to be so literal?” Jake groaned.
“Yes. When I’m working in a strip club, standing outside the V.I.P. room with my boss whose judgment I’m not so sure about anymore, yes, I damn well do have to be so literal.”
If Jake hadn’t fired me yet over anything I’d said or done, he either was a very forgiving person or desperate to keep this family friend here. From what I’d learned of Jake in the handful of conversations we’d had, I knew he was a decent guy, but forgiving to a fault wasn’t an attribute I’d list. Which meant . . .
“This must be quite the family friend.”
“The very best kind of family friend,” Jake emphasized. “Oh, and there’s no tipping in the V.I.P. room. It’s a flat rate per hour, per girl, so don’t pull an attitude when he doesn’t start flashing bills. What I’m paying you tonight will make tens and twenties barely worth bending over to grab.”
“You’re paying?”
“I’m paying.” Jake nodded. “Five hundred bones per hour, two hour minimum. As long as he wants you there, stay there. I don’t care if you two close the house down.”
If that were true and Jake truly didn’t care, he could potentially shell out three grand for one guy. “This must be one hell of a family friend.”
“Like I said, the best possible kind.” Jake placed his hand on the doorknob.
Before he could twist it open, I stalled him. “What do I do in there?” I tried to sound and look as composed as I felt terrified. It was one thing to fake-it-till-I-made-it out on the club floor, but something else entirely in the V.I.P. room for a family friend of the club’s owner. How much rock ‘em roll ‘em could I do before I put the customer to sleep? “What do I say in there?”
Jake snorted. “You don’t say anything. This isn’t your weekly shrink appointment where you lie on a couch and talk about your problems until you’re blue in the face. This is where you walk in, lay him down on a couch, and work all his problems out until he’s blue in the face. No talking required. Or recommended.” Jake zipped his fingers across the seam of his lips.
“Okay, so don’t say anything. Check.” I made a mental note. “Then what, exactly, do I do?”
“Exactly? It’s not obvious?” Jake graced me with a skeptical look.
“If it were obvious, I wouldn’t be asking.”
“Rookie,” Jake said under his breath before clearing his throat. “You ever had sex?”
My eyebrows came together. Was he serious? When he stayed silent, clearly waiting for an answer, I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, I’ve had sex. Once or twice.”
“Then you’re golden.”
I waited for him to expand. After a solid ten seconds went by, I sto
pped waiting. “I don’t follow. How does having had sex help me know what to do in some V.I.P room?” It had been made inextricably clear to me that sex with the customers was a huge no-no.
Jake checked his watch. His eyes widened enough for me to gather I was taking up too large a chunk of his time. “Your goal is to make him want to have sex with you, think he’s going to get to have sex with you, and then have quote-unquote clothed sex with him.” He must have known that I was about to argue a point and exactly what that point was. “The rules are different in there.”
“Different,” I said dryly. “How different?”
Please, for the love of God, please don’t say behind that door was where strippers became straight-up prostitutes, because I might not have had many at that point in my life, but that was a hard limit. I would not have sex for money. Yes, I realized that stripping for money wasn’t that much more noble in most people’s books, but I didn’t care about most people’s books. I cared about my book . . . and sex for pay wasn’t acceptable.
“Not that different,” Jake said with an exaggerated eye roll. “Calm down before you keel over from a heart attack. I can’t afford to lose a girl tonight, especially when she’s the new girl who got my friend to finally haul his ass in here. I mean, come on, you wouldn’t think a single, young guy would take that much convincing to come get his lap waxed by a roomful of gorgeous women . . .” Jake shoved off the wall and checked his watch again. “Listen, it’s pretty simple. This is the V.I.P. room, which means expanded privileges but no sex. He can touch your chest, and lap-to-lap touching isn’t only allowed, it’s encouraged.”
I swallowed but kept my expression flat. Those “expanded privileges” might not be ideal, but I could manage them.
“They’re paying a thousand bucks minimum to get the V.I.P. treatment, not some private room with the same stuff that happens out here.” Jake pointed at the main part of the club. “Any questions?”
Damaged Goods Page 11