by K. A. Ware
As if I didn’t know.
It was a bad idea. I knew that when I agreed to the last-minute date. Kurt had been firmly placed in the ‘probably an asshole’ column after our first conversation when he’d bragged about how much money he made and how big his plane was. No, that wasn’t a euphemism. He was a pilot and according to dear old Kurt, the bigger the plane, the better the pilot. Of course, the moron was so arrogant he hadn’t even considered the possibility that I would fail to be impressed. But, my sister, Stella, had insisted that I give him a chance, so I tried. I really did, I schooled my resting bitch face, tamped down the sarcasm, put on a cute outfit and forced myself to give up my tightly wound need for control.
If I ignored the way he made eye contact with my tits and spoke to my cleavage, the date was going fine. I hadn’t been on a real date in over a year. Between school, work, and making sure my sister was taken care of, I barely had time to breathe, let alone date. And while the company left something to be desired, I’d actually been excited about the prospect. At least until he’d announced that on the first Saturday I had off of work in months, he was taking me out for ‘the best steak in town’…at a strip club. That’s right, at nine o’clock on a Saturday night, I was bellied up to the rack with a steak in front of me and pussy in full view.
How charming.
Needless to say, I didn’t have much of an appetite. Not that Kurt seemed to notice, he just kept yammering on and on about how great he was. Thankfully, the egomaniac didn’t require much input as he regaled me with tales from his travels. I’d never broken a promise to Stella, so, as excruciating as it was, I stuck it out
The song switched to Devil Driver’s rendition of Sail and a small smile tugged at my lips as the heavy beat vibrated through the sound system. Nakita, the dancer on the stage in front of us, reached behind her back and loosened the strings of her bikini top, letting it fall from her body. I watched as she strutted around the stage letting her hands wander seductively over the newly exposed skin. Her fingers plucked and played with her nipples, enrapturing the men at the rack. With all eyes on her, she moved to the pole, her hands suggestively stroking the metal, and her eyes screaming fuck me. My grin grew, appreciating her smooth transition.
Sneaking a peek at Kurt out the corner of my eye, I almost laughed at the way he was practically salivating. You’d think the man had never seen a pair of fake tits before. I turned my attention back to Nakita just in time to watch her swing her right leg up and around the pole, beginning a lazy spin. I couldn’t help but critique her grip and technique, and when she came off the turn a little unbalanced I had to bite my tongue from calling her over to remind her to spot so she wouldn’t get dizzy. I wasn’t an expert, but after seven years of stripping, I’d learned a thing or two.
Dancing made me feel sexy and confident in a way I never thought possible. There was a sense of power that came with getting on stage and turning people on, and I got to play the goddess, which wasn't half bad.
On that stage, for those three songs at a time, I was a queen. I called the shots, I had the power, and I loved it. The bullshit dancer politics, creepy talent agents and handsy managers I could do without, but the money was well worth the hassle.
I absently wondered if Kurt would’ve chosen a different venue for our date if he knew what I did for a living. Probably not. I usually told people I was a bartender when I first met them. When and if, I thought they could handle it, I’d come clean. To be honest, it didn’t happen that often.
I wasn’t ashamed of what I did, on the contrary, I was proud of what I’d accomplished. I was debt free, aside from my mortgage which I'd already paid down considerably, and I was able to pay mine and my sister’s way through college. In a little over a month, I’d have my master’s in psychology, and in the fall, I'd start the doctorate program at Portland State University. Stella was well on her way to a bachelor’s degree in business without the weight of student loans hanging over her head.
It wasn’t the most glamorous job in the world, but it allowed me to go to school full time and provide a decent, stable life for my sister and myself. Something that after the crap hand we’d been dealt, we deserved.
However, as proud as I was of climbing out of the primordial ooze of the tweaker infested cesspool I grew up in, telling men off the bat that I took my clothes off for money tended to give them the wrong impression. Even though I’d been confused for one on multiple occasions, I was not a prostitute. I didn’t take customers home when the night was over, and I certainly didn’t give twenty dollar blowjobs in the parking lot. Some girls did, and as long as it wasn’t blatant or putting the club or the other girls at risk, I turned a blind eye. I had a set of rules I followed, and other people had their own, it wasn’t my place to judge how someone else made rent.
“Next up on the main stage, Delilah,” the DJ’s booming voice called out over the sound system.
Fuck.
My eyes flew up and locked with the closest thing to an archnemesis I had, Tara Swafford aka Double D Delilah. She smirked as she caught sight of me and a feeling of dread swirled in my gut.
There was no way I could’ve known she’d be working at Moonlight tonight, but she was an agency girl, which meant she booked stage time all over town through a talent agent. I, on the other hand, was a house girl. I did private parties and picked up shifts at other clubs when I needed some extra cash, but for the most part, I had one club I worked at almost exclusively. At my home club, The Doll House, I had an in with the bartenders and club owner, booking directly through them.
The dynamic at each club was different, but there was a strict dancer hierarchy that was recognized and house girls were at the top. We watched over the new girls, controlled the drama, and had the club’s back keeping everyone focused on making money. In return, we got the first pick of the best shifts and veto power over drama-causing agency girls, like Delilah.
The proprietor of The Doll House was Kenny Dewitt, a man who reminded me of a skeevy alcoholic uncle with wandering hands. Much like what one would assume a strip club owner would look like, his features were round and puffy and his face an eternal shade of cherry red and covered in a thin sheen of sweat, courtesy of the bottle of bourbon permanently affixed to his hand.
Everything about Kenny screamed pervert, but all he truly cared about was making enough money to get to the bottom of his next bottle. He played his part, and some of the girls were stupid enough to play along, thinking a quick blowjob in his office would guarantee a good shift. It never did.
Kenny had a weird code of ethics, if you could even call it that. Whereas some men in his position would use their power to be swimming in barely legal pussy, Kenny used it to weed out the skanks. If a bitch was willing to drop to her knees for the off chance of a better shift, he knew she’d sure as hell take a twenty to do it on the floor. And since all Kenny cared about was his booze and his club—which gave him the money to buy his booze, he didn’t much care for women who were so desperate they’d put his business at risk.
We always had a target on our backs, one of the pitfalls of Portland's heavily saturated strip club scene, more clubs meant more oversight. One wrong move, one rumor of prostitution could lead to a massive investigation and ultimately getting shut down. We had all seen it happen, time and time again, which is why it was up to house girls like myself, to make sure that shit didn’t touch my club. It wasn’t personal. It was business. If there was one thing strippers valued above all else, it was money, and I was no exception.
Since I’d worked for Kenny for the better part of seven years, drawing in a decent crowd of regulars, making him a stupid amount of money, and watching his back, he listened to me. So, when I caught Delilah jerking off a customer during a lap dance, he agreed to kick her to the curb. To say that Delilah didn’t go quietly would be an understatement.
I was on stage in the middle of my second song when Delilah came into the club. She made her way to the bar not far from the side stage where I w
as dancing. I’d clocked her as soon as she’d shown her face but chose to ignore her, which apparently, she saw as yet another slight.
“What, princess? You wanna fuck with my money and stick your nose in my business, but your pussy ass won’t face me?” she screamed, reaching behind the bar. She produced a bottle of Patrón and sent it careening across the six feet between us.
Thankfully for me, her aim was shit, and she missed. Unfortunately for her, it pissed me right the fuck off. I could’ve gone the trashy route and dived off the stage at her, which I’d seen happen a time or two, but I kept it classy. Or as classy as I could, considering I was wearing nothing but a glittery G-string and seven-inch plastic platform heels.
The bouncers were quick, but not quick enough. Before they got through the crowded club, I hopped off the stage and stalked over to where she was standing by the bar, still spewing profanities. Delilah shoved a barstool in my direction, but I easily avoided it, not slowing my stride until I had her cornered against the bar. Customer’s backed up, forming a tight circle around us as they watched the drama unfold. With nowhere to go and no weapon within reach, Delilah launched herself at me, claws out. I planned on handling the situation like an adult, but she had other ideas.
She shoved at my chest, but I turned to the side, and she lost her balance. A roar of cheers came from the growing crowd, but I didn’t pay them any mind, my focus on the heinous bitch at my feet.
Seizing the moment, I gripped a fistful of her bleach blonde hair as she fell to the floor. Not giving her the opportunity to get her bearings, I started to pull, dragging her the four feet around the bar and into the side hallway. Her talons clawed at the sensitive skin of my wrist as she tried to loosen my grip, but I wasn’t letting go for anything. If she wanted a fight, she was going to get one. She scrambled on her hands and knees, trying to get to her feet, but I was relentless. I had a point to prove, and this bitch had taken her shit too far.
Billy, one of my favorite bouncers finally made it to us, blocking my path. It didn’t take much more than a look from me to get him to back down. “You have five minutes,” he warned, taking a step to the side.
“I only need two,” I countered, pushing open the door to the bathroom and dragging Delilah across the filthy tiled threshold.
Using her hair as puppet strings, I pulled her to her feet and slammed her against the closed door. Thankful for the incredible upper body strength that was a byproduct of climbing a pole for so many years.
She was in my club, fucking with my money, and my future. She needed to know that shit wasn’t going to fly with me, ever.
“You picked the wrong bitch to come after,” I spit, our noses nearly touching.
“Fuck you, you whore!” she screamed, using both hands to try and pry herself free from my grip.
I pulled her forward a few inches and slammed her head back into the door. “I’m not the one giving hand jobs for money on the club floor, sweetheart.”
She swung wildly at my head, and I was done playing.
Time for plan B.
Using the leverage from my hold on her fake ass hair, I swung her around and sent her sailing. Her head cracked against the disgusting toilet, and she slumped to the side curling into the fetal position on the piss-stained floor and holding her head while she cried like a little bitch.
“Don’t ever show your face in my club again,” I hissed, my body vibrating with adrenaline. I turned and opened the door to see Billy’s anxious face.
“Boss wants to talk to you,” he said, nodding toward the end of the hall where Kenny’s office was.
I smirked, I would have to do some damage control, but it had been worth it. “I’ll handle him while you take out the trash.”
In hindsight, I probably should’ve just called her agency and gotten her booted from the rotation, but to be fair, I had a reputation to uphold. I was regretting my decision to make an example of her as she stalked across the stage in front of me. We weren’t in my club anymore, I didn’t have back-up, and my self-absorbed date had no idea what kind of shit storm was brewing.
Loud voices, carried over the music, momentarily seizing the attention of everyone in the club as a crowd of leather-clad men, poured in through the front door. Clapping each other on the back, they shoved forward toward the bar. My stomach sank at the same time my heart flipped and went into overdrive as I caught a glimpse of the patch on the back of their cuts.
The Knights of Mayhem.
Without my permission, my eyes scanned each of their hardened faces. The weight of disappointment blanketed me as I came up empty, and I mentally kicked myself for being such a damn fool. I shouldn’t be looking for him, even if he was the personification of all my bad boy fantasies come to life, he was a biker, and therefore off-fucking-limits. I shook my head, clearing my thoughts of a certain extremely sexy biker with an incredibly talented tongue before I drifted off into the daydream I’d been using as spank bank material for the past three years. I was smarter than that.
Turning my attention back to Delilah, I found her still distracted by the group of men. Eyes like a vulture preparing to dive on a kill, shaking her ass and doing her best to capture their attention.
“We are the Knights of Mayhem,” the shouted words from the bikers reclaimed my attention. At least twenty men, all clad in leather and chains, were huddled together in the middle of the club, shot glasses raised and chanting. “…dirty mother fuckers, we fight and fuck, ride free, live hard, and tear shit up. Knights of Mayhem MC!”
Double fuck.
The only thing worse than an obnoxious bachelor party was a group of rowdy bikers. Delilah didn’t seem to share my sentiment because she’d all but forgotten me as she worked the pole. Following her line of sight, I spotted a giant of a man with longish dark hair and a full beard. From my position, his eyes looked almost black, and the expression on his face was practically predatory. He looked like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to fuck Delilah or kill her, and she looked like she would go willingly no matter the result.
Some things never change.
“Fucking pussies,” Kurt muttered.
My head snapped in his direction. He was staring daggers at the group of men. I searched the faces of the bikers to make sure no one had heard him, knowing full well the trouble an offhanded insult could bring in a crowd of probable killers. They appeared preoccupied at the moment, but the club wasn’t huge, and they were well within earshot, which meant it was time to go.
I wasn’t naïve. I hadn’t grown up in the suburbs where a break-in hit the local nightly news. No, I grew up in the worst part of town—a place where going out after dark was practically a death sentence and no one cared what happened to the inhabitants. I’d grown up in the black hole of urban chaos, where the laws were suggestions, and even the police were too corrupt to give a shit. It wasn’t like that all over the city, just in the bowels of the ghetto where the junkies and gangs ruled the streets, and no one was safe.
“The Knights aren’t known for starting shit, but they are known for finishing it, so keep it down,” I hissed.
Strip clubs were popular stomping grounds for bikers and the like, so even after I’d moved my ass out of the gang-infested neighborhood I’d grown up in and over state lines, I’d come across my fair share. I hadn’t had much experience with the Knights of Mayhem MC, but the few times they’d come into a club while I was working, they didn’t cause much trouble. They drank too much, were loud as fuck and rowdy, sure, but they also tipped well and didn’t start shit. The same could not be said for some of the other MCs that passed through.
As innocuous as they might seem to an outsider, I knew better. Just because they weren’t pulling knives at every Tom, Dick, and Harry, didn’t mean they weren’t as dangerous as they come. The ones who didn’t brag and puff out their chests at the drop of a hat were the most dangerous. If a man didn’t act like he had anything to prove, chances were, he was at the top of the food chain. Which was precisely why I had rules
; never fuck a stranger, never go home with a customer, and at the top of the list, no damn bikers. Outlaw or not, it wasn’t worth the risk. I’d broken those rules once, and I didn’t have plans for a repeat.
Kurt scoffed and sat a little taller. “I could take their biggest guy, no problem.”
Is this guy fucking serious?
This time I didn’t withhold my eye roll. “And what are you going to do with the other twenty?”
As my annoyance grew at Kurt’s over-inflated ego, my survival instincts went on high alert. I needed to extricate myself from the situation before Delilah remembered how much she hated me or worse, Kurt decided to mouth off a little louder.
“We should go,” I said, grabbing my wristlet and standing from my stool.
Kurt’s bear sized hand shot out and wrapped around my bicep roughly pulling me back down to my seat. “Sit,” he barked.
My body went rigid as my ass hit the stool. Alarm bells whirled and sounded off in my head. A fear I hadn’t felt in a long time made the air in my lungs turn to lead. My night had gone from bad to hazardous in three seconds.
Every woman knows the feeling, the moment you realized the man you’re with is a threat. It’s instinctual, primal even. As a woman, you walk the world knowing full well you’re prey in a sea of predators, but society has lulled most of us into a false sense of security, telling us that laws and rules of basic human decency will protect us. They don’t. Laws and regulations are just words, a series of letters printed on a piece of paper we use as an invisible shield from all the fucked-up shit people do to each other. And that invisible force field, when tested, is just air that anyone is free to walk through and do whatever they want. I learned a long time ago that you can’t depend on the law to protect you. If you want to live, you have to fight for it.
Panicked, my eyes darted around the room, searching for a way out of a seriously shitty situation. Instead of finding a friendly face, my gaze snagged on a pair of intense green eyes. Green eyes that I knew. Green eyes that had ravaged my soul the first time I’d stared into their deep pools. Green eyes that I’d broken all my rules for, in a supreme moment of self-destruction, one night three years ago. Green eyes that, upon further inspection, were attached to a very pissed off biker, and they were staring at the painful grip Kurt still had on my arm.