To Burn In Brutal Rapture

by Nyla K

  But Merci must be immune to it, because she’s swooning over the grouchy Russki.

  I ignore their drama and fluff out my hair, watching Candi, the girl on the stage, as she holds herself upside down on the pole. Damn, she’s good. I’d love to be able to do that someday.

  “Mercedes!” Kurt shouts and we both jump. “Get out on the floor!”

  “Yes, sir,” she salutes him, then lowers her voice, “Captain Micro.”

  I laugh, and as she walks away, I see a small smirk tug at Viktor’s normally scowling lips while he watches her ass move. He glances up at me, realizing that I’ve caught him, and rolls his eyes, turning back to the bottles.

  I can’t help but grin, because he reminds me of another huge, grumpy tattooed guy with black hair. But my smile fades fast when I remember that Lazarus said he’d call me tomorrow three days ago and I haven’t heard a word since.

  Well, screw him. I refuse to come to him this time. I’m sticking with the game and waiting until he shows up again.

  I just hope for my sake it happens soon. Because I really miss his beautiful, crabby ass.

  I head to the entrance of the main stage and stretch out my legs as Candi’s song winds down. I look out into the crowd of dudes, talking, laughing, drinking and throwing money around like they’re fucking ballers. Really, they just want everyone to know how theoretically big their dicks are, and prove that they can get hard, when in actuality they’re probably as soggy and limp as wet noodles.

  Noticing a certain group of three guys leaving, I sigh out a breath of relief. There’s this one businessman who always asks for dances from me by name. I don’t know what his actual name is, but he calls himself John.

  Real original, dumbass.

  I was hoping he wouldn’t stay to watch my performance, even though he usually gets me with at least a hundred bucks during my pole dances, but he keeps hinting at wanting to go into the Champagne Room with me. I’ve been able to brush him off until now, claiming to be busy, but if Kurt found out I was turning down clients he’d fire me on the spot. Which wouldn’t be the worst thing, but I need just a few more weeks of income, and then I can tell him to fuck off.

  Now that John is gone, I can breathe a little better. I’m excited to get up on the stage and twirl around the pole to the song I chose for tonight, Crave You, the Adventureclub Remix. And it’s almost three, meaning we’re closing soon, thank God. I’d really love to crawl into bed and stare at my phone, praying for Lazarus to message me.

  I know, girl. You don’t have to say it. Patheti-sad.

  Candi’s song finishes up, and the guys applaud for her. She flirts with most of them for show, licking her lips and nodding for her regulars to meet her by the back. Candi’s been doing this a while, and she loves it. She has two kids, one in Pre-school and one starting Private School next week, so she needs this money to support them.

  It’s girls like her who inspire me to suck it up and do the damn thing out there, because if they can make it work, why the fuck can’t I?

  They also sometimes make me want to quit, since I don’t actually need to be here, and if they knew how much my father was worth, they’d probably beat the shit out of me for being so fucking stupid.

  I shake my head. Whatever. You can’t know someone’s struggles until you walk a mile in her heels.

  Reaching into the waistband of my panties, I pull out an orange pill and pop it into my mouth, biting down quick before swallowing. The bitterness on my tongue brings a flood of saliva, but I’m used to it at this point. I take almost double my needed dose of medication while I’m at work. I know it’s probably bad, but I can’t make myself stop or care.

  The way I see it, they’re prescribed to me, for use as I see fit. I mean, I’m not supposed to snort or smoke them. But I don’t do that often, so it’s okay.

  I’m in control of it. My life is finally going in the right direction, and I need my pills to help me deal with all the stresses, which is exactly what they’re here for.

  Candi hops down off the stage and sighs, “They’re all yours, babe.”

  We cheek kiss, which is what all the girls do when finishing a set, and I take a deep breath, climbing up onto the big stage. The lights are low, the entire stage dark aside from the edges, which are illuminated with LEDs.

  I get into position and my song starts, the lights coming back up to cast a spotlight on me. I begin to dance by myself, winding my hips as I look out at the faces of the guys watching me. I recognize some of them as regulars, and then some newbies, gazing on eagerly with money in their hands and lust in their eyes. Just as I’m about to grab the pole and begin my first rotation, I see the last face I expected to see tonight.

  Lazarus is here. And he’s alone, sitting at a table, slightly pushed back from the stage, staring at me with a mixture of rage and hunger on his beautiful face.

  I swallow hard and try to focus on moving, twirling myself around the pole to the music, hitching a knee to swing. I see Lazarus each time I circle back and he looks… Well, he looks fucking detrimentally gorgeous. But he also looks like he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

  I can tell by the slightly pained expression on his face he’s only here for me, and it has me dripping, like the girl in the song.

  Licking my lips, eyes set on his and not once breaking, I lift myself and slide down the pole with my legs spread wide. It’s a move that makes all the men around the stage hoot and whistle and toss bills. Lazarus simply clenches his jaw and leans back in his seat, looking bored.

  I’d like to think I know him better than that by now, but I still find myself chasing his approval. I’m desperate for a reaction out of him. I want to see that sturdy wall of his split and crack.

  My hands travel up my body, cupping my breasts, covered only by silver star pasties, head dropping back as I hold myself up with my calf on the pole. My gaze snaps back to his, and Lazarus brings his glass to his lips, taking a generous sip. Then he cocks his head to the side, curiously, as if he’s appraising something.

  He’s watching my performance the way Simon Cowell watches people sing. Critically observant but ultimately unimpressed.

  It sparks a flame of determination inside me. I know he’s likely fucking with me, and if I slid into the seat next to him, I’m sure I’d find an erection the size of a bottle of that scotch he loves so much in his expensive trousers. But still, I’m desperate to show him what I’m made of. To make him feel as helpless as he makes me when he says he’s going to call then disappears for days.

  I want him to need me the way I need him.

  Hoisting myself up off the stage, I grip the pole and swirl my body around and around, all the way back to the floor. Not many girls can do that move, but I’ve been working my arms out in Pilates at Aton. The rest of the guys whoop for me, tossing fives, tens, and twenties onto the stage, while Lazarus stays seated and visibly grips the glass in his hand so hard it looks like it could shatter at any moment.

  Bending over with my ass in the air, I grip the pole low then lift myself again to swing my legs above my head. I’m surprised I’m even pulling this off, because it’s alarmingly close to the move Candi does. But Lazarus and his petty scowl have unleashed indignation inside me.

  I keep going, keep swaying and gyrating and spinning, making sure my tits move just enough on my little hops down. My stage is littered with bills and for a moment I forget about Lazarus and focus on all the green everywhere.

  Money I earned on my own. I didn’t have to touch anyone or beg anyone. Sure, I’m barely dressed, but I’m not just standing around half-naked. I’m putting on a show, and these guys like it.

  It’s moments like this when I see how addicting this whole thing can be for some girls.

  I end my set by doing a full split on the stage, and the crowd erupts. A small grin slips as I flip my hair and give Lazarus a wicked look. He doesn’t clap or whistle. He barely reacts, but I can tell from the way his eyes are shooting laser beams at me, I’m either a
bout to be severely scolded or bent over his knee. I hope for my sake it’s the latter.

  I need my dose of that hot, scary older man.

  While meandering off the stage, I ignore the men who shout degrading things at me, focusing on the change in Lazarus’s demeanor as I’m speaking to other guys. I’m not even engaging them, but he can clearly hear what they’re saying to me, and he looks like he’s about to erupt like a volcano of violent wrath all over this club.

  “Trixie, let me show you a good time, baby,” one guy by the stage says as I bat my eyelashes.

  “Trixie, I can turn you out, gorgeous,” another guy grins, flashing a wad of hundreds.

  “You lookin’ for a sponsor, sweetheart?”

  I’ve really never gotten this kind of attention before, and I’m a little giddy, though I wouldn’t admit it to anyone. Not because of these idiots, I don’t care about them. But obviously Lazarus being here caused me to put on the best show I’ve ever given.

  Take that, you growly old man.

  Lazarus downs his glass and stands up, rubbing his jaw while stalking toward the guys who are talking to me. His eyes are lit up with a burning rage I haven’t seen since the first night he found me here. And I’m no longer excited. I’m worried… for these guys.

  He looks like he’s about to go on a killing spree.

  Gulping down the dread in my throat, I shove my cash the guy swept off the stage into my panties, hobbling quickly so I can get to Lazarus before he begins a Boondock Saints impersonation on all the dudes in this strip club.

  I climb off the stage, waving at the other girls as I make a beeline in his direction. He’s doing that thing where he clenches his fist over and over. Oh God. He’s going to start slicing people’s throats. I need to get him out of here.

  I almost trip and break my ankle as I dive on Lazarus, attempting to tackle him before he can start murdering, but he’s so tall and wide that he barely moves. It’s more like I come crashing into a wall of inked muscle draped in tailored fabric, to which he moves a slow, unenthused gaze at me, lifting a brow like I’m the crazy one.

  “Hey,” I’m out of breath. “What’s up?”

  He glares at me for a moment. “What’s up?” His jaw ticks visibly, but then his eyes drift to my tits and he clears his throat. “Let’s go. Now.”

  Excitement fizzles through my belly like a flock of birds traveling south for the winter. He wants to leave with me? Wow…

  My boyfriend, Lazarus.

  I blink myself out of the obsession-hole I’m tumbling into and nod. “Yea, sure. I have fifteen more minutes of my shift but I can just hide out in the dressing room until then.”

  He looks beyond confused, but gives me a nod. “I’ll be out front.”

  “‘Kay,” I chirp, then bite my lip to contain my smile.

  He appears as if there are a million things he wants to say, but won’t allow himself to do it, especially not in this gritty strip club. He glances around for a moment, then slips a hand out, running his fingers along my lower back briefly. That one bit of contact is enough to have my heart soaring like a rocket ship through his vast solar system.

  “I’ll um… See you in a minute.” I move onto my tip-toes, wanting so badly to kiss him or touch him, or give him something, but I wouldn’t even know where to start, or what he would let me get away with.

  His dark brows pull together and the stormy gray slides over my body once more before he turns and stalks toward the exit. Breathing out hard from all the tension that I hopefully wasn’t imagining, I scurry into the changing rooms and open my locker. Quickly stripping out of my fishnets, I dig money out of my underwear, shoving it into my bag.

  “Leaving early?” One of the girls I’m not crazy about, Karma, leans up against the locker next to mine, crossing her arms over her chest, which is much bigger, and faker, than mine.

  “It’s ten-minutes to close,” I shrug. “Who cares?”

  “I’m sure Kurt would,” she squints at me. “Seeing as how you keep maneuvering your little jailbait ass out of Champagne Room duty.”

  “I’ve done my time…” I mutter, knowing it’s bullshit. But I’m not trying to hear it from this bitch. She’s obviously jealous of all the money I just made, since she hasn’t taken her eyes off my bag. I instinctively tug it tighter over my shoulder.

  “Yea, sure,” she scoffs and flips her red hair over her shoulder. “So who’s that guy you were talking to out there?”

  At mention of Lazarus, I stop wiping the makeup off my face and glare at her.

  “He’s pretty fuckhot…” she keeps prodding me, looking positively smug. I want to rip that little smirk off her injected lips. “Too old for you though.”

  Oh, that’s it. You’re going down, bitch.

  “For your information,” I start, begging myself not to do it, because I know it’s not smart. But I can’t stop… “He’s my boyfriend.”

  Her face freezes and she looks shocked, which is very satisfying. And also offensive, because why couldn’t I get a man like Lazarus? Just because I’m young? So what?? I’ve had him… a little. But still! It counts!

  “Yea right,” she snorts, and my jaw tightens as I wipe the rest of my eye makeup off with one of my makeup remover wipes, then grab my sweatshirt and slip into it.

  “I don’t care if you believe me or not,” I chuckle, zipping up and stepping into my Adidas slides. “He’s here to pick me up. And my performance tonight got him nice and hot, so it’s gonna be a great night for me.”

  I wink at her and slam my locker shut in her face. Then I leave through the back exit so Kurt won’t see me, walking around to the front with my bag slung over my shoulder, eyes peeled for Lazarus’s Maserati. I spot him leaning against it, parked right in front of the main entrance, and I immediately forget about what’s her name and whatever she was cunting off about.

  My heart flutters at the sight of him. He’s pure perfection, in a dark gray t-shirt that fits his broad chest and shoulders perfectly, jeans that show off that tapered waist, sitting low on his hips, and some shoes that are obviously very expensive. Everything he wears is high quality, and I’m used to it.

  I’ve had nice things all my life, but Lazarus didn’t, not until him and Dad started Westright and he became a young CFO. The pride I feel at knowing someone as strong as him makes me wiggle with the desire to touch him everywhere and show him how fucking special he is.

  I know despite everything he’s made for his life, Lazarus still sees himself as that same hungry, neglected little boy being passed around from family to family, like something unwanted. I need him to know that I want him. I think I’ve always wanted him, on some level.

  As I’m rounding the side of the club, Lazarus lifts his wrist, checking the time on that vintage Rolex he wears, then rakes his long fingers through his inky black hair, showing off the tattoos on his inner bicep. I don’t get to see those that often, but I love them just as much as the rest.

  There are some words in a bold script that I’ve never gotten a solid chance at reading. And just below that is Jesus’s face with a bleeding crown of thorns on his head. I wander up to him, all the while thinking about how many tattoos he must have. I want to ask him about them and see if he’ll let me look at them all.

  “Hi.” I stop in front of him.

  He says nothing, just holds out his hand, and I know he’s asking to take my bag. I grin, handing it over, and before I can walk to the passenger side of his car, he reaches out to run his thumb along my bottom lip.

  I’m swooning so hard I’m about to collapse.

  “Let’s get you home,” he says, and I nod, though my tender heart wants to beg him to stay with me this time. I need him to stay or I might die.

  He rounds the car with me and opens my door, all chivalrous and stuff. As I get in, I wave to Dante at the door and he waves back while shaking his head, probably because Lazarus is back to picking me up again, and I know it looks bad, but I really don’t care.

  I’m
ecstatic.

  Lazarus tosses my bag in the backseat and hops into the driver side, his Maserati roaring to life as we buckle our seatbelts at the same time. His eyes dart over to me and there’s a little smirk on his lips that makes me so wet and needy, I can barely keep myself from pouncing on him.

  I spend the entire two-minute drive staring at him, my mind racing over ways I can try to get him to come upstairs with me. I could tell him I just want to hang out again, and that we don’t have to do anything sexual.

  But we all know that’s bullshit. Just like last time, I can’t guarantee I won’t be so overcome by my lust for his churlish, aloofness that I won’t start grinding on him the moment he sets foot inside my apartment. It’s really hard not to. I guess that’s why it seems to happen almost every time we’re alone.

  Plus, I don’t want to just hang out anymore. I want him to decide he wants me as much as I need him, and that regardless of how much it would hurt my dad, we can be something, at least behind closed doors.

  Lazarus pulls over in front of my building and shifts into park, abruptly turning to me and raising his eyebrows, speaking no words.

  “What?” I ask, preparing myself for whatever he’s about to scold me for doing. I don’t think I touched anything, did I?

  “Why are you staring at me?” He leans back in his seat.

  My mouth opens, but I have to think for a solid fifteen seconds about how to respond to that question.

  “I just like looking at you…” I shrug, shrinking under his intense glare.

  In typical Lazarus fashion, because honestly he might be bipolar, he does the opposite of what I expect him to do.

  He smiles.

  It’s a big one, too. Bright and beaming; charming and sexy, complete with a little dimple on the right, as if that side gives in more than the rest of his face.

  Then he shakes his head and sighs. “Goodnight, Trix,”

  My heart falls into my stomach so hard I feel sick for a second. He’s kicking me out of the car?

  Grasping at straws, I mumble, “Don’t you want to come up? Just for a few…”