I always had Dante, though. He was like a father figure to me more than a brother when we were younger. The only one who cared about protecting me.
The state tried to keep us together as they moved us through the foster system but there was only so much they could do, since we’re not blood brothers and since apparently it’s hard to even keep blood related siblings together all the time. Dante and I even started saying we had the same last name— Rossi, even though we obviously didn’t.
We tried to insist we were real brothers when we weren’t. The state was sympathetic but couldn’t always do much about our plight.
So there were times when we had to be separated. Those times didn't last long at all. Because Dante always found me and ran away from wherever he was supposed to be to wherever I was.
He would tell his foster parents, my foster parents, our social worker, our pathetic excuses of mothers whenever either of them was clean enough to visit us, whoever would listen at all— although no one listened to either of us very much— that he wasn't going anywhere his “little brother” didn't follow. That they couldn't keep us apart. And if they tried, they'd regret it.
Dante was as smart as he was protective. He said no brother of his was going to go to school with dirty rags as clothes. When we were really young he would steal all the latest name brand clothes from any store that didn't toss him out at first sight— which was most of them.
Then he realized he had to schmooze his way in to the places that had what we needed. So he applied for a job at a name brand clearance store warehouse, really looking the part of a hard-working strapping young man even though he was all of fourteen at the time.
They'd put him to work moving crates, stacking boxes and fixing up rickety parts of the old warehouse. All of the hard grunt work that no one else wanted to do.
And they left him alone to do it. So no one was around to see him filch a brand new leather jacket or a pair of brand name shoes. They didn’t know he’d put them in his tool box and carry them out with him when it was time to go home— or to whatever place we were temporarily calling home.
They thought he did great work and began to trust him— or ignore him— more and more. So soon he was loading whole boxes into the work truck they gave him to drive, and driving it straight to whatever pathetic excuse of a foster "home" we were living in at the time.
Every day was like Christmas. I admired him so much. As soon as the higher ups at the warehouse got wind of missing merchandise and started sniffing around, Dante was out of there.
It was easy for someone like him— like us— to disappear and never be found. Disappearing was what our whole life was based off of whether we liked it or not, so Dante just learned early on how to capitalize on it and make it a strength instead of a weakness.
His ID was fake, his stated name and age were fake, his work qualifications were fake. And when he started to be discovered for who he really was or what he was really doing, he would move on to the next job.
He re-invented himself whenever necessary. And he taught me how to do the same.
As we got older, it became clear that street smarts weren't the only thing we had going for us. We were attractive. Apparently women liked to throw themselves at us.
So we enjoyed it as much as any teenage and then young adult guys would. We had our fun. We bragged about our conquests. We shared them with our friends.
Because these girls would do anything we wanted them to do. It was like they got off on pleasing us. And we, of course, got off on that too.
Soon, though, Dante had found a way to capitalize on that just like he had always found a way to capitalize on everything. And by that point it was a necessity.
He had aged out of the system and had gotten caught with some petty theft charges a few too many times. He'd spent some time in juvie but had always managed to bust out before I needed him too badly.
But now that he was an adult they were a lot stricter with him. They threatened to lock him up for a long time if he so much as looked at a loaf of bread and thought about stealing it for us to eat on those days when whenever foster "parent" we were with decided they felt like blowing the money they got for "taking care" of us at the casino instead of at the grocery store.
He couldn't go to jail and be away from me, his minor brother who still needed him to look out for me. So it was time for Dante to find another way to support us: one that didn't involve the constant threat of criminal charges and time behind bars.
That's when the idea of The Fun House was born. That’s how we got to where we are today: having girls throw themselves at us, and getting money for having them do it.
Chapter 3 – Marino
Dante had thought up the original idea for what eventually became The Fun House one night when we were out celebrating his release from a short prison stint.
"I'm not going back there," he'd said, shaking his head as he’d pounded a shot. "There's gotta be a better fucking way. I've been thinking about it."
"Oh yeah?"
"These fucking girls just flock to us," he'd said. "And we need to capitalize on that. We've always made money off of whatever we have at our disposal, so why not make money off of our looks?"
"Cheers to that fucking fantastic idea," I'd responded, as we’d thrown back another shot.
"We can make all our dreams come true just by getting these girls to do what we want."
"How do you know?" I'd asked him.
It was a silly question. Dante always ended up being right. And he'd proven it, right there and then.
"Hey Bartender," he'd called out, motioning at the hot blonde behind the bar.
"Yes?" She'd asked, coming over to us and looking interested. "You need another shot?"
"Of course," Dante had said. "But we need something else first."
"What's that?" she'd asked, batting her doe eyes, all innocent like.
"We need to see your tits."
"Oh my God."
She'd blushed. She was a real goody two shoes, for a bartender. We'd been going to that bar for ages and she'd never seemed like the type to flash a guy her boobs. But then again, I guess no guy other than Dante had ever had the balls to ask.
"Come on," I'd chimed in, flashing my famous grin at her. "Just a little bit. Real quick."
I'd picked up really quick on what my role here was going to be. I was the good cop charmer. And Dante was the bad cop hunter.
"Fine," she'd said, and lifted up her shirt for us, revealing perfectly round and perky breasts. She’d even held up her shirt a few seconds longer than necessary and winked at us.
I’d known she was going to do it, but I hadn't counted on how much she'd enjoy it.
She had a big smile on her face, proud of herself.
"There you go," Dante had said, with a shrug. "Wasn't hard."
She'd looked crestfallen, and I knew it was my cue to lift up her spirits. So that maybe one day she'd come lift up her shirt again for us, and a whole lot more than that. On stage. For everyone to see.
"Good job," I'd told her. "Nice tits."
I'd winked back at her, and she'd blushed again.
I’d had no idea why she'd done it. Sure, we’d tipped her well, but no more than normal that night. She’d seemed to be elated just by the thrill of showing off her tits to us.
And that's when I knew that Dante really had stumbled onto a genius plan. My big brother was brilliant.
He'd always had good ideas about ways to make money and keep us afloat. But I could just tell from the look in his eyes— and the smile on the bartender's face after she had done exactly what we'd wanted her to, for no other reason except for the fact that we'd asked her to do it— that this idea was different. It was his greatest idea yet. It might even make us rich.
And he was right. Because plenty of girls after the bartender had done the exact same thing. Now here we are, a couple years down the line, running the show.
Sure, we have our share of problems. Investigators. Threats
of criminal charges. But no one rises to power without others wanting to pull them back down. No one is in the spotlight without extra scrutiny.
Dante had built the strip club he'd wanted to build and I'd helped him do it. I owed my brother so much.
So tonight, on his birthday, I stand guard while he's on stage getting lap dances from the hottest girls at The Fun House: the club we’d built together. We employ a slew of bouncers but none of them could be trusted to be informed about tonight.
They're as scandalous as we are, and they would have spread the word. We need tonight to be extra quiet. Nothing needs to get in the way of a birthday for Dante.
That's why when Little Miss Innocent- Looking comes to the door, I have no idea whether to let her in or not.
"Hello?" she says, rather timidly, after I crack open the door a bit for her.
"What are you here for?" I'd asked gruffly, but then I look her up and down and my tone instantly softens.
She has dark brown hair and matching brown eyes. Full breasts but not the fake kind. A perfectly normal sized waist with a curvy ass. Just the way I like them.
She's fucking hot all right. So hot that all I can think about is bending her over and fucking her right here and now. I'm popping a boner right here where I’m sure she can see. How fucking embarrassing.
"I'd like to see about working here," she says.
I give her a skeptical look. While telling my cock to quiet down so that my brain can think.
"Who sent you?" I ask her, suspicious but hoping that she can hurry up and start doing what she came to do. I want to see her naked. I want to be inside her. "How did you find out about us?"
"There was an ad…" she says, holding up a copy of the Local Gazette.
She points to the free classified section in the back, where we continually run an ad looking for fresh meat. I mean, new dancers. I wouldn’t expect a girl like her to be reading that section, let alone applying for it.
But times are tough. It's hard for these girls to get a job out of college, let alone high school. She doesn't look much older than twenty.
And she doesn't look like a normal stripper, the part of my brain that isn't seized with testosterone points out. She looks like some rich preppy girl who's trying to look like a stripper. Or like what she thinks a stripper should look like.
The rational part of my brain is trying to tell me it's not a convincing act. I should listen to that part of my brain. I should ask myself why she's here.
But maybe she's rebelling against Daddy Dearest. Or a clingy boyfriend. Or a boring suburban life. Who am I to judge? I am only a guy who wants in her pants.
And then I remind myself that it's all up to Dante. He's in charge. And he's the man of the day. The birthday boy.
To be fucking honest, he’s always the man of the day. He always makes all the decisions. But it’s better for me that way— safer, and more secure. So I’ll let him make this decision like he does all the rest.
I don't know if it's a good thing or a bad thing that she's here. I just know for sure that Dante will want to get a look at her.
I kind of wish I could keep her all to myself. But he's my big brother who always helped me out, and now the tables have turned. I’ll let him make the final decision, but I know he’ll be glad that I’m bringing her to him. He's the birthday boy and he needs to lay his eyes— and hands— on this hot little number.
So I call his name. And I smile as he gets down off the stage and says, "Marino, this had better be fucking good."
Oh, it will be, Big Brother. Just you wait.
Chapter 4 – Jessica
One of the worst parts of my job is having to suck up to everyone, kiss everyone's ass, and do everything they tell me to do.
I guess that's three bad parts of my job. And it's hard for me to pinpoint a good thing right now.
Power? Prestige? The supposed ability to influence and change things, make a difference in the lives of my constituents?
Those are all things I used to think of as job perks. But they're becoming a much smaller part of my job as time goes on.
As a new senator representing the state's poorest district, I don't have a lot of power or sway. I have to beg and plead and swap favors for everything I'm trying to work hard for. Further, as the youngest and newest member of the Ethics committee, I pretty much have to do whatever they tell me to do.
And they just told me I have to be a stripper.
A stripper! Seriously. I couldn't even believe it. I still can't.
But that's exactly what happened during last week's meeting.
"We need to ramp up our investigation of the Rossi brothers," Senator Santara said.
He leaned forward in his chair to stress the importance of what he was saying. Before this announcement he had been staring at the clock on the wall as if wondering how early he could leave to go play golf. But this was one of his platform's priorities and now that it was his turn to talk about it, he was clearly all riled up.
"These guys have been rubbing their criminal organization in our faces for far too long now," he continued.
I couldn't help but almost smile, although I quickly suppressed it. Rubbing something in our faces sounded like a purposeful double entendre or dirty pun.
Everyone knows the Rossi brothers. They are the city's perpetual scoundrels, always in trouble for something but too clever to be caught.
And they're fucking hot. God help me but their handsome faces and strapping chests are the first thing that come to mind when I think of them. Even more so than their criminal activities.
"Their latest racket is this strip club. The Fun House," Senator Santara continues. "They think we don't know it's a cover for a prostitution ring and a drug ring, among other things. We need to expose them for what they're really doing. And make the streets of this city safe again. And win the upcoming election by campaigning on the promise of stopping them, and actually doing it."
A bolt of electricity ran through me at the mention of winning the election. I suddenly paid more attention, nodding along with everyone else.
That's exactly what we needed. To win the election. Oh, and to stop the Rossi brothers too, of course.
If I win this election I will be the youngest full- term senator in the history of this state. Right now I'm an incumbent but I was appointed mid- term so it's important that I win enough votes to be retained.
"Obviously Jessica is the perfect candidate for the job," Senator Santara continued.
Everyone else kept nodding along with what he was saying, including me. Until I realized what I was nodding along to.
"I'm sorry, what?" I asked, raising my hand as if I was in my first day of Kindergarten all over again. "What exactly is the job? What am I the perfect candidate for?"
"To expose them," Senator Santara said. "You're perfect to expose them. By going undercover."
"At a strip club?" I asked, wishing I could implode. Everyone was staring at me, trying not to laugh.
Of course he thought I'd be perfect for the job. I'm a woman. I'm young, and I've been told I'm quite attractive, although I've never really felt it.
Nor have I wanted to feel it. I've wanted to focus more on brains than beauty. I've wanted to prove myself and my abilities. I've wanted to use my intelligence and personality rather than my looks.
But all my colleagues want is for me to go strut my stuff— if that's even what they call the thing that strippers do on stage— undercover. Apparently the way to prove myself in politics is to prove that I'm sexy enough to be a stripper. No one ever taught me that in my poli sci classes in undergrad.
I looked around at the sea of other faces surrounding me along the large conference table, hoping someone else would chime in about how ludicrous it all is. But everyone was just staring back at me innocently, as if we were having a perfectly normal conversation.
As if we were not talking about me taking off my clothes for strangers. For money. Even if it's also for an undercover investigation
.
Was I really going to have to be a stripper?
Everyone was still staring at me, as if they were waiting for me to answer that question in the affirmative.
"How exactly would this work?" I asked. "I mean, logistically speaking, how does one just do that?"
"You just do it," Senator Santara said with an exasperated sigh, apparently losing his patience with me. "You just go in and you do it, and I'm not saying it will be easy, but it'll be for a cause."
Stripping for a cause wasn't exactly what I'd had in mind when I'd envisioned a political career from a very young age. I can't believe I'd worked my way through my higher education for the privilege of taking off my clothes for a bunch of seedy men.
But it was my job. And it didn't look like I had much of a choice.
Sure, I could say no, but I'd lose all my support in the committee. Refusing this "opportunity" would probably ruin my political chances and the career I had worked hard for so far.
So I'd donned this tacky wig, these stiletto heels and the skimpiest clothes I could find. All of my attire was left over from a Halloween party I’d attended in college, for which I’d dressed in a stripper costume. Looks like my tendency to hoard old costumes had finally come in handy.
I hope my laptop never gets subpoenaed by the FBI because they would certainly find some strange Google searches. I'd looked up stripper makeup on YouTube. YouTube had also come in handy for finding stripper exercise videos and practicing all my moves.
I even went to a real- life strip dancing fitness class and learned how to work a pole. I'd prepared for this undercover role as best as I could.
But nothing could ever prepare me for coming face to super sexy face with Marino Rossi.
Chapter 5 – Jessica
Sure, I've heard the rumors. Everyone in this city— if not this state— has. The Rossi brothers are as hot as they are scandalous. They are as well- hung as they are well- connected to the underground.
SEAL's Virgin: A Bad Boy Military Romance Page 94