Slater's Claim

by Amber Morgan

  Dayo rolled his eyes, but Slater didn’t miss the speculative way he checked out the bartender. He hoped Dayo would at least wait until work was done before taking his shot.

  Zeke was watching the twins on stage, paying no attention to Benedict as he ran through their instructions for the night. Slater nudged him, noting the way Zeke flinched when he did. Benedict wrapped up his lecture as the girls finished their act.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, give it up for Dahlia and Delphine!” a voice boomed over the PA system. The crowd erupted as the girls skipped off-stage, hand-in-hand. “Don’t go away, folks! The divine Miss Poppy is up next!”

  “She does this thing with some bells…Well, you’ll see,” Benedict said. He gave Dayo a shove toward the club’s door. “You take the first shift on the door with Erik,” he said, pointing out the bouncer already stationed there. “Zeke, you walk the floor, keep an eye out for anyone touching up the waitresses or looking for trouble.”

  Zeke nodded and slid off into the crowd, leaving Slater feeling uneasy for reasons he couldn’t quite pinpoint. “What about me?” he asked Benedict.

  “I ain’t paying you to be here, so I guess you’re a guest. Have a drink, enjoy the show.” Benedict shrugged. Slater figured he didn’t really care as long as Slater bought either a drink or a lap dance at some point in the night.

  Slater had no problems with that. He headed for the bar, pushing his way through a mob of frat boys who stank of beer and cheap cologne. They were huddled together, counting out cash and arguing over who was getting a private dance. It sounded mostly good-natured, but Slater made a mental note of their faces as he passed. Alcohol, strippers, and broke college kids could be a flammable combination.

  The bartender, Rey, gave him a broad smile as he reached for his wallet. “What’ll it be? House special tonight is Lilac Soda.”

  Slater scanned the cocktail menu scrawled on the chalkboard behind the bar with distaste. “Is everything flower-themed?”

  The beer is just beer,” Rey assured him, pulling a bottle from the fridge.

  Slater took it gratefully and hopped onto a bar stool, scanning the packed club. “You got a girl called Freya on tonight?” he asked Rey.

  Rey shrugged, turning to the next customer. “I just mix the drinks, man.”

  Ah well. If she was on tonight, great. If not, well, he couldn’t deny being a little intrigued by the divine Miss Poppy and her bells...

  ****

  Freya stared at herself in the mirror, throat dry. In ten minutes or so, she’d be out on the stage for the first time, and she was almost positive she was going to puke all over it.

  “Relax.” Sefina stood behind her, primping her hair. “You look lush and you’ll be fine. The DJ’s got your favorite songs lined up, so just go out there and have fun. Pretend the crowd is all naked.”

  Freya sipped from her water bottle, careful not to smudge her lipstick. “Is that what you do?”

  Sefina wrinkled her nose. “Picture all those gross, sweaty businessmen naked? No. I picture the other girls naked.”

  Dahlia, who sat next to Freya, burst out laughing as she slipped out of her shoes. “I picture the pile of cash I’m going to sleep on,” she said, tapping the wad of notes on the vanity in front of her.

  That sounded good to Freya. She took another sip of water and tried to look at herself objectively. She’d always loved playing around with make-up, and was pretty damn good at it, so she’d turned down Sefina’s offer of help there. The lipstick was her favorite, a vintage-inspired shade called Atomic. She’d given herself smoky eyes with a flourish of iridescent ruby eye shadow for a dramatic, bold look.

  Looking around at the array of bikinis, thongs, and ass-skimming dresses the other dancers wore, she felt a little out of place in her own outfit. But Sefina had advised her to wear something she felt comfortable in and she’d taken it to heart. Her black denim hot pants clung tightly, just as short as any of the dresses she saw. Her skull and crossbones bustier made a tempting display of her cleavage, and she was fairly confident she could take it off without looking too awkward or ungraceful. She’d done a practice run with Sefina yesterday, who’d deemed it not bad for starters. That was really the best Freya figured she could ask for on her first night. As long as she didn’t fall over or throw up, she’d consider the night a success.

  If she left with a stack of notes half the size of Dahlia’s, she’d consider it a triumph.

  “Done,” Sefina announced, giving Freya’s hair one last pat. “You’re beautiful, baby.”

  She’d given Freya victory rolls, finished off with a clip-in rose in bright red. Dahlia examined her work with a critical frown, finally nodding in a way that made Freya relieved.

  “You’ve got a unique look,” she said. “Nobody else is doing the punk, alternative vibe. You should dye your hair black and go full goth. Men dig that look.”

  “Carry a whip on stage with you and you’re made,” Delphine chipped in, joining them around Freya’s mirror. She was fresh out of the shower, wrapped in an ancient terrycloth robe and bare of make-up. Without that, and with her fair hair pulled back in a severe ponytail, it was easier to see the differences between her and Dahlia. Freya had to admit she’d done a double-take at first.

  “I’m good,” Freya said, standing. “I tried the goth look in high school and it didn’t suit me.” She cringed at a flash-memory of herself in black lipstick and fake leather pants.

  “You’re perfect like this,” Sefina said. An explosion of applause and cat-calls from the club cut the conversation short, and they all strained their ears, listening for the DJ’s announcement.

  It was faint, but just about audible. “Give it up for Blossom, everyone! And don’t you dare go anywhere—we’ve got a brand-new babe making her debut next tonight! Stay right there for Belladonna!”

  “You really should go goth,” Delphine said. “Then you could be the Black Dahlia.”

  Freya wrinkled her nose. Naming herself after an infamous murder victim seemed like a bad omen.

  “Don't encourage her to steal my name,” Dahlia said, giving Delphine a light tap on the ass. “You'll ruin our act!”

  The opening beats of The Misfits’ cover of Great Balls of Fire struck up out on stage, beckoning Freya to her debut. She stood, inhaled deeply, and wished she’d had a shot of tequila. Sefina gave her a gentle shove toward the door. Freya clicked her heels together three times for luck and strutted out onto the stage.

  She’d picked heels she had to strut in. The right shoes could solve any number of problems, and it was impossible to feel too nervous in come-fuck-me heels like this. That and the music soothed her more than she’d have thought possible as she stalked up to the gleaming pole in the center of the stage. She was dressed like a boss, she felt like a boss, and she had all the motivation in the world to be a fucking boss tonight.

  The rattling bass of the song carried her across the stage. The bright lights smeared the faces of the customers into anonymity, so she found she didn’t have to picture them naked anyway. She gripped the pole in one hand, tipped a cheeky salute to the faceless crowd, and launched into the routine she and Sefina had worked on all week.

  For the next ten minutes, she lost herself in the music. Her routine wasn’t especially fancy or complicated—she was nowhere near ready for that—but Sefina had taught her how to put on a show without breaking her neck. She twirled and teased, swung and stripped, and based on the cheers coming from her audience, she was doing a good job. The small but satisfying collection of notes littering the stage boosted her confidence.

  As her third and final song kicked in, Freya was thrilled to discover she was enjoying herself. She’d always loved dancing, but she’d never dreamed of doing anything like this. She’d expected to feel tawdry, especially given her reasons for doing it, but as Tiger Army’s Devil Girl rang out and she watched more notes flutter at her feet, she felt victorious. The sensation of countless greedy eyes on her was invigorating, pushing her to
do more, put an extra wriggle in her hips, an extra swing in her steps. She wanted them to want more of her.

  As the song faded out, she pulled an old trick from her bag—praying she wasn’t about to humiliate herself beyond repair—and flung herself down on the stage in the splits. Her leg muscles screamed, but so did the crowd, and Freya felt a surge of power. She threw her arms up proudly, letting the stage lights bathe her bare breasts in pink. With her magenta hair, she fancied she must look like cotton candy, all sugary and inviting, and deliciously bad for the men yelling their praises at her.

  “Boys and girls, give it up for Belladonna!” the DJ called over the opening of the next track. “She’ll be working the floor later on, so don’t forget to show her some love. And don’t move a muscle, because the always sensational Sweet Pea is up next!”

  Exhausted and exhilarated, Freya pulled herself to her feet. She really wanted to hobble back to the dressing room, but she forced herself into a saucy walk, earning a few last wolf whistles as she disappeared backstage. A tiny, frantic voice in her head shrieked that she needed to scoop up her cash, but she’d been raised to think of needing money—or showing you needed it, rather—as something faintly vulgar, and she couldn’t break that conditioning to scramble around on the floor for it now. Besides, she’d been assured one of the waitresses would bring her the cash between sets, and she didn’t want to offend anyone or imply anything by taking it herself.

  Sefina was waiting for her in the dressing room and bundled her into the same ragged robe she’d seen Delphine wearing earlier. It smelt of old perfume and was soft as a hug, and Freya wrapped it around herself gratefully, relishing the warmth on her bare skin.

  “You did great!” Sefina said, clearly proud. “Now, take a minute to relax, then go shower and get dolled up again. You should get back out on the floor as soon as possible, while guys remember how hot you made them. Private dances are where the real money is.”

  Freya collapsed into the nearest chair and slipped off her shoes. Dizzy at how fast the night seemed to be moving, she wriggled her cramped toes with a moan. “Can I get a foot rub first?”

  “I’m sure someone out there will volunteer,” the girl next to Freya said dryly. “Just be sure to charge them extra for it.”

  Freya cocked her head, curious. “I thought private dances were hands-off?”

  The girl waved a hand dismissively. “They are, but what Benedict doesn’t know doesn’t hurt him.” She winked conspiratorially at Freya.

  Sefina frowned at the other dancer, a petite Asian woman dressed in glimmering green. “Private dances are hands-off, Miki. It’s not about what Benedict does and doesn’t know.”

  Her stern tone didn’t faze Miki, who shrugged and stood, stretching her arms over her head. “Okay then,” she said. “All I’m saying is, theoretically, there’ll be a guy in the audience dying to throw money at you. And, theoretically, if you were to accept and keep it quiet, then there’s no way for Benedict to find out.”

  Out in the club, the DJ called for Sweet Pea, and Miki winked at Freya again before taking off for the stage.

  Sefina rolled her eyes.

  “Ignore her. Private dances are hands-off for a reason and there are cameras in all the booths, okay?”

  Freya took it as the warning it was and headed for the showers. She understood the logic—the hands-off rule protected both the dancers and the customers—but Miki’s words rang temptingly in her head nonetheless. She knew perfectly well she’d be lucky to keep half the money she made tonight. It was all very well for Sefina to frown and shake her head over it, but she wasn’t in Freya’s position, was she?

  She wet her lips, not liking the sour curl of desperation in her stomach. No. No, she wouldn’t go there. Stripping was one thing, but for the sake of her own dignity, she had to draw a line there. She could make enough money with just dancing to keep Benedict and Sammy happy. She could. She had to believe that.

  The shower cubicle was Spartan and small but overflowing with hair and body products. She was suddenly grimly aware of how sweaty and sticky she felt, and tried not to wonder if that was a physical or mental sensation. She’d had fun out there, she really had. That was already more than she’d expected. Over-analyzing everything never did any good. She shed the robe and her panties. Then she stepped under the spray of hot water, determined to wash away the sweat and her doubts, and get back into the Hot House to rake in some more cold cash.

  Chapter Six

  Slater clutched his beer bottle so hard his fingers ached. It wasn't the only body part aching, either. Belladonna—Freya—had his cock solid as a rock. His mouth was dry and his brain was full of white noise. Nothing else existed while she was dancing. The Hot House may as well have been empty apart from the two of them.

  It wasn't that she was the most skillful dancer out there tonight, although he thought she'd improved since her audition. But there was something fierce and joyful in her movements that captivated Slater far more than the brazen sexuality of the more experienced strippers. Everything about Freya was different, from her choice of music to her outfit, and his entire body reacted. She was a shot of the finest whiskey, a toke on the smoothest joint, a bite of the juiciest peach on a hot summer's day, and he wanted to fuck her.

  The force of his desire rocked him. He thought of himself as a cynic when it came to women, but the sight of Freya strutting around the stage like some pin-up fantasy made flesh made him second-guess himself. And it made him loathe every other man in the room for enjoying the sight of her too.

  It was ridiculous. It was undeniable.

  He had to have her.

  As the relentless riffs of her last song faded out, Slater drained his beer, eyes glued on her shapely ass as she wriggled her way off stage. His jeans felt a size too small and the beer did nothing to help. The vision of Freya casting off her corset to reveal a pair of plump, perfect breasts was going to haunt him. Unthinking, he pressed the cool, empty bottle to his brow, letting the condensation sink into his skin.

  Behind him, Rey laughed. “Is this your first time at a strip club or something?”

  A flicker of annoyance helped ease Slater's distracted arousal—slightly. “It's just hot in here,” he said, aware of how stupid he sounded.

  “Yeah, that's kind of the point,” Rey said. He pushed another beer Slater's way. “All the girls offer private dances. I'm guessing there might be a queue for Belladonna though, based on that.” He nodded at the stage.

  One of the waitresses was scooping up cash as the DJ talked up the next dancer over the beat of a sultry R&B track. Slater couldn't tell for sure from here, but it looked like Freya had done pretty well for herself, and he was torn between a weird mixture of pride and jealousy.

  Without another word to Rey, he hopped off his bar stool and made his way closer to the stage. The crowd had gotten thicker as the night went on, all the tables around the stage filled, and he had no chance of getting right up close. That was fine though—he just wanted to make sure he was at the front of the queue when Freya emerged.

  Across the floor, he saw Zeke leaning against the wall. It was hard to judge his expression under the glare of the neon lights, but Slater was pleased to note he was watching the crowd, not the stage. He couldn't see Dayo from here, but the good vibe in the club hinted Dayo was doing fine on the door, keeping out any potential troublemakers.

  Great. Slater could relax and enjoy a private dance without worrying about his fellow prospects.

  He didn't have to wait long for Freya to reappear. She sashayed onto the club floor in a new outfit, one that set his pulse racing and his dick throbbing all over again. In fishnet stockings and a black halterneck dress that left just enough to the imagination to tantalize, she was a walking wet dream. The minute he saw her, Slater knew he was going to have to fight for her attention.

  He wasn't wrong. Some jerk in a cheap suit was already sidling up to her. Feeling like he was about to come out of his skin in frustration, Slater strode o
ver. Cheap Suit had a hold of Freya's hand, fawning over her as she gave him what Slater hoped was a false smile. The idea of her being flattered by the squat, flat-faced creep's attention had Slater grinding his teeth.

  “...from Indianapolis on business,” Cheap Suit was yelling in Freya's ear as Slater slid up behind him. “I bet you could show me some sights.”

  Freya opened her mouth, but Slater spoke first, resting his hand lightly, but firmly, on Cheap Suit's shoulder. “She's spoken for right now.”

  Both Freya and Cheap Suit gave him identical looks of surprise that quickly turned to identical looks of irritation. Surely Freya wasn't looking at him and thinking this little worm was a better option?

  “Hey, buddy—” Cheap Suit started.

  Slater ignored him, pushing past to put himself between the man and Freya. “I want a private dance,” he said, “and I'm a generous tipper.”

  Freya's look turned speculative. He wondered if she remembered him from her audition. Hoped she did. If she didn't, he'd find a way to make her remember him tonight. “Sounds good to me,” she said with a coquettish smile. She waved at Cheap Suit over Slater's shoulder and took Slater's hand.

  Slater didn't look back at the other guy, although he could feel the heat of Cheap Suit's glare between his shoulder blades. He allowed himself a smug smile, focusing on Freya's perfect ass as she led him to the private booths. The hem of the dress barely skimmed the tops of her thighs, and even though he'd already seen her all but naked during her dance routine, this teasing sight was somehow sexier.

  The booths were small cubicles, just big enough to house a reclining leather chair and a small table. The walls were paneled in dark wood and draped with forest green velvet, the room lit with soft, pale light. It put Slater in mind of a quintessential gentleman's study, the kind of place that always smelled of cigar smoke. He settled down in the chair, wetting his lips as Freya struck a pose in front of him.