Shane growls, his voice low and dangerous. There’s no weakness, no compromising with that voice. Fact is, Shane’s not afraid of anyone or anything. He might be the only person in the club not afraid of Dominick. “No touching. Or I’ll be the one touching you.”
The threat is apparent, and the guy’s face shows his fear that Shane will kick his ass. Shane’s words have the opposite effect on me, though, and my mind is filled with an image of him touching me, his strong, thick fingers tracing lines along my private silky areas, teasing and tantalizing me before taking me roughly.
Back in reality, finger-sucking guy has his hands up wide, backing down immediately. “No problem, man. Sorry, won’t happen again.”
Shane lets out one more growl before stalking off. I never even made eye contact with him, but under the slip of dark denim they call my miniskirt, my panties are soaked from being that close to him, having his voice wash over me, and that flash of fantasy.
Needing to save the tip, though, I smile at the forward guy, and he does at least offer an apology to me, a rarity in this place. “No problem, honey. Security is just really protective of us. I’m sure you understand.”
“I can certainly understand why,” he says as his eyes float down my body, taking an extra moment on my chest, my crotch, and the length of my legs sticking out of the skirt before tracing back up again. Despite my petite height, this slip of a skirt combined with my heels make my legs look a mile long, and it feels like it takes him forever to uncomfortably peruse every inch. “We’re good for now, but keep the pitchers coming all night.”
He says the last part in a filthy little cadence, emphasizing every word, and I can hear the obvious double-entendre. I nod and giggle, reverting to my innocent girl shtick as I promise to keep them coming.
I walk away, smiling as I hear the guys start loudly talking to each other. Two can play that game, and we’re both hoping to get lucky, just not in the same way. Tip me, tip the stage girls, and get out so I can get some fresh meat at my table with another full wallet.
It sounds crass, even to myself, but it’s the reality. No one is coming to Petals from Heaven strip club to find love, and really, no one is coming to find sex. Well, I guess some of the guys do come in with the fantasy of having an amazing night with a woman who ticks all their mental boxes, but the odds of that are worse than winning the Powerball.
I don’t really get it. Guys crowd in with their other guy friends, pay fart-tons of money for cover, drinks, and tips, then go home to flog their bishop? Why the game? Just watch some porn or something and take care of business.
Unless the guy is paying for a private show, where they’re not supposed to whip it out, but according to my dancer friends, they pretty much know they’ve got a fifty-fifty chance that they’re going to be dancing while the patron gets down to business.
Ew. Just gross.
I make another round of my tables, getting refills, flirting, dropping off checks, flirting, collecting cash . . . and more flirting.
As I work, I keep an eye out for any patrons who might be . . . somebody. That’s my real job, scouting for celebrities, major or minor, politicians, CEO bigwigs, Instagram-famous people, or anyone else who might be interesting and tends to frequent this particular club.
On one hand, they’re usually the best tippers. On the other, they’re why I’m really here, working as Meghan, a cocktail waitress at a strip club, undercover for the tabloid gossip rag I work for. Neither job is my dream come true, but since no one is knocking on my door to write for The New York Times, online trash talking pays my bills.
I got the assignment to get a second job at Petals two months ago, and to my surprise, they hired me right away. Petals is known for being exclusive and VIP-preferred, so I’d been nervous about their hiring plain Jane me. But I’d been hired as a waitress on the spot based on my resume and my other . . . ahem . . . assets. So far, the undercover gig has paid off in a couple of smaller celebrity-sighting stories, but I feel like there’s something bigger here. I just don’t know what it is yet.
But Petals from Heaven is sort of the place to go if you’re a celebrity who wants a taste of the salacious life but you don’t want to get caught out on the town because of your wife, your girlfriend, or just your reputation. There’s a sense of discretion at Petals, and Dominick fosters that, making sure the A-listers get what they want, whether it’s private rooms or flashy top-notch service. Plus, Petals employs some of the most beautiful dancers I’ve ever seen in my life. It’s almost artistic, just nearly naked too. With this combination, something gossip-worthy has to happen eventually, and I want to be here to report on it.
Ironically, this undercover gig is pretty sweet and is paying more than half my bills now anyway. It was an odd realization that the writing and research I love to do and went to school for are actually less financially rewarding than playing airhead and slinging drinks.
Not sure what that says about our society, but it’s not anything complimentary.
I hear the DJ talking loudly over the mic, adding some hype to our last performer of the night and telling everyone in the club to get their last drink and get the fudge out. He doesn’t use those words, of course, but I censor them in my head like I sometimes do.
I drop one last pitcher and the check at Finger-Sucking-Guy’s table and he clears his throat. “Uhm, hey, so I don’t wanna piss off the bouncer or nothing, but what are you doing tonight? Wanna party?”
I forcefully contain my eye roll, choosing to twirl my hair around my finger and kicking my voice up an octave. I deal with this at least once a week. Can’t get the dancer, go for the waitress. “Oh, no. Sorry, honey, I can’t. I’ve got school in the morning, so I’d better be a good girl and get home.”
The reality is, I’ve been out of school for over three years, but they always believe this excuse because I look a lot younger than my twenty-five years. I still get carded when I buy wine.
Luckily, he takes the refusal gracefully, or maybe he’s worried about Shane showing up again. “Mmm. Yes, you should be a good girl. Get right to bed.”
It’s still flirty and slightly sleazy, but at least he’s not arguing with me. I give a wink and turn, flouncing off to close out my other tables.
Once everyone’s gone and the club is cleaned up, I head backstage to change. Pulling on sweats and a long-sleeve T-shirt, I’m thinking of only a few things. Mainly getting home, taking a good long shower to get the leftover smell of the club off me, and then collapsing into bed. After all, I’ve got to be ready for work at ten . . . and my boss hates it if I’m late.
Chapter 2
Shane
Reaching down, I wrap my hand around the handles of each keg, lifting one with each arm. Marco needs the help restocking or else he’s going to be here until sunrise, so I normally help him out by carrying the kegs up from downstairs while he brings up the bottles he needs and sends in our orders for the suppliers.
My arms are a little tired by the time I get the two kegs up the stairs, and it’s with a grunt of relief that I set them down. Marco’s working the register, checking his money against the Point of Sale system. “You have a good night tonight?”
Marco nods, smirking a little. “Yeah, pretty solid. Decent tips, and with the eye candy from Allie’s new routine, I can’t really complain.”
He waggles his eyes at me, like he expects to chatter on about Allie’s tits or something. It feels like a test. I’m just not sure if it’s a bro one or seeing if I’m aware that Dominick has marked her as off-limits.
Doesn’t really matter either way. I’m a fucking professional and I know that I do not get involved with any of the girls here, whether they’ve been tabbed by Dominick or not. So Marco’s going to be disappointed in my answer. “Yeah, she’s good. She’s been working hard and it’s paying off.”
A couple of the girls come into the club from backstage, and I’m thankful for the break from Marco’s slick vibe. Time to do my actual job and not just help out
. “Ladies, let me walk you out.”
They murmur their thanks but basically ignore me, especially Tina, who’s already gabbing away on her phone, telling her babysitter that she’s on the way home. I get it. They’ve got men talking to them all fucking night, and ninety-nine percent of it more or less leads to ‘I wanna fuck.’ They just tune it all out. It’s a survival instinct.
I don’t mind. Walking the girls out is one of my usual duties and the one I take the most seriously. There’s always a chance that some ‘fan’ might not be able to check their fantasy at the heavy door, and I’m here to ensure that doesn’t become a problem. I make sure they get in their cars safely and then watch from the doorway to make sure they pull out alone.
It’s a little sad, really. I can’t imagine any of them as little girls thinking, ‘Hey, when I grow up, I wanna be a stripper.’ But life sometimes doesn’t go according to plan, and we do what we need to so we can get by. So when these girls are under my supervision, they deserve respect and safety, and I’m gonna give that to them, even if no one else in their lives does.
After the girls are gone, I head back inside, seeing Meghan swinging through the saloon-style doors from backstage. She looks young, even more so than usual in her sweats and oversized T-shirt. She could pass as a college freshman on any campus in the US.
She’s ‘just’ a waitress, but in my opinion—not that anyone asks me. I’m not paid to have an opinion—she’s the best-looking girl working here. She’s absolutely gorgeous when she’s done up for a shift, all poufy blonde hair, big doe eyes with fake lashes, puffy, kissable pink lips, and a sexy rack atop a tiny body. She usually favors a sort of ‘naughty innocent’ look, and there’s a reason she’s getting more tips than any other waitress.
But my favorite is her ‘after shift’ style, when she’s fresh-faced with her hair pulled up, wearing her big owlish glasses and jeans or sweats. She looks cute and sweet, and small enough I could pick her up and put her in my pocket . . . or over my shoulder. She’s almost shy, walking into the main room like she’s making sure she’s allowed to come in before committing to the movement. She sees me and smiles, walking with more confidence.
That smile feels like a secret view not many people get, like it’s a lazy morning at home with a lover look, even though it’s damn near three in the morning and we’re at a strip club. It makes me . . . Shaking my head to let that train of thought go, I call out to her. “Meg, you ready to go?”
She nods, giving me a little wave and a thumbs-up. “Yep. G’night, Marco. See you tomorrow night.”
I have the urge to stick my elbow out for her, gentleman style, but the no-touching rule extends to staff. Unless asked, don’t. And I’m the enforcer of the rules, so there’s no way in hell I’m going to let myself break them. So I clamp down on that urge and have to be satisfied with opening the door for her. Still, I do let myself take a moment to admire her pert ass as she walks through. I can’t help it.
Outside, I ask her the same generic question I asked Marco, but I hope for a better answer from Meghan. “You have a good night tonight?”
Meghan gives me a nod, adjusting her glasses and giving me a tired smile. “It was okay. Good tips, even from that one table,” she says, and we both know exactly what she’s talking about. “Thank you for that, by the way. I didn’t even have a chance to react before you swooped right in.”
I shrug, not letting Meg know that when she’s on shift, I always keep an extra eye out for her. She’s just so . . . innocent. “That’s my job. Already had my eye on that table anyway. They were giving bad vibes.”
She nods in understanding. She’s been here long enough to get those gut feelings too. “Well, I appreciate your being the bad guy so I could be the good girl.”
I tease her, knowing it’s a bad idea but unable to stop myself. “And are you a good girl?”
My voice has dropped a little, low and gravelly. Meg always makes me feel this way, like a caveman on the verge of dragging her off to have my way with her. She makes me yearn to control the situation, control her, but I have to settle for controlling myself.
She giggles, but it’s not the false one she gives guys in the club. She sounds nervous and . . . flirty, maybe? “I try to be, but sometimes, it’s hard to be good.”
There’s a hint of sex to her voice, but it feels like there’s more truth to what she said than a casual coy response. It’s maddening, the way we seem to dance around each other, half innuendos and comments that just toe the line between ‘playful banter’ and ‘outright suggestion,’ but I can’t go further. It’s too dangerous, and not because of her.
Before I can think on it too much, we reach her car and the silence of the early morning dark is broken. “Hey, honey! You ready to go?”
I’m instantly on alert, shoving Meghan behind me as I turn to see the finger sucking asshole who was putting the moves on her earlier. Considering that it’s now a good hour after the last patron was out the damn door, we’re way, way past the bounds of appropriate behavior.
He’s leaning up against the car next to hers like he’s waiting for her. While it’s against the official rules, some of the girls will do date-nights with patrons on the side, almost sugar daddy style. But Meghan isn’t the kind to do that sort of thing, and I don’t consider for a second that she told him anything but a polite version of “fuck off”.
Even if she did, I’m not letting her leave with him. Not her. Not with a guy like him.
Instead, I shift my left foot forward while covering Meghan with my body. “You need to leave, asshole. The no-touching policy extends to when we’re closed too. So get in your car and take a fucking hike.”
Blondie pushes off the car, facing me fully, and I do a quick assessment. He’s big, at least six feet, but I’ve got a few inches on him, and though he looks muscled, it’s in a gym rat way. Not the look of someone who’s surprisingly strong because of real manual labor.
Most importantly, he doesn’t have that air of ‘I’ll fuck you up.’ He seems on the verge of drunk and a bit prissy, like he’s used to getting his way.
Well, not tonight. Instead, Blondie talks about Meghan like she’s not even here, and as she almost shivers behind me, I know that if a line needs to be crossed, I’m going to cross it. “We’re partying tonight. She told me to wait for her.”
“No,” I declare, bringing my right hand slightly up while tilting my hips to protect against a bitch move kick to the balls. “Leave now.”
I see the fire flash in Blondie’s eyes as he steps closer, and Meghan steps forward a bit too, leaning around me and setting me on edge because she’s too close to this jerk.
“I can’t,” she says sweetly, trying to de-escalate things before I put this asshole on the ground right here in the parking lot. “I’ve got early school tomorrow, remember? Sorry, baby.”
I tense just a little as I hear the code word all the girls have for trouble. They’ll call patrons just about anything—honey, daddy, sugar, sweetie—but the rule at Petals is that ‘baby’ is the safe word that’ll get security on a patron like white on rice.
I already knew he was full of shit, but Meghan just let me know for certain. I shift a little more, knowing that the beating is about to commence. I just have to make sure Meg’s safely out of the way before I start.
Blondie’s either too drunk, or probably too stupid, to notice. “C’mon, baby. Just a quickie. We don’t even have to leave. I’ve got some goodies in my car so we can party right here. Big Guy won’t mind, right? I can slip him a few bills.”
He reaches for Meghan’s wrist and it’s automatic from there. In a move that’s so fast that most people don’t even realize what’s happening, I deflect his hand, directing it down and back while grabbing his wrist in a sweeping motion as I twist it up behind his back. In less than half a second, he’s fully hammer locked, and in the next half second, he’s pivoted away from Meg and toward his own car.
I slam him face down on the hood, lifting his wrist wh
ile twisting his hand to maximize the controlling pressure on his shoulder, finding that edge where the pain is balancing on the razor’s edge right before his arm dislocates. “She said no, asshole.”
Blondie yells out in alarm, struggling from pure instinct. “Hey! Hey! Ow! Fuck, man.”
I press him into his hood some more, using my booted foot to kick his legs out from under him, holding him in place easily even as he struggles.
“Meghan?” I chance a quick glance behind me to see she’s frozen, her face a mask of shock. I raise my voice a bit, knowing she needs a bit of command. “Meghan.”
She shakes her head, her vision clearing as her eyes meet mine, wider than usual behind her frames. “Yeah . . . yeah?”
My voice is clipped, all business. Right now, I don’t have time for emotions. “Get his wallet out of his pocket. Read his license for me.”
She’s shaking but does as I order, coming close and with delicate fingers, reaching into Blondie’s back pocket and withdrawing a brown leather wallet.
“What the fuck, dude? You’re robbing me now? I just wanted to talk to her.”
He has another burst of energy and thrashes underneath me, making Meghan jump back. I grab his neck with my free hand, thumping him head first into his hood, not hard enough that he can’t drive out of here . . . yet. “Shut up, asshole. Meg?”
She opens the wallet, finding his license inside, and starts to read out loud. “Miles Jacobson, 3654 Sidewinder Trail. He lives here in East Robinsville.”
I nod, giving her a professional smile. “Good girl. Now put it back, carefully. And Miles, if you so much as fucking move, I’m going to break your arm.”
I emphasize my point with a little yank on his shoulder, encouraging him to be still while Meg puts his wallet back.
Waiting until Meghan’s stepped back and is safe, I yank him off the car to growl in his ear. “Miles Jacobson of 3654 Sidewinder Trail, you are banned from Petals from Heaven. If I ever see you even close to this block again, I’ll take special care of you. It won’t be over quickly, and you will not enjoy it, I promise you.”
Dirty Deeds Page 2