I nod in his direction. “Why isn’t he handling my paperwork?” The manager looks over his shoulder and smirks.
“I’m the manager.”
I shrug, not caring. The kid did all the work and should get to close the deal. “And so that means you get the commission, I’m assuming?”
He laughs it off, hemming and hawing before finally answering me. “Of course Scott will get a portion.”
“Right.” In my line of business, I don’t cut corners and I give credit where it’s due. If one of my staff members has an idea for something that’s going to make one of our casinos run better, I listen and work to implement the change if it’s what’s best for the business. I have no respect for people who try to take what they didn’t earn.
“You know who I am, right?”
“Yes, of course.”
I lean over slightly so I can get another look at Scott. The kid looks pissed and upset. I don’t fucking blame him. Commission on a two-hundred-thousand-dollar car probably pays his tuition or rent for the year. This sale would be huge for him.
“I want this car—”
“Alex Jones.”
Smirking, I shake my head and rub my hand over my mouth. “Didn’t ask for your name and I don’t appreciate being interrupted. As I was saying, I want this car and Scott over there is going to get the commission or I’m walking out that door and everyone will know exactly how bad the service is here.”
“Yes, Mr. McCormick.”
It’s underhanded of me and I don’t care. I know what it’s like to get that big paycheck. It’s powerful and exhilarating. And I have a serious problem with people taking shit that isn’t theirs.
Scott walks back over with his shoulders squared and a look of pride on his face. “Mr. McCormick, please forgive me for not recognizing you when you walked in. I recently transferred to UNLV and this is my first week on the job.”
My name speaks for who I am and how successful I’ve become since graduating from UNLV. I chose to stay in the area and help the city that I fell in love with prosper and grow instead of taking my knowledge elsewhere. Plus, I love the hot desert heat and the fact that I am never cold.
“Where are you from?”
“Wisconsin.”
“Pretty big cultural change between here and there.”
He smiles and I remember being new to Vegas. The fucking strip joints were my best friends and the constant access to all the tits and ass I wanted to look at couldn’t be beaten.
“Yes, sir, but I’m enjoying it. Let’s sign your papers.”
Following him over to the empty desk, he sits across from me and shows me where to sign and, as I’m writing the check, he calls for someone to open the showroom windows so I can drive my new baby home.
We shake hands after I hand him the check and tell him if he ever needs anything to give me a call. I have a feeling he won’t be long with this job and simply out of spite I’d hire him. The pay wouldn’t be the same, but it’d be a job where he’s respected.
Climbing back into my new car, I close my eyes and press the ignition button, listening to her come to life. She purrs, reminding of a woman who is about to climax. With the gas pedal slightly depressed, her moans become louder until I ease up, bringing her down from her high. Thinking about driving her out on the open road through the valleys is making me hard.
When the coast is clear, I pull out slowly and drop my aviators over my eyes. My Benz is sitting there, reminding me that I need to have someone come and pick it up. Later. Right now I want to see what this beauty can do. As soon as I hit Route 159 and I’m out of town, I press the gas pedal and shift until I’m pushing the speedometer, driving in and out of each corner, the car never slipping off her base. With the top down, the wind pushes her fingers through my already-messed-up hair and a quick glance in the rearview mirror confirms that I’m still a hot-ass motherfucker.
All too soon I’m back near the Strip and back to fucking reality. The sun is down and the nightlife is starting to rise. As I troll down the Strip, I consciously make eye contact with as many beautiful women as I can. The action makes me look like a douche in the eyes of the men they are with, but it has me wondering if the women stop and ponder what it’d be like to be with me, as they sit in the backseat of the idle cab, looking at my car and finally realizing that I’m eyeing them. The subtlest of moves has me guessing that they’re crossing their legs and imagining the ride I could give them, completely forgetting about the man sitting next to them. It’s never my intention to touch another man’s chick, but that doesn’t mean they don’t try and that doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen. With the nice suits and cars like this, coupled with my dark hair and light blue eyes, women gravitate toward me. And once they figure out that I have the cash to back it up, they fucking flock to me like moths to flame and bring their friends with them. The men they were with quickly and easily forgotten without a second glance once the money starts talking.
Turning in to the hotel garage, I flash my ID at the attendant.
“Nice car, Mr. McCormick.”
“Thanks,” I say, driving forward until I enter the private section that is meant solely for me. I let my friends park here when they come to the casino, but other than that, this space is exclusively for my Benz, Wrangler and now my Ferrari.
I live in my hotel in a custom two-story penthouse with floor-to-ceiling windows giving me a view of the city whenever I want it. With the marble floors and counters, my home is everything the quintessential Vegas suites aren’t. I opted for black, grays and the industrial look with a gold staircase. The gold was for my mother. She had always wanted one in our house, but my father never put one in, until it was too late for her to enjoy it.
Pressing the button that automatically opens the glass doors to my balcony, I step out onto my deck and lean over the rail. From this high up the cars below look like those Matchbox cars I had when I was a kid and the people look like ants. My deck is my favorite place. It’s wide, welcoming and the perfect place to party or relax.
Inside, I take the steps one at a time, in no hurry to get to my room. By the time I’m at the top of the stairs, my tie is undone, my cufflinks unsnapped and my shirt pulled from my pants. My walk-in closet is full of labels, all designer and all custom tailored to my body. I change quickly, setting today’s suit on the table in the middle for my housekeeper to deal with and head into the gym.
With the music on and the dumbbells in my hands, I stand there looking at myself in the mirror. Muscles aren’t my thing but being toned is. My friend Seth is one of those bodybuilders whose skin looks like it’s about to pull apart if he sneezes. I don’t get it, but he loves it. The bigger the muscles, the happier he is. I want to be fit, with no flab but with some abs. There’s nothing hotter than watching the chick you’re with lick her way down your torso, over the ridges of your stomach, through the smattering of your hair until her lips wrap around the head of your dick. That thought alone makes me horny, but not enough to call Brandy.
No, tonight when the Strip comes alive, I’ll hit a club or two, find someone from out of town who doesn’t know me and wants only one thing, mind-blowing sex. That’s about all I can offer someone right now, or ever. I saw what my mother’s death did to my father and his subsequent marriage to Stepmommy dearest cemented the fact that I’m perfectly happy living the single life. No attachments. No strings. Straight-up pleasure is the most sinful kind in Sin City.
After my workout, which concludes with a five-mile treadmill run, I’m standing in my shower, letting the warm spray drip over my head, creating the illusion that I’m caught in a rainstorm. My interior designer told me that women love this feeling. I have yet to ask a single one of them if they love getting fucked in the rain. My only thought when I have them in there is putting my dick between their wet folds. If they want to feel like it’s raining, so be it.
Once I’m out, dried and dressed I text my best buds, Seth, Brady and Cory, and offer up a plan for the night. It’s p
ushing midnight and time for the party to get started. All three respond, letting me know that they’re ready.
Game on.
Chapter 3
Macey
Strippers lie. It doesn’t matter if they’re your coworkers or not, they’re not your friends. That is the first rule I learned years ago, but I seem to have forgotten it because now that I’m in Vegas, I’m cleaning out the savings I put aside for rent to pay for the “extras” needed in order to strip here.
Everything was going according to the made-up plan I had in my head. Get to Vegas, find a club and start making money. I’d worry about a place to sleep after I had a few hundred in my hand.
But I quickly find out it doesn’t work that way.
After I auditioned and was told that my fresh face would drive the regulars crazy, I was handed two sheets of paper listing everything I needed: work permits, a license to serve drinks and a Las Vegas address. Cora never mentioned anything about work permits or having to serve drinks. It shouldn’t bother me, except it’s spending more money that I don’t have. What is it that they say in business, “you have to spend money to make money”? Easily said when you have it to spend. The second sheet kindly provided a list of hotels that would accommodate my needs.
It’s been hours since I left the stage. I’m hungry, tired and running out of patience. I’m starting to think being an escort is the fastest way to make money, but the thought of sleeping with someone for cash repulses me. Not that stripping is any better, but at least then I’m in control. I decide who and for how long.
Once all my paperwork is in order, complete with a Vegas address from some seedy hotel, I find out that I’m now allowed to strip here for five years. Five years! That has to be some career or long-term goal to get your act together, except it’s not. Some of the women I saw today had me by twenty years, but looked so much better than me. I don’t even want to do this now, let alone for the next five years. This isn’t how I saw my life panning out.
After a quick call to Steph and knowing my baby girl is okay, I’m back at the club with my paperwork in hand, reminding myself that I’m doing this for Morgan. Each time I take money from a man for a lap dance or he gawks at my tits, it’s because of my daughter. She needs a better life. The big burly bouncer checks everything and directs me to the back. The dressing room is nicer and larger than the one I’m used to. Lockers line the wall, the floor is void of excess clothing and there are multiple stations for you to do your makeup at. The one constant is the dense mist that lingers from the copious amounts of hairspray being used.
I cough and wave my hand in front of my face, moving the aftereffects of the aerosol away from me. The glares I receive are priceless. It’s the usual squinting of the eyes coupled with the classic glares roaming over your body that you normally receive from the clique of mean girls at high school. It’s puberty and the girls’ locker room scene all over again, but this time the tits are bigger, the claws are longer and the looks definitely kill. It’s easy to tell who the regular dancers are because they don’t give a shit. They don’t care if you’re here. They’ll still make the same money because they have regular clients who frequent the club.
It’s the ones like me that you have to watch out for. I’m here to make a quick buck and will do what I have to in order to get it done.
“I’m Johanna, the house mom.” The only woman dressed normally approaches me, shaking my hand.
“House mom?” I question, wondering what that means. Her expression is stoic, hard.
“First time here?”
I nod, hating that I’ve made it evident that I don’t know what I’m doing.
“I make sure you have water, snacks, condoms…whatever you need.”
“Oh.” I try to mentally calculate how much her services are going to cost me and make a note to bring my own water and snacks. I’m already in a hole by coming here and can’t incur any more debt or one week isn’t going to cut it.
This time she smiles and sets her hand on my arm. The gesture is sweet and caring. “Your service fee covers my service, but I do accept tips.”
“How did you know?”
“I’ve done this for a long time, sweetie. I know what goes through your mind before you do. Find an empty locker and lock it after you’re done. Never leave it open or your stuff will disappear,” she says, shaking her head. I glance around the room and realize quickly how cutthroat it’s going to be here. “A little tip, the money is better offstage. If you’re looking to make a lot, pay the fee and work the floor.”
She walks away before I can thank her, leaving me standing in the room while women hustle around me. None of them laugh or even speak to each other. The only form of communication is the death glares they’re giving everyone, or the shoulder bumps they force upon one another as they move in and out of the room.
Once I’m changed in to my stilettos and thong, Johanna gives me a tour and the rundown of how things work, along with what the club suggests we charge for a lap dance, or time in one of the VIP rooms. I feel a bit self-conscious walking around with my boobs on full display, but it’s part of the business. The looks from customers give me hope that they’re willing to pay for a dance.
“I said the money is better offstage, but you’ll want to dance a few routines a night to give the customers a show. Most of the men like to chat, so be an ear for them to off-load their problems and don’t forget to set your boundaries. The guys”—she points to various security men around the room who are all watching the floor—“are your best friends. You do not leave the club without one walking you out and if you have any problems with a customer, you tell them. They’ll take care of it.”
“Okay, I think I got it.”
She continues to show me around and finally takes me to an office out back, away from everything.
“Tell him your stage name and you’ll be good to go.” She leaves me in the room with a man who is sitting behind a computer.
“You’re Macey Webster?” he asks, lifting up my paperwork.
“Yes.”
“Right, from now on you’re…?” He looks at me with a raised eyebrow.
“Oh, um…Catalina.”
“Got it.” He returns to hiding behind the computer and starts pounding on the keyboard as if he’s in a rush.
I turn on my heel and head out, remembering everything that Johanna said. The first thing I do is put my name on the sign-up for stage time and pray that this plan is going to work because the next business venture idea on the list isn’t something I want to even think about. The last resort is a line I’m hoping I never have to cross.
—
“Steph, I really like it here.”
It’s been a week and I’m leaving later tonight on the red-eye back to Spokane. I’ve made enough money so Morgan and I can move to a better place and put a little money into savings. Even after my initial rough start with the paperwork, I worked my ass off at two clubs and took every open shift possible, sleeping very little. And when I was sleeping, it was done outside on a chaise lounge under the sun. The room I’ve rented for the week is questionable and the last thing I want to do is bring home bedbugs. If the manager cares that I’ve been sleeping outside, he hasn’t said anything.
“You can’t move there.”
“Why not?” I’m not even sure that’s a consideration at this point but I’m curious as to what she has to say.
She sighs on the other end of the line. “Because you’d be stripping to earn a living and that isn’t the life you’re trying to lead for Morgan. This is supposed to be a means to an end, Macey, not a job opportunity.”
I know she’s right, but it’s my reality and maybe even more of a temporary relocation if that becomes an option. “Be realistic, Steph. What am I going to do when I get back? Even after Morgan and I move, I still need money and waiting tables at Eddie’s diner isn’t going to pay my rent.”
“You can apply for an office job. Do something different.”
“A
nd do what? I don’t have the skills you do.” Stephanie has been my best friend since high school and is what I call a success story. Even though she finished community college, she chose to bartend, making a boatload of money at night. It’s something I should do, but landing that coveted weekend spot in downtown’s hottest nightclub would be hard and equally as hard would be giving up the tips I earn from stripping.
“I’m only saying—”
“I know,” I tell her. Steph is always concerned for my safety and begged me not to start stripping. Years ago, when we were kids a man killed about thirty prostitutes and we both jokingly promised we’d never become one. She doesn’t see stripping as much different. “Is Morgan there?”
“Yep, hang on.”
“Hey, Mommy.”
“Hi, little miss. Are you being good for Stephanie?”
“Yes, when are you coming home?” I can hear the sadness in her voice and it brings tears to my eyes. I hate leaving her when I go to work so being away for a week has been torture. Each time I walk into one of the clubs I remind myself I’m doing this because of her, so that I can give her a better life.
“Tonight, baby doll. I’ll be there to take you to school in the morning. You’re making sure to get your homework done?”
“Yes, every night. Judy has been helping me.”
Judy is Stephanie’s mom and likely watching Morgan when Steph is working. I never thought about what Steph would have to give up in order to watch my kid so I could come to Vegas and let my tits hang out for every horny convention and spring-break guy around.
“That’s good. Make sure you give Judy a big hug and kiss.”
“I will.”
Judy loves Morgan, but dislikes me. She always has and never wanted Stephanie to hang out with me. Thankfully, Steph makes her own decisions. I don’t know why Judy doesn’t like me, but I suppose it could have something to do with my mother. Lots of rumors floated around back in middle school that my mom had an affair with a married man and I’ve always thought it was with Steph’s dad. From what she says, her father bailed when she was in the sixth grade. At least she knew her dad. Mine has been gone from day one. Much like Morgan’s.
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