Side Game (Men of Trance Book 2)

by Nicole Loufas

  Jim sits at his sizeable brown desk, which takes up most of the room. The stench of stale cigars and dirty carpet makes the space almost intolerable.

  “What can I do for you, kid?”

  “Have you given any thought to bringing on another dancer?”

  It’s been a few months since I pitched the idea of hiring Theo.

  Jim makes a grunting sound. “You know how the system works, Gio.” His chair groans beneath him as he leans back. “Damon is next up, and he’s a good kid. He’s paid his dues.”

  “I know, but Theo can dance. There wouldn’t be any learning curve—he can jump right into the routines.” My argument is weak.

  “We have a system,” Jim repeats. “I’ve got two duds waiting in the wings. How would it look if we brought in fresh meat?”

  “We can say Theo is from another club. Say you poached him from Vegas or LA.”

  Jim gives a slow nod as he opens the wooden box on his desk and pulls out a fresh cigar. He’s contemplating my proposal as he goes through the process of cutting and lighting it. He inhales and the tip glows red. Smoke billows into the room.

  “I don’t know, kid. Damon is a good dancer too, and he’s got that Caribbean act going for him. He can be a gold mine.”

  Jim’s right. Damon does a killer accent. If he hadn’t told us he grew up in East Oakland, I’d swear he just walked off a beach in Aruba.

  I have one more card to play.

  “I won’t take my finder’s fee, and I know Theo is going to be a money maker.” A finder’s fee at Trance is twenty percent, and Jim would have to pay me a cut of whatever Theo makes for the house.

  Places like Trance are always looking for fresh talent because the turnover rate in our industry is high. Women, drugs, shame—the list of reasons why people leave is not as long as the reasons they find themselves at the back door looking for a job. Theo literally picks up dog shit for a living. He can barely afford food. He is willing to do whatever it takes to make sure Lulu has the best life has to offer.

  “He’s a real dancer?” Jim raises an eyebrow and gives me a half-smile.

  I’ve got him interested.

  “Been taking classes since we were kids.”

  “And he’s ready now?”

  “Just a few afternoons with Ivy and he’ll blow Rico and Dain out of the water.” None of us are real dancers, not like Theo. Ivy’s choreography is simple enough for us to look like we know what we’re doing, but Theo’s going to kill it.

  Jim sighs and leans back in his chair. “All right, I’ll call her tomorrow and see when she can fit him in. If she doesn’t think he’s stage ready, all bets are off and I move Damon up.”

  “You won’t be disappointed.” I stand and open the door. “You have a heart of gold, Jim.”

  “Wait, kid.” Jim stands. “Noticed you’ve been taking a lot of side jobs with Rico.”

  “It’s the grind.” I flash him my bullshit smile. “I’ve got dreams, Jimbo.”

  Jim is the last person I'm going to tell about Brazil, mainly because he's going to blow a gasket, then try to talk me out of leaving.

  “Be smart, kid.” Jim is concerned, but he won’t speak out of turn. I’m a grown man; I don’t need anyone telling me how to live my life. I like that about Jim—he can be concerned without judgment. I get more than enough judgment from my father.

  We start the main show with a group performance. Ironically, this month is baseball themed. We start off in uniforms: a jersey and tight baseball pants with a little extra padding in the crotch area—not that I need it, but the bigger the bulge, the better the tips. By the end of the two-minute routine, we’re shirtless, baseball hats on backward, bats at the ready position. Just when the ladies are nice and hot, the train wreck begins.

  Thor takes the stage to Megan Trainor’s “All About That Bass”. We don’t watch each other’s routines, especially on ladies’ nights. When Thor doesn’t return to the locker room after his solo, it’s a good sign. Thor’s fuck spot is the utility closet. He keeps a stash of condoms and wet wipes on a shelf for nights like this.

  “You’re up, Gio.” Jimbo gives me the two-minute warning.

  I grab my pump and head to the bathroom. Women tip more when they think you’re packing serious meat. I rub a little lube over my limp dick and place it into the clear tube. My pump has a trigger handle, like the kind you see on a garden hose. I pump it and watch the gauge as I build suction. When I feel my cock inflate, I slowly release the trigger, and the tube starts to lose pressure. I let it go for a few seconds then press the trigger again. I wouldn’t say it feels good, not like the suction of a woman’s mouth, but it does the job. I slip out of the pump with a dick full of blood and tie off. This hard-on is good for at least fifteen minutes, and that’s all I need for my solo. I tuck my swollen cock into my slacks and head to the main room.

  Rico is waiting for me just outside the dressing room. He is over six feet tall and built like a linebacker, but the motherfucker is stealthy as hell.

  “God damn, Rico.” I jump back. “Why are you always hidin’ in the shadows?”

  “All my best work is done in the dark, son.” He slaps my back. “I got an early private.”

  Private dances go for two hundred and fifty to five hundred dollars. Privates are where the money is.

  “This is the fourth time she’s booked me. I think she’s ready to go to the next level.”

  Next level means a private meeting outside the club. Poaching clients from Trance is a big no-no, but that doesn’t stop Rico, or me, from doing it.

  I stop at the door to the main room, stage right,to get into character.

  Arrogant, entitled, rich.

  Rico pretends to straighten my collar. I swat his hand away.

  He pats my shoulder and says, “Go get that paper.”

  I nod and toss him a sideways glance. “Easy money,” I boast.

  Rico leaves just as my music drops.

  It’s my song, not the ladies’ choice. Jim will give me a verbal beating, but I’d rather be called a cock-sucking pussy boy than face the humiliation of trying to play Christian Grey to “Milkshake”. The choice was easy. I just thought, what would Mr. Grey do?

  After our group routine, I paid a visit to the DJ booth and slipped Andre fifty bucks to forget it’s ladies night.

  I take the stage wearing a black suit, gray tie, and crisp white shirt. A dim spotlight follows me around, and the screen behind me projects a replica image of the red room from the movie. A large bed flashes on the screen, and I set a chair in front of it.

  Some guys let Jim pick a woman from the audience, a bride-to-be or birthday girl. They’re usually fun and roll deep with friends willing to pay for their humiliation. I don’t go for the obvious victim, though. I like a challenge. Women who sit on stage covering their faces are useless to me. I get rid of them quick, and I’m not even nice about it—I don’t have to be, since I’m playing a sadist.

  Real money isn’t made on the stage. I’m in it for the extra, the one-on-one sessions. Birthday girls rarely go for a private dance—too much judgment from their friends. I’m looking for a particular type of woman, one who’s confident and reeks of money.

  It doesn’t take long to spot her.

  She isn’t jumping in the air for attention or hiding behind a co-worker. My submissive is daring me to choose her with a smug I’m-too-good-for-you stare.

  I walk down the stairs stage left through a throng of arms and hands that grab at my suit like I’m a rock star. Being desired is a rush, but the feeling is temporary, like a line of blow or an orgasm. The harder the challenge, the better the rush.

  She tosses back the rest of her martini and whispers to her friend to watch her purse. By the time I offer my hand, she’s on her feet and ready to go.

  I walk her back to the chair on stage. The lights go from dim yellow to red, and the crowd loses their shit. The room is electrified and I’m standing in a puddle of water. If I fail to entertain the mob to t
heir expectations, my career is over.

  Fuck the five-star reviews.

  Fuck the video montage of my best performances.

  Fuck me if I don’t get this right.

  I wonder if Beyoncé feels this way before a concert.

  The chorus drops, and I fall to my knees. I lean in and pretend to kiss her neck as I pump between her legs.

  “What’s your name, beautiful?” I run my lips across her throat and feel her swallow.

  “Shelly.”

  I would’ve guessed something cuter, like Camille or Porsche. With her blonde hair, hazelnut eyes, and creamy skin, she doesn’t look like a Shelly.

  “I’m Giovanni.”

  “I know. I drove all the way from Stockton to see you tonight.”

  A fan—nice.

  “Thank you for coming.” I let the inside of my lips brush her earlobe.

  Shelly’s eyes roll back, and she grips my forearms.

  Too easy.

  I stand up and back away so she can recover.

  I tease the ladies sitting in the front row with a few hip rolls as I unbutton my shirt. Then I pull the tie from my neck, wrapping it around my hand as I walk back to Shelly. I kneel in front of her and press my mouth to her inner thigh. She inches her ass to the edge of the chair, closer to my face.

  Too eager.

  I wrap the tie around her wrist and pull her arms behind her back, securing her hands to the chair. The song changes to the one that played in the movie the first time Grey fucks Anna in the playroom. As the crowd cheers, I step off stage for a quick outfit change.

  Percy is waiting for me. I step out of the slacks and pull on a pair of three-hundred-dollar jeans, ripped and distressed to perfection. Percy doesn’t say a word; hell, he won’t even make eye contact. I’m in the zone. Christian Grey ain’t got nothing on me.

  I return to the stage shirtless and shoeless with an arrogant, animalistic scowl. I grab a champagne bottle filled with water placed stage right then stand in front of Shelly and pour water down my chest. It’s warm so the chill doesn’t cause my balls to shrivel up.

  I sit on Shelly’s lap and pump my fake boner into her stomach. Her back arches, lifting her breasts toward my face. These little signs let me know she’s down for anything. I nestle my face in her cleavage.

  She bites her lip and smiles.

  I’m confident Shelly wants to fuck me, but I’m not Thor. I won’t drag her to the storage room for a quickie after my routine—I don’t fuck for free.

  I untie Shelly’s hands and help her stand. I quickly bend her over, and she grips the seat of the chair. I raise my hand back and rock her body forward in hard jerky motions to give the illusion that I’m spanking her. I alternate between slapping her ass and pounding her like we’re fucking doggy style. The thirty-second light flashes. I spin her around so she’s standing in my arms. Just as the music fades, I place a tender kiss on her forehead.

  “If you want a private dance, let your server know,” I whisper in her ear, pressing my dick into her side.

  She nods.

  As the stage lights fade to black, I slowly back away.

  When a woman leaves the stage after my routine, she feels special, like she turned me on. That is why I book more privates than any of the other entertainers.

  Rico is the pretty boy. My body isn’t as toned as Dain’s or as strong as Thor’s, but I can convince a mother of four to spend her grocery money on fifteen minutes with me in a room the size of a linen closet. Like a good cologne, I want to linger in the back of her mind. A month from now, when she’s doing the dishes or folding laundry, I want her to think of me.

  When they can’t get you out of their heads, they come back. Return customers are what we strive for; regulars pay the bills.

  It’s important to keep it all business. Men who succeed in the game know how to keep their feelings in check. Just because a woman shows up every week and drops a few hundred dollars on you doesn’t mean she loves you. Hell, she might not even like you. The time you spend together is fantasy, and crossing into her real life turns that fantasy into a nightmare.

  When a hot chick comes in to celebrate her twenty-first birthday, she’s here for a laugh with her girls, a story to tell, a photo op for Instagram. We’re not boyfriend material. It’s important to remember Trance is not a singles bar. We’re here to put on a show, not find a girlfriend. The cougar with the Black AMEX and private town car doesn’t want a relationship. She’s here to feel wanted again.

  You know what happens when someone like Shelly sees us in the wild? They run because cruising the produce section of Whole Foods with your kids and running into the man who pretended to fuck you doggy style in front of your co-workers can be a little uncomfortable.

  Most men, myself included, have let our egos take a hit. Unless you learn to keep your guard up and your pride in check, you’ll keep taking those jabs. There is no happily ever after for guys like us. I’m not saying it doesn’t happen, but it’s rare to find love in the club. Love and egos have no place in Trance. We’re here for one thing, and one thing only.

  Money.

  Chapter Four

  Theo’s first night at Trance exceeds Jim’s expectations. He corners me before my private dance to tell me so.

  “That kid is gold.” Jim holds his hand out. I take it, and he gives me a bro hug. “I almost feel bad keeping your finder’s fee.”

  I give him a look like it’s not too late.

  “Not a chance, pretty boy.”

  We walk down the green mile towards the locker room, and I consider telling Jim about Brazil. I’m irreplaceable, but Theo is a great addition to the Trance line-up. His success will soften the blow.

  “Jim, you got a minute?” I stop shy of the locker room.

  “I’ve got tons.” He looks at his watch and pulls the cigar from his mouth. “You have privates booked back-to-back.”

  “Really?”

  “I saw four cards on deck for you.”

  That’s a thousand dollars in my pocket for an hour’s worth of work.

  “Well, what is it, kid?”

  “Nothing.” I puss out.“We can talk later.”

  “Then get your ass to the booth!” He ashes his cigar on the floor as he walks away.

  I forgo the pump and decide to slather a layer of coconut oil on my arms and chest. Something about smelling like the beach turns women on.

  The private rooms are a row of doors, the space inside no bigger than a kitchen pantry. Each room is equipped with a high back chair, the kind you see in a fancy furniture store, and a small side table. A low-hanging light protrudes from the ceiling. I take all my privates in here, unlike Rico, who opts for the velvet rooms around the corner. They’re slightly larger but less private. Those rooms have a frosted sliding glass door with no lock. You can’t make out what’s happening inside, but anyone can bust in on you. The velvet rooms have chaise lounges. Jim figures if the door doesn’t lock, we won’t take things too far. The booths may be small, but you can do a lot behind that locked door.

  I always work in the same room, so DJ Andre has my music playing on a loop. The staging area is packed. When I walk through, I make sure to smile at all of them. I see a regular sipping a glass of champagne in the corner. We make eye contact, and she bites her lower lip. She’s on one tonight. She always comes in when she’s high. I’ll never understand why she pays to spend time with me when she could go to any bar in the city and get a guy to touch her for free.

  “How are you tonight, Amber?” I kiss her cheek. “You look beautiful.”

  You always compliment a paying customer. It’s part of the fee.

  She kisses my neck and inhales. “You smell good. Why do you always smell so good?”

  To hide the smell of fear. “It’s for you, beautiful.”

  She pulls back and pouts. “I couldn’t get a spot with you tonight.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Jim always makes space for regulars.

  “You
’re booked.” She shrugs and downs her champagne just as Percy comes around the corner.

  “Sorry, I’m late.” He takes Amber’s hand and nods to me, and then they walk to an empty booth.

  That little motherfucker.

  My booth is next door to the one Percy just entered. The door is closed, so my client must be waiting inside. I hope she’s worth an extra two hundred because that’s what she cost me. Amber is a big tipper, and she expects big things in return. Percy can’t compete with me, with or without the pump. He’ll be lucky to get fifty bucks.

  I’m plotting revenge on him when I step into my booth.

  “How are you tonight?” I say without making eye contact.

  Next to the door is a little card with her information, how much time she paid for, the negotiated fee, and her name.

  “Is this your first time at our club, Leeann?”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  I look up at the sound of her voice.

  Sitting in the blue velvet chair is Leeyan, not Leeann. The Leeyan who broke Theo's heart.

  Her hair is short, the ends tinted pink. She looks thinner, healthier than the last time we stood face to face. The day she left.

  “What are you doing here?” I lock the door. “How did you know I worked here?”

  “I googled you.”

  There’s a chance she didn’t see Theo. If she had I doubt she’d be sitting in my booth wearing jeans, a loose-fitting white sleeveless shirt with a black bra, and leather boots. She’s dressed up. This was planned.

  “Are you really my private?”

  She pretends to settle into the chair and crosses her legs. Her red lips shimmer under the dim light.

  “I booked you for the night.”

  I check the card still in my hand. “This says you booked fifteen minutes.”

  “Check the other cards. Alice, Rosalie, Bella”—she smirks—“all me.”

  “I wouldn’t peg you for a Twilight fan.”

  She looks impressed. Most women are.

  “It’s market research,” I explain. Twilight was one of the few series I liked. “The books are so much better than the movies.”