by Robin Leaf
Karina sobers. “Her mom’s not doing well today, so she took her to the hospital.”
“Oh, damn. I really hope she’s okay.” Randy looks to Cristiana. “Looks like you get one of the boys.”
Cristiana flicks her eyes to me quickly before exaggeratedly rolling them. “Fine. I’ll take the güero then.”
Güero. She called me güero just like she did back then. So she does remember me.
Now that I know what it means, I can’t say I’m too fond of the nickname coming from her. Before I learned Spanish, Raul, a guy who went through training with me, used the term. I asked him what it meant, so he told me it’s a friendly term Mexicans use for white men.
Something tells me Cristiana uses it as an insult.
While Karina and Paige are introduced to Blaine and Asher, I follow Cristiana to a more secluded area of the club. Randy sticks close to them to offer pointers.
She watches them for a few moments, seemingly keeping an eye on what they’re doing, but I’m guessing it’s to avoid interacting with me. Plus, I notice she’s biting her thumb.
Does this make her nervous?
“Look,” I step close to her and whisper. “I’m here because –”
“I know why you’re here.” She levels her toffee-colored eyes on me. “How do you think Tony got your name?”
It’s rare I have ever been rendered speechless. Her admission that she recommended me to do this job… well I’m floored. She’s the reason I have the biggest possible break in taking down the senator.
Holy mother fucker.
She pulls out a chair and motions for me to sit. “I suggest you look into Beck.”
Beck didn’t really set off any alarms, but I will do as she suggests while keeping my options open.
“Is this just because you don’t like the guy?”
She shrugs. “I don’t like most of these pinche putos.”
Raising my eyebrow, I ask, “Then why are you here?”
Her eyes flash angry for a second, and I fear she is about to blow. Instead, she bites her lips together. “This pays the bills.”
I narrow my eyes. From what I witnessed in that garage all those years ago, she could dance circles around anyone, and I imagine that when she’s dancing like I know she can, she’s only gotten better.
She sighs. “It’s a cutthroat industry.” She looks away. “I haven’t found anything better yet.”
As she demonstrates moves on a vacant chair, she explains what to do, all the while being very careful not to touch me.
“A woman likes to see a man move to the beat of a song. It’s a major turn on.” She turns away from me and grabs her water bottle, taking a long drink. “On some primal level, it suggests that a man will know what he’s doing in the bedroom.”
She demonstrates some more moves, then motions for me to try some.
“And remember, eye contact is sexy.”
Little does she know that I’ve been trained in this already. One of my sister’s clients used to be a stripper, and she arranged a little one-on-one session for me with the guy.
This woman is in for a surprise.
Nine
Cristiana
This is so hard.
I didn’t know it would be this hard.
This man.
The one I have avoided for so long. Why am I so drawn to him? He’s so not my usual type.
I hear Mama when she drones on and on about him… incessantly. How nice he is. How helpful he’s been to her, Dad, and the boys. How handsome he is… blah, blah, blah.
It didn’t prepare me for this… this man.
I don’t think anything could have prepared me for him.
He’s… bigger… everywhere. He’s tan, probably because here in L.A., he can surf without a wetsuit, and his tan skin makes those blue eyes more penetrating.
He’s more intense, more enigmatic.
He’s just… more.
Plus, those tattoos peeking from his shirt are about to drive me insane. I need to see them up close and in person so I can trace them, first with my fingers, then with my tongue.
Dios mío, I need to get away from him before I do just that.
“Okay, guys,” Randy interrupts. “Are you ready to try some moves on your own to music?”
Noah looks in my eyes and smiles, that full-watt smile that melted my panties even back in high school… I didn’t understand what was happening back then. I just knew it scared the hell out of me.
Yeah, that hasn’t changed. I’m still terrified.
“Yes,” he whispers to me and nods. Raising his voice louder so Randy can hear, he adds. “Let’s do it.”
I go stand next to Randy’s estúpida friends, Karina and Paige, while the boys move to the DJ booth to search for songs to play. It’s not that I don’t like the girls, but they’re just so obnoxiously crass. And when I’m already edgy from being next to the man who could sway me toward the dark side, the complication I’ve been avoiding my entire life, getting those pinche feelings… let’s just say I’m just not in the mood for the woo girls.
Blaine goes first. He chooses the song “Pour Some Sugar on Me,” and I suppress my eye roll. This song… ugh. I’ve heard it so much working here, that it really makes my skin crawl. I know it’s the quintessential stripper song. I just wish they’d get away from the cliché for their first attempt. I need to talk to Randy about helping them choose better songs.
He begins with Karina in the chair, which is not really recommended. It makes it hard for the dancer to do much when the subject of his lap dance is already seated. Part of the performance is seducing the woman into the chair.
This poor baby stumbles through his performance; his movements are robotic and awkward. Karina tries to coach him as he goes, but it just seems to make things worse. Randy steps in, demonstrating moves for Blaine to follow. After fifteen painful minutes of watching him suck, and two repeats of that pinche song, Randy assures that he will coach Blaine later.
The pretty ones aren’t always good at this. Sigh.
“Cream” by Prince begins, and Asher starts. He’s markedly better than Blaine, leading Paige to the chair, but he still screams rookie, which I guess is to be expected. He’s a decent dancer, pretty lighthearted and fun, but he does not possess near the amount of sex appeal we usually want from our dancers. Paige seems to enjoy it though, and she’s a pretty good judge of what the women in the club will like.
Randy offers some constructive criticism. I would, too, but Randy has asked me to not coach the rookies. He says I come off too critical and bitchy.
That’s probably because I really hate this job.
I know I can do better than a choreographer for a male strip club. I know it deep in my soul. It was supposed to be a filler job… a stepping stone. I’ve tried so hard for better, but I just can’t catch a break.
So I’m stuck here for now, but hopefully not forever.
Now it’s Noah’s turn.
“Ten bucks says he chooses some classic rock song,” I say, loud enough for him to hear.
I hear him chuckle, and I almost wish I could see his face. I bet it’s glorious.
Ugh. Shake it off, Nana. Stop getting sucked into güero’s charm.
Some song begins, one with a strum of an electric guitar, and I know I’ve heard it, but it’s been a long time. I watch Noah move toward me slowly to the music. He then does this slow spin and jumps right in front of me on the drum beat.
Fuck. This is that song that played when he gave me that ride home from the beach. Van Halen’s “Drop Dead Legs.”
I feel my face flush. My stomach does a backflip at the memory. I mean… he chose this song on purpose, right? He had to. There’s no way this is a coincidence. The fact that he remembers isn’t doing anything for my “staying away from the dark side” plan.
He circles around me, his eyes roaming up and down my body appreciatively. I’m not sure if he’s playing up the seduction as we instructed, or if he was acting aloof b
efore and has finally unveiled his true intentions.
I want to bitch slap myself for hoping the latter is true.
When he appears before me, he backs up, motioning with his finger to come to him. So, for the sake of his performance, I do. He takes my hand and pulls me up on stage, leading me to stand in front of a chair.
“Can I touch you?” he asks quietly, as I instructed him to do. His eyes… they have me spellbound.
I nod, mostly to shake the fog. “Do what you need to do, güero.”
Circling around me again, I can feel him moving, but I don’t dare look. I hear the others cheering him on, but I’ve tried to enter the zone.
“When I bump you,” he whispers in my right ear, “fall back into the chair,” is whispered in the left.
He comes around to the front, and on a down beat, he forces his hips sideways, so I fall as instructed, smiling at his inventiveness.
Turning to face the crowd, he steps over my legs so that his knees cage me in. The song says something about having the shakes, and he does just that, his ass shaking dangerously close to my face.
Damn. It’s a great ass.
He jumps forward and rips his shirt, I mean right down the middle, like a seasoned pro, and slides it slowly down one arm and then the other. It’s thrown to the girls, and I’m not sure who catches it since they both scream like the teens at those boy-band concerts.
He does some of the push-up floor work that the pros use, and it’s impressive, humping the floor and garnering some more screams from the chippies. He leaps up, turning toward me.
He saunters close and props his foot on the seat between my knees, grabs the back of my chair and does two slow body rolls, his abs contracting nicely in my face. Then he switches legs and does it again. His legs straddle me, and he grabs the side of my face carefully and thrusts his hips forward, coming really close to burying my face in his impressive bulge.
Stepping back, he bends over me and takes my hands, which were gripping the sides of the chair, and places them on his chest. He guides my hands, starting at his pecs, over his nipples, and down the ridges of his stomach. My eyes follow our hands, glancing over his ink. His skin is smooth and warm and so fucking nice. I really want to lick it.
Maneuvering my hands to the waistband of his pants and hooking my fingertips in them, he begins to slide them down his legs with my help.
God help me.
Once they are to the floor, he doesn’t step out like I expect. But he does hook his hands around my knees and pulls me to the front of the chair, forcing me to lean back. He throws my knees open and crouches in front of me, his head dangerously close to my pussy.
I feel a rush of warm air from his mouth before he moves slowly up my body, his nose barely skimming my stomach. His eyes lock on mine, and I’m not sure what he sees, because hell, I’m so fucking confused and enraptured and turned on at this point, I don’t know what he wants.
He hooks my leg over his forearm, opening me up further. My eyes are glued to his chest, trying to focus on his tattoos to distract me. There might be words and pictures, but I’m too hazy because of what he’s doing to me to really focus on what they are. Something silvery catches my eye. My hands reach out to follow a scar running down his left side.
Fingertips find my chin, and it’s lifted, urging me to meet his eyes again. God, those fucking blue eyes are about to leave scorch marks on my soul. His face, so serious, so intense, I picture this is how he would look if we were really about to…
Then I feel him… there. He runs the entire length of his very hard cock along my core slowly, then gives me two quick exaggerated thrusts. Only his very thin boxer briefs and my good-for-nothing yoga pants are keeping me from feeling the real thing.
Right now, I really want to feel the real thing.
He repeats the process to the beat of the song, all the while holding my eyes captive with his.
Santa miérda.
I can’t stop the noise that comes out of my mouth.
“Supongo que eso te gusta, cariño,” is whispered in my ear.
Holy fucking shit. He just whispered, “I guess you like that, sweetheart,” in perfect Spanish in my fucking ear.
He gives me one more thorough thrust and unhooks my leg from his arm before the song begins to fade. Pushing up to standing, he extends his hand, which I stare at for a few seconds before I blindly take it to help me up. He palms my waist with is other hand to steady me, keeping his eyes locked on mine. Smiling at me, he turns from the audience to pull up his pants, which are still around his ankles, still staring in my eyes.
“Jesus, that was better than porn,” Paige says, awakening me from my daze.
I break our eye contact to turn toward our small audience.
“I think I need to go to the bathroom and rub one out.” Yeah, that was a classic Karina line, which really pisses me off for cheapening the moment.
“Right? That even made me hard,” Randy says, fanning his crotch, “and I’ve been in this business a long time. I thought I was immune to this shit.”
“I gotta admit, that was fucking hot,” Blaine says, adjusting himself in his pants. Once he moves his hands, I can see he’s hard, too.
The thought of all these people getting turned on by what just happened between Noah and me… entices me. I like it… not just because of what he did, but because they watched. I’m not sure what to do with that.
“I think I might actually be pregnant,” Karina adds. “I think you need to supply a warning to this stud. If you watch him dance, BAM,” she thrusts her hips forward, “pregnant.”
“Or you could supply umbrellas to protect them from all the exploding ovaries raining down from the rafters,” Paige giggles.
I have to stand here like I didn’t just almost have an orgasm in front of this audience. Inexplicably, I feel some unnamed emotion rising, almost like anger with disappointment and a lot of lust mixed in, but I’m unsure if it’s because I’m embarrassed that I almost had an orgasm, or because the performance ended before I could.
Or am I angry at myself for liking this whole experience way more than I should?
Or… am I realizing that I’m getting sucked in by this beast of a man? That it was all for show?
Why did that feel way more intimate than just a run-of-the-mill lap dance?
“Randy,” I snap, stepping away from Noah. “Put him on the rotation for Thursday night. We have a bachelorette party coming in.” I turn to Noah and glare. “He will give the bride a good show.”
Damn, the man’s nostrils flare, and it only fuels my unrecognizable mood.
“Uh, Cristiana…” Randy warns, and I know what he’s gonna say before the words come out of his mouth. “Isn’t that Beck’s party?”
“I think Noah will suit the bride better.”
“But… he’s a newbie. Are you sure –”
“Don’t argue, puto, just do it,” I growl, storming off the stage.
I keep walking until I get to the dressing room, where I slam the door and start pacing.
God, what the fuck is wrong with me?
How many boys have given me lap dances since I’ve worked here? How many times has someone simulated humping me on stage? Why does it bother me so much this time? What’s different?
Is it because he turned me on so much?
Is it because he was just as turned on as I was?
Is it simply because it’s Noah… the boy from my past? The one I never admitted to anyone, not really even to myself, that I had a super-sized crush on him? The boy I convinced myself I hated instead of allowing myself to fall for him? The boy I thought about the first time I touched myself… and so many times after?
I pictured doing things… dirty things, to him and with him, countless times through my teens. Every time my mother packed him a care package, I had to stop myself from dropping in notes and pictures of myself to send secretly. I even once imagined sending naked pictures of me just so I could fantasize about what he would do when
he saw them.
Those were some wicked fantasies.
Great, now I’m picturing him, sliding his underwear down, his cock springing free. He takes it in hand and strokes slowly, sliding his fingers over the bead glistening on the tip…
Damn. Maybe I need to go to the bathroom and rub one out.
Jesus Cristo, Nana. Fucking stop it.
I turn to look in the lighted mirrors that line this dressing room, staring at the sexually-frustrated, hot mess of a woman who isn’t faring too well at resisting these… these feelings.
I thought I was so much older. So much wiser. I could suggest him for this job, throw a little favor his way, and I’d be fine, knowing I could be close to him and not get the same confusing feelings I did way back then. I assumed I didn’t understand what was happening because I was just a kid.
Well, now I’m an adult, and I still don’t understand it.
I’m still confused.
All I do know is I don’t like it any better now than I did then.
And the difference is that now, this feeling… it’s much stronger.
“Thank God,” I hear sighed from the doorway.
I turn to see who is there, and I’m spun around, lifted onto the counter, looking at a still bare inked chest.
“Please tell me I didn’t…” his hot mouth breathes in my ear. “I didn’t cross a… I mean, you said I could do whatever…” Noah pulls back to cup my face, tilting it up to look into those fucking eyes, filled with concern. “Cristiana, did I do anything that made you feel… uncomfortable?”
Something in my chest tugs, pulling at the string holding my heart in place. He’s trying to steal it, and something tells me my heart is a willing party.
I mentally shake myself, trying to keep myself from lurching forward and attaching my lips to his. This close, he’s such a temptation, especially now that I can smell him… the scent that is all Noah.
I plaster on a fake smile, and I bet he can tell it’s forced.
“I’m fine, güero, just hungry since I skipped lunch.” His hands slip from my cheeks to the counter, caging me in. I have to take a deep breath to summon my courage. “I’m kind of immune to the performances around here.” I pat his chest, forcing myself to remove my hand. “You did nothing that hasn’t been done to me a thousand times during these training sessions. You’re really good for a fake stripper.”