by K. A. Tucker
“I’ll try to remember that,” I chuckle as we approach the solid black metal door with a tiny peep hole in it.
“You look great, Kacey. Seriously.” I try not to flinch as she pats my shoulder.
Secretly, I have to admit that I do. Aside from the mini skirt, I’m also wearing a charcoal striped halter top and several silver jewelry pieces, courtesy of Storm’s collection. She also helped me with my hair and make-up. I look more than decent. Not a knock out standing next to Storm with her turquoise dress and tanned skin and Barbie doll curves, but decent all the same. Decent enough that I caught myself swaggering extra slow past 1D on my way out, hoping to catch Trent’s face in the window. Then I realized what I was doing, and I ran the rest of the way to Storm’s Jeep, the voice inside my head scolding the snot out of me the entire way.
Storm raps against the heavy door four times. It flies open and my insides flip. Not many people intimidate me anymore. The giant man with dark skin and bulging muscles who fills the doorway, as wide as he is tall, though … I don’t care that I’m cowering. By the look of him, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s never smiled a day in his life. He’s certainly never been a cute baby. I’m sure he simply materialized out of nothingness into the beast standing before me.
“This is Nate. He’s the head bouncer and Cain’s right hand man. Hey Nate! This is my friend, Kacey.” Storm doesn’t wait for him to respond. She simply pushes past him, her hand giving his solid abdomen a soft punch on the way in.
“Hi,” he says. The tiny word rumbles deep inside me, his voice like thunder and I nod, temporarily mute.
He steps back to give me more space. “Come in, please.”
Forcing bravado that I don’t feel, I jack my chin up and step inside. Storm leads me down a narrow hallway lined with liquor cases and silver kegs, smelling faintly of beer yeast. Dark memories rise with the scent. Memories of clubs and tequila shots off guys’ abdomens and white powder lines on tables in dark corners. I quickly cram them back where they belong. In the past.
“Here are the dressing rooms for the dancers …” Storm’s index finger points to two closed doors. “I wouldn’t go in there unless you want to see all kinds of ‘girl bits.’” With a teasing laugh, she continues.
We pass by a broad-shouldered, towering blond guy in a tight black t-shirt and black pants. Definitely another bouncer by his outfit but not as ominous-looking at Nate. He’s cute in that “I’m from Wisconsin and I play football” kind of way. He reminds me of Billy …
“Kacey, this is Ben,” Storm introduces us.
“Hey, Kacey,” he grins and then his head cocks as if he suddenly recognizes me. “Hey, weren’t you at The Breaking Point the other day?”
I look him over. I don’t remember him, but, then again, I don’t pay any heed to the guys there. “Maybe. I just joined.”
He nods slowly. “Yeah, that was definitely you.” His eyes do a full shameless intake of my body. “You’re incredible. Do you compete?”
I brush off the compliment. “Nah, it’s just for fun.” The truth is I’d love to complete, but it’s too dangerous for me, given my injuries. One hit to the wrong place will cause serious damage to all the work those surgeons did years ago to put me back together. I’m not about to tell Ben any of that though.
“First night at Penny’s?” he asks, leaning one forearm against a door frame.
“Yeah.”
A lusty gaze wanders over my frame again.
“Bartending only,” I add, crossing my arms over my chest, emphasizing the ‘only.’
His attention skates back up to my face and he smirks. “Yeah, I’ve heard that before.”
“And you’ll hear it again from me every time you ask,” I throw back coolly. What a pompous ass. He needs a good kick to the head to wipe that smirk off his mouth. Maybe I’ll ask him to spar next time I’m at the gym.
Storm ushers me forward past him, hollering over her shoulder, “See ya later, Ben.” She knocks on a door with a sign that reads Bossman. There’s a caricature of a naked woman sitting spread eagle and a pair of black lace thong underwear tacked on beside. How fitting.
“And here’s Cain’s office. Don’t worry. You’ll fit in here,” she whispers as she pushes through the door. I give the back of her head an arched brow. She thinks she knows me. She thinks I’ll fit in with silicone and booze and vajayjays or whatever I’m supposed to call them. I’m second-guessing how smart Storm really is.
“Come in!” A harsh voice calls out and my back tenses up.
Inside is a small office with floor to ceiling shelves on all four walls, lined with more cases of booze. Tons and tons of booze. On the back wall is something that looks like a weird chemistry experiment—a bunch of upside down liquor bottles with a mess of hoses flowing from their spouts, down into the floor. My nose catches a faint scent of cigar smoke, cedar, and whiskey lingering in the air.
“That’s the bar well,” Storm explains in a whisper. “All the basic liquor. It controls how much goes out. You hit a button behind the bar and it gives you one ounce. You hit it twice, two ounces, not rocket science.”
“So I can’t reenact my favorite scenes from Cocktail?” I mumble, picturing twirling bottles like a baton.
Storm chuckles. “You can, but it will be with the pricey bottles on the shelf and they cost a lot when you break them.”
A man with slick black hair and a navy dress shirt sits behind a giant mahogany desk with his back to us. Cain, I presume. He’s on the phone with what sounds like the beer distributor. By the way he barks out ‘yes’ and ‘no,’ I’d say he’s not happy. He slams the phone down and spins around and I prepare myself for a painful conversation.
But then his coffee-colored irises settle on Storm and they instantly warm. He’s a younger man—early thirties—with attractive features and a sense of style. Definitely good-looking by anyone’s standards. But he’s a strip club owner and that equals dirt bag in my book.
“Hello, Angel,” he drawls, giving Storm a slow once-over. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle. I’m not going to like this guy. Not. One. Bit.
Storm ignores the leer. Or maybe she enjoys it. Frankly, I have no idea. I don’t know her well enough either. “Hey, Cain.” She cocks her head toward me. “This is my friend, Kacey. For the bartender position?”
My gut tenses as those dark irises turn to appraise me but it only lasts for half a second. He bolts out of his chair and strides around the desk, extending his hand with a professional air. “Hi Kacey. I’m Cain, the owner of Penny’s. Pleased to meet you.”
And here’s where my little phobia makes life so damn awkward. I can’t get around shaking the boss’s hand when he offers it to me. Not unless I tear out of here right now but then I’m out of a job. One I’m not sure I want, but a job nonetheless. My only real choice is to grit my teeth and hope I don’t pass out from an anxiety attack when his fingers curl around my own, shoving me back into that dark place I keep trying to crawl out from.
I look at him, I look at his hand, I look at Storm. But most of all, I hear Livie’s voice saying try.
I reach out …
Black spots fill my vision as his bones and muscles and gristle wrap around my hand and squeezes. My other hand blindly paws the air for support and I make contact with Storm’s elbow. I grab onto it. I’m going to pass out. I’m going to keel over right here on this floor and do the funky chicken like an idiot. Nate the gargantuan will drag me out while Cain hollers, “thanks, but no thanks, nut job” and then I’ll be back to Starbucks and Livie will have to eat cat food and …
“Storm’s told me a lot about you.”
With a start, I realize Cain has let go of my hand. My lungs deflate. “Has she now?” I say in a shaky voice, stealing a glance at Storm
He smiles warmly. “Yes. She said you’ve helped her out a lot. You’re smart and you’re in need of a job. You’re stunningly beautiful. I can see that now, firsthand.”
I choke, my tongue disappea
ring into the back of my throat.
“Have you ever worked in an adult establishment?”
“Uh … no … sir,” I answer and silently pray to God that Storm hasn’t told him otherwise. I don’t know why, but I find suddenly that I want to impress Cain. He carries an authoritative air to him, like he’s much older and wiser than his appearance suggests, like he’s a caring human rather than unscrupulous strip club owner.
My answer doesn’t seem to bother him. “One of my bartenders is pregnant. She and I both agree that a gentleman’s club isn’t the best place for her so … how many nights can you commit to?”
I look at Storm and shrug. “All of them?”
Cain’s head tips back as he laughs whole-heartedly, revealing a tattoo beneath his left ear. It reads, ’Penny.’ She must be someone special if he named his club after her and tattooed her name on himself. “Don’t sign your life away, Sweetheart. Five or six nights will do.” His eyes skim my arms now, skittering over the white scar snaking down the outside of my shoulder, and I silently chastise myself for not covering them. They probably frown upon disfigured women working in adult clubs. “You have a fighter’s body,” he says instead.
“No fighting. Just staying fit,” I answer quickly.
He nods slowly. That seems to impress him. “Good. I like a woman who can take care of herself.” He settles behind his desk again, saying, “you’ll train Kacey, right, Storm?”
Storm is grinning ear to ear. “Yes, Cain.”
He looks up at her again, and I see the look for what it truly is. Adoration, not lusty animalism. Like he worships her. I wonder if they’ve slept together. I wonder if he sleeps with all his staff. I’m sure he could if he wanted to. Will he try to sleep with me? I don’t have time to think about it anymore because Storm leads me out the door in a daze.
“Come on. We’re opening soon. I need to get you comfortable.”
***
The night goes by in a blur. Storm and I work the main bar together—Storm on the more complicated drinks, me on beer and straight shots while she teaches me the basics. The place is nothing like I expected. It’s huge and three stories high in the center with a low ceiling around the perimeter, allowing sleek alcoves for the bars, shiny black high top tables, and a hallway to the V.I.P. rooms. Apparently Cain is strict about what happens back there. Nothing illegal, he tells all the girls. “I don’t go back there,” Storm says with a serious look that says “don’t go back there, Kacey.”
On a raised stage in the center, the girls dance. There are three dancing at all times, each with their own little stage jutting off the main one to accommodate the group of leering men in front row. A blue light shines down over the entire space, creating a mystical ambience. The rest of the place is dark, the air heady with booze and testosterone and lust. Music throbs through my body, its beat guiding the dancers every move on stage.
Storm and I joke and chatter casually back and forth as we serve, and I can’t help but start to relax around her. The place is busy, but people aren’t climbing over each other at the bar to get a drink like the night clubs I’ve been to. She introduces me to three girls who she promises me I’ll like. Ginger, Layla, and Penelope. They’re all drop dead gorgeous, giggly, and friendly. Everyone there seems to be gorgeous, giggly, and friendly, and I can’t help but wonder for the hundredth time why Storm would think I’ll fit in here. But I say nothing, nodding to them all, making sure I’ve got two full hands so I avoid all contact. No one seems to notice.
I get a bunch of “new girl” comments from customers who are obviously regulars, but I ignore them. I keep my head down and I work hard so Cain doesn’t have any reason to expand my job description to lap dances and V.I.P. room customer support. I take orders, I make drinks, I collect money without touching anyone’s hand. In that order. Still, I feel eyes on me—drifting over my curves, sizing me up, even with plenty of flesh to look at in this place. Asshats.
The bar is my fortress. I am safe behind this half wall.
***
“So, how are you making out so far?” Storm asks during a two minute lull late in the night. “Think you can handle bartending in a strip club six nights a week?”
I shrug. “Yeah, no big deal. Just a lot of boobs and ass cheeks and I avoid the stage so I don’t see …” My attention drifts to the stage where an Asian girl wearing nothing but a piece of silver floss wraps her legs around her neck. “That!” I jerk my head away. “How can she do it?”
“That’s Cherry. She’s into hot yoga.”
I roll my eyes. “No, I don’t mean how. I mean … how!”
“Everyone’s got their price,” is Storm’s only response as she dispenses another round of Jim Beam.
“I guess so,” I mutter, silently wondering if Storm has set a price.
“Okay, so now that you’re familiar with the bar, Kacey,” Storm begins, “you can start smiling any time. You do know that if you smile at the customers, you’re likely to get bigger tips, right?”
I smirk. “Why would me smiling make them give me more money when they can save it for the person humping their leg? Are they idiots?”
“Just … trust me.” She sighs patiently, moving back to serve a customer, hollering over her shoulder, “You’re the shiny new red-haired toy and you’re forcing them to use their imagination.”
Great. That’s what I want to be. Some guy’s wet dream.
To prove her wrong, I give the next three customers the widest grin my face can handle without splitting in half. I even wink at one. Low and behold, the tips double. Hmmm. Maybe we’re on to something. If only smiling wasn’t such a drain.
A middle-aged cowboy with an oversized hat and Wrangler jeans leans forward over the bar, his mouth twisted like he’s chewing on a piece of straw, but there’s nothing there. “Ain’t you a pretty sight, all toned and natural,” he says, lingering too long on my cleavage. Why, I don’t know. I look like a ten year old boy next to every other female in this place. When he sneers, I see that his teeth are stained yellowish brown by years of tobacco.
I swallow my revulsion and force a smile. “What can I get you tonight, sir?”
“How ’bout a Tom Collins and a private show?”
“One Tom Collins coming up. I’m fresh out of private shows.” I keep my smile, all the while my level of annoyance climbs, anxious to get rid of this guy. When I slide the drink across the bar to him, and reach for the twenty dollar bill, his paw closes over my forearm, his fingers coarse and impolite. He leans in and I catch a whiff of stale tobacco and booze on his breath. “How ’bout you take your break now and show me that tight ass of yours?”
“I just bartend here, sir,” I force through gritted teeth, my body shifting into defensive mode. “There are plenty of girls here who can give you what you want.” And I’m not exaggerating. Everywhere I look I find ass cheeks and nipples and worse. I played a lot of sports in high school so I’ve seen my share of naked bodies in showers after games. Heck, I labeled Jenny the “Grand Rapids Exhibitionist” because she had no qualms with stripping down to buck in front of me. This place is different though. They’re wandering around, peddling their wares. Selling their bodies.
“I got money! Name your price.”
“You don’t have enough, trust me,” I growl back, but I can tell he’s not listening, his other hand disappearing below the bar, likely to adjust his growing arousal. I want to gag. I imagine he’ll be rough when he finally corners a poor, desperate, and obviously blind woman. “I’d let go if I were you … sir.”
From my peripherals, I see Nate and Ben’s looming frames moving in to save me. The idea of that bothers me for some reason. I don’t need them to protect me.
I don’t need anyone.
And I want to hurt this guy.
I half-lean, half-jump forward to hook my free hand around the cowboy’s sweaty neck. I yank down hard and fast. He grunts as his face slams against the bar. I hold it there, my fingers digging into the base of his spine. My
heart is hammering against my ribs as blood rushes to my ears. This feels good. I feel alive. “How do ya like this tight ass now?” I hiss.
Nate’s hands slam over his shoulders and I hear his low rumble over the music as he drags the cowboy away, bleeding from a cut to his bottom lip. “You’ll have to leave now, sir.” The guy’s also got a bright red mark on his forehead. Definitely a bruise tomorrow. He doesn’t resist though. I doubt even the Incredible Hulk would resist Nate.
Ben hangs back to ask,“You okay?”
“I’m fine,” I assure him as Storm sidles up to my side with a worried look. My attention trails after Nate and I cross glances with Cain sitting at a table off to the side. A sinking feeling settles over me. He must have watched the entire scene unfold. It dawns on me that maybe he doesn’t want his customers’ heads slammed against the bar. Maybe I just got my ass fired.
Cain gives me a thumbs-up sign, and I release a huge sigh of relief.
“I told you to smile, not get yourself into a bar fight,” Storm jokes, nudging me in the ribs.
“He wanted a private show,” I explain, my adrenaline still pumping blood through my body. “I gave him a public one instead.”
Ben leans forward, elbows resting over the bar, an impressed smirk on his face. “You sure know how to handle yourself.”
“I was raised by wolves. Had to fight for my food.”
His head tilts back and a throaty laugh escapes. “Sorry if I was a douche bag earlier. I’m just used to seeing pretty, fresh girls come in here and leave worn and jaded. I hate it.”
“Well then it’s your lucky day. I’m already jaded.” I give him the once over. “And maybe you shouldn’t work in a strip club.”
“Yeah, that’s what they tell me. But the money’s too good and I’m putting myself through law school.” He catches my raised brow and his grin widens. “Didn’t expect that, did you?”
“You don’t give off lawyerly vibes.”
Ben turns his body and rests his elbows on the bar so he faces out into the crowd while he talks to me. “So I hear you just moved here?”