by Jody Kaye
The music crescendos, booming louder. It’s about to hit the note where Cece grabs the center of the shirt, ripping it in two. She lifts a leg high, prancing around the pole, and a man she’s cautious when flirting with reaches out to touch the strappy boot tied up her calf. The strings come undone. It’ll be tough to hit the marks on her footwork without falling after she tosses the tank into the crowd. Cece bends, making a coy show out of lacing the boot. It throws off her rhythm for half a beat, but she yanks the top in two and lands every mark.
Yet for me, before the songs even ended, the situation sent the needle scratching across the record with a screech. It’s normal for customers to seek Cece’s attention when she’s out on the floor or by the bar. It also drives me up a fucking wall.
We had a blow-up about it a year ago when whatever it is we’re doing first started. The disagreement is the most words we’ve spoken to one another. I was coming from Jake’s office and saw a drunk guy getting handsy. The look of annoyance flashing across Cece’s face got the best of me, and I interjected by clenching my fist around the guy’s collar. Before I’d gone too far, Celine unwrapped my fingers from his shirt, comped the douche a drink on the house, and dragged my ass out the back door to the parking lot.
“I had it under control,” she seethed, poking her manicured fingernail into my chest. “I can take care of myself.” Her brown eyes were dark and stormy. “Do not overstep and pretend we are what we’re not.”
She didn’t give me a chance to defend my actions, and I swear had I followed on her heels back into the building, lightning might’ve blinded me she was so furious.
But I was mad too. After that, I fucking sought her out until what we were doing was part of her routine and if I didn’t appear in the bathroom for too many days in a row, she’d almost look at me across the bar as if she missed me.
This time she could have broken her ankle. Then what? Miss her party? Get her diploma on crutches?
For the second time in as many hours, I’m done with nobody knowing about us besides us. It is my problem. And I’m about to change that.
I can hear the thump of music for the next performer through the walls, but the dressing room is quiet. Jake’s insisted the dancers all be out on the floor tonight between sets. I have enough time to freshen up before joining them.
Sliding into the seat at my vanity, I pluck a few candid snapshots of me and the girls out of the mirror and study our smiles.
I almost don’t remember a time when Kimber wasn’t my boss and, while she and Sloan are a generation ahead of me, they’re two of my closest friends because we lived at the mill together. It was weird when Kimber married Trig and he bought their house. It’ll be stranger when I move out. I’m used to seeing one or the other of them every day.
I shuffle through the other pictures. Me and Aidy. God, I love that girl. She makes up for every damned thing my brother endured. Hailey, who I still can’t believe is an adult when I’d first met her as a gawky teen. Holly, our assistant manager, and I making duck faces with our eyes rolled up. We weren’t even drunk. Just being ridiculous on her first night solo without Kimber in charge or Jake pretending to pay attention to this place. They’d put every available person on the schedule to make sure nothing went wrong. I swear there were more employees here than customers. We had the best time.
These people, they’re my family. I’m sad to leave. Sometimes coming to work—yes, and taking off my clothes—was a reprieve from the stress of studying. I lived for the moment, knowing the best ones are fleeting.
I have zero regrets about how I made my way in this life. It may have taken me longer to realize the dream, but it’s within my grasp. I hadn’t realized how bittersweet the end was.
Jake tried to convince me to stay on because I bring in a decent crowd of regulars he doesn’t want to lose.
I harrumph. I saw one of the newer girls giving a guy who claims to be my biggest fan a lap dance earlier. She’s got Jake’s concerns covered. She also waved a Benjamin in my face and stopped griping that the last few nights weren’t great for tips.
Jake put all his effort into advertising my big send-off all over the marquee. He wanted as many patrons as possible for my final show, and he got them. I’ve got to go on a few extra times, so I’m not expected to work the crowd long. Jake wants them hungry for more and too drunk to realize the cash they slip under my thong isn’t from anything more indecent than a smile when I bat my eyelashes.
I’ll give Jake credit there. His mom was an exotic dancer, and he doesn’t expect us to do more than shimmy our hips entertaining customers. Although, he’s never attempted to stop what goes on when the curtains are drawn in the small alcove of rooms beyond the stage.
I’ve done a few things in those rooms St. Peter will question me for at the pearly gates, but nothing promiscuous. Those pretend sexual favors, hovering in a man’s lap, all took place in plain sight. The teasing became bothersome the more times I was with Dusty. I didn’t want him to see me skirting the edges of men’s fantasies. I don’t sleep around and, whether or not my job evokes the perception I do, it’s not one I want my friends having of me. Not to mention, the thought of touching another man, or letting him get close enough to take advantage of the way they want to touch me, is unappealing.
But is Dusty so attractive to me because he’s off-limits?
I place the pictures to the side and study my reflection. I’m alone in a far corner. There’s a second row of vanities blocking my view of the exit. I hear the door open and shut.
The man of the hour appears in between the aisle of mirrors. Standing stock-still, Dusty repeats his words from earlier when we were alone together at the mill. “Door’s locked.”
I nod.
He’s immense next to the frilly boas and wigs, nail polish, and tubes of lipstick. In two strides he’s crossed the room and is down on his knees. Mine spread of their own volition, cradling his body.
A warm hand pulls my hip toward him. Kneeling while I’m seated, Dusty and I are on eye level. His thumb caresses my cheek before taking my mouth in a demanding kiss. It’s filled with as much hunger and sexual desire as any has ever been. I palm his hard cock through his jeans. This has never happened here, and my pulse is racing. I’m torn between unzipping his pants to spring it free, letting Dusty push my costume to the side, and doing what’s right.
Sex has never been like this with any other man. Hot and dirty. Combustible. And yet I’ve never once felt as if I was in danger. It’s the complete opposite as if Dusty would blanket his body over mine like a shield. I’m not sure if the notion is real or imagined.
The stupid love-sick girl I haven’t allowed myself to be since I was a moody teenager believes we’re connected. The woman who freely gives her body to a man, not knowing if he’ll show his face the next day, won’t stop telling the stupid girl to protect her heart at all costs.
Dusty tugs at my lower lip, before diving his tongue back into my mouth lazy and slow. His hand hasn’t moved from my jaw as he guides our actions into a kiss from him like I’ve never had.
It makes the sadness, the worries over my next steps in life, ebb away. This seems like a promise that I can seek him out.
“Do you want me?” I don’t get turned on when I dance. But the last minute and a half has me dripping. We’d have a lot to explain if we got caught, but not nearly as much as someone walking in on us in the factory bathroom. I doubt either of us will bring it up. We’re consenting adults. It’s where we’ve been having sex that makes it wrong.
“Understatement.” He chuckles. A broad grin stretches across his face.
I smile, wiping the smudge of red lipstick off his lower lip. It follows my fingers, kissing my palm. The intense look he’s giving me is a far cry from the stern one I’m used to seeing. Dusty’s normal intent is in making my body come alive. Now? He’s—happy? I should know, but I’m not sure. His expression’s not as brooding and intense.
I tilt his chin and bring his lips back
to mine. Our teeth scrape as I giggle. Dusty wraps his arms around me and I wrap my legs around him. However, he’s not taking it further.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Wanna take you out.”
“What? Where?” My nose scrunches and a heated blush rises from my chest. “I’m not exactly dressed for the occasion in this and, with the party later, it’s not like I can escape to the Wafflehaus after my shift.”
“Royce’s.”
I blink fast. Royce’s is an upscale restaurant. A place you have to make reservations well in advance. It has a dress code. The appetizer alone will cost a fortune.
Dusty wants to take me on a date. There are two things I know about a man who throws around scads of cash on a single meal with a woman. Their first meal together. Either the woman is prostituting herself for Chateaubriand and a hundred dollar bottle of wine or the man is serious about her.
Given Dusty’s already getting the milk for free, he’s not in a position to buy the cow. I can only presume he’s serious about me.
I swallow hard to stop the love-sick teenager from screaming “Yes!” like she did in the backseat after her Prom.
Dusty watches my reactions as I lick my lips and breathe out.
We’re not… Fucking is not a reason to go on a date. I’m stalling with my answer. As much as teenage me wants to achieve the sense of euphoria I’ve denied myself, I’m petrified of what happens when our friends see us together. They’ll think Dusty’s interested in a relationship with the prefixes “girl” and “boy” before friend. That isn’t us. I’m not sure I’m at a point in my life where I’m ready for that.
You’re a bitch, Cece Wescott. You know what you aren’t ready for. Admit your misgivings. Admit how dating this man would make you feel when it’s not his cock thrusting into you that counts, but being responsible for his heart.
Would it be so bad if we kept what’s happened between us to ourselves? It’s bound to peter out and who wants to explain why we didn’t work as a couple when we weren’t one in the first place.
Dusty’s thumb makes gentle circles at my side. “Graduation. Rroyce’s to celebrate. You and me. My gift to you.”
“Okay.” I hoping my squeak doesn’t sound terrified.
I don’t want to hurt Dusty. His offer is so sincere. All the guys have free-flowing cash. He’s being nice. Men do this for their cum dumpsters all the time, right? I shouldn’t read into it. I also shouldn’t refer to myself as Dusty’s cum dumpster, but the phrase has stopped me from searching for any underlying meaning in what we’ve done.
“Um, I’m busy the next few weeks. There’s the actual graduation ceremony. Christmas. Then I start at the clinic. Also, I offered to stay with Owen at Kimber and Trig’s to watch him because Morgan and Aidy are going on vacation with them over New Year’s.” I rattle on like I’m a social butterfly instead of the girl whose friends drag her into Raleigh kicking and screaming.
“Af-ter the New Year. When you’re settled…and can tell me about it all.” The bulbs in my mirror highlight the gold flecks in his brown eyes.
Dusty stands without kissing me. He’s never said goodbye so, when the door closes behind him, I’m not sure why my lady bits are disappointed. Oh, well, yeah. Now I get it. But the rest? It bugs the hell out of me to the point of irritation.
He scratches an itch and maybe I hadn’t read into his intentions because I hadn’t wanted to admit mine were shallow. Perhaps because delving deeper isn’t where I saw my life heading. The challenges of finishing my degree and getting accepted into the PA program were my focus. Being sidetracked by men and having kids the way my friends are would put a damper on chasing my goals.
My family is a shitshow. My mother’s pregnancy with me and my brother being born so soon after trapped her. We had less than half of what most families did. Yet, without all the sweetness we saw others growing up with, somehow Morgan and I learned how to turn lemons into lemonade.
I slip a robe over my shoulders, cinching it in the middle, and pulling at the lapels. The silky fabric drapes over my costume, exposing ample cleavage.
Swinging the door wide and stepping into the hall, the sole of my boot snags on loose carpeting. This is the second time tonight it causes a malfunction. Dusty is leaning against the wall out in the hallway. His thick arms rest over his broad chest and he has his legs crossed. He catches me as I stumble.
“Were you waiting for me?”
“Fix that tomorrow,” he says, putting me back on my feet.
I fake a smile, ignoring the blood rushing to my ears and thud of my pulse. I turn on my heel toward the bar, making eye contact with Holly. There’s got to be as much heat radiating from my cheeks as is coming off Dusty’s palm, a mere inch from my back.
Reaching the end of the hall, I make an excuse about getting a drink. Increasing my stride, I hope no one at the table full of my friends notices Dusty is behind me. In my peripheral vision, he veers off toward them.
Holly’s filling a glass with club soda. When she looks up her eyes widen. Without skipping a beat, she places the drink on the bar.
“I like that shade. It is new?” She rubs under her lower lip and strikes me I hadn’t checked my appearance in the mirror. “I swear even the best ones are never smudge-proof.”
Oh, damn. My jaw drops. I rub at my mouth, messing my lipstick up even more. There’s not a brand I’ve bought capable of surviving the way Dusty kisses me.
Holly grabs my chin, dipping a napkin into the tonic and wiping the stain away. “Go get ‘em,” she says when she’s all done fixing my face.
She looks over my shoulder in the opposite direction and I follow her gaze. Most of the crowd is intent on watching the act on stage, but there are at least half a dozen guests who have me in their sights and the reason Jake has me out here is to cater to them.
I chose a couple to approach who’ll do me the most good. Yes, couple. She’s blonde and her partner is a brunette. They’ve been here before and my interactions with them have been pleasant, which is saying a lot given the number of crotch-grabbers I deal with.
With a wide grin, I strut across the room to the two-person table they’re seated at to thank them for coming. The blonde’s palm caresses the bell of my hip and I lean over, letting my breasts spill out of the robe so her girlfriend gets the better view, air-kissing both of the woman’s cheeks. A shrill whistle and lewd catcall from the table next to theirs isn’t worth acknowledging.
Truth is, it’s helping me do what I’m supposed to: get a bunch of horny guys amped up. I hate to call men predictable, however, I haven’t encountered one yet who doesn’t have a threesome with two women or fantasy with lesbians playing into it somehow. This show I’m putting on is as gratifying for them as it is watching me on stage. They’ll wind up panting during my next performance and buying more alcohol to quench their thirst.
In spite of the occasional hand roaming over my robe or the bare skin of my thigh, it’s incredible how respectful the ladies I’m entertaining right now are. I get this is their idea of fun. They might be the sort to take me home to play out a few of their own fantasies, or maybe they wouldn’t and they use my performances to enhance whatever happens between the two of them later on. Those predilections aren’t any of my nevermind.
What is my business is keeping customers happy in the here and now, and it’s easy to accomplish when, as a woman, I understand a little attention from someone you find attractive goes a long way.
Since this is my night, I’m relishing the low-pressure of this couple. Not to mention, my back is to Carver’s booth and I can forget for a few minutes what led to the lipstick faux pas.
The owner is working the room too. Jake fakes his interest in Sweet Caroline’s well when he has to, if it adds to his bottom line.
The brunette sticks her hand up under my robe, tucking a tip at my waistband. I make a production of winking and thanking her.
“Aren’t you generous?” The owner slips into our conversation. Ja
ke towers over me and I’m not short without these heels on. His frosty blue eyes should be a dead giveaway to what’s trapped within his soul. Yet, most women are certain all the Icelandic God needs to change is some platinum pussy.
“We are.” Based on her response, I guess the brunette is up to the challenge. She licks her lips, and her partner touches Jake’s tailored black slacks the way she had me when we’d begun talking.
“Celine is needed backstage. How about a private tour behind the scenes and a round on the house for your troubles?” He procures a bold “reserved” tepee from his breast pocket, placing it down as the two women rise from their seats.
I scoot off, trying not to gag. Jake’s taking my intent of amping up the guests one step further with a detour to his office. I’d be surprised if one of them doesn’t have his dick in her mouth while her partner gets spread out on his desk. Unless they get off on having men watch. Again, this is a sex club, so other’s proclivities aren’t mine to judge.
Fucking Jake is a line I’ve never crossed and the idea of him using me to get his jollies hadn’t entered my mind. Not like this anyway. I’m not disgusted by his actions. Okay, I am. But I’ll get over it since this is the last night I have to work the floor. Next time I’m at Sweet Caroline’s it’s to hang out the way my friends are doing over at Carver’s table. So caught up in enjoying themselves, they’re not even paying attention to the act.
Heading over there, I know I’ll want to forget my next set and all of the patrons here to see me. For the moment, I’d let it slide that Dusty is with them. I hesitate to look over there so I don’t see him watching me.
My attention drifts to the bar as I move through the crowd, and I’m shocked. Dusty’s back is to everyone. He’s engaged in a close discussion with Holly. Her tits with pert nipples rest on the counter. I’ve never cared braless was part of Holly’s charm until Dusty chuckles and his head lowers to the over-polished wood she normally buffs with a rag and not her boobs.