“Have I got the job?” Jag asked, chin raised, stare fierce, as though daring Michael to refuse him. “Or do you want to see my strip routine first?”
Michael ran his tongue over his lower lip. As tempting as that was, he forced himself to shake his head. “That won’t be necessary.” He cleared his tight throat. “You’ve got your routine down to three minutes?” That was the average length of a song.
Jag inclined his head. “Of course.” He lifted his chin a little higher, exposing more of his long, slim neck.
Michael suddenly felt too hot and resisted the urge to tug at the collar of his T-shirt. Any doubts he’d had fluttered away; the young man was going to be a serious money-spinner.
“The dancers start at ten,” Michael said. “And carry on until closing time. When you’re not on the pole, you’re to mingle with the patrons and tempt them into buying a private dance.” He indicated the sides of the room, where there were several curtained booths. During the day, whilst he held fitness classes, the curtains were always closed. “You know how it works,” he went on. There was no way Jag hadn’t done this before unless he was seriously good at bluffing. “No cash. If they want a dance, they buy a credit from the bar. You hand your credits in at the end of the night.”
“What cut?” Jag asked.
“Sixty per cent. You’ll get paid once a week, cash in hand. The hourly rate is minimum wage, but the dances should more than make up for it.”
Jag pursed his lips. “Most places like this don’t pay an hourly rate.”
Michael smiled. “Well, I do. I want high quality, loyal dancers. That’s how I make sure I keep the talent.” He couldn’t help but notice a flicker of emotion crossing Jag’s face, but it was so fleeting that he didn’t have time to put a name to it before it was gone. He pushed off the barstool. “How does all that sound?”
After a moment’s hesitation, Jag stood and closed the distance between them. “It sounds good.”
“Great.” Michael inhaled slowly. This close up, he could see the sweat that was glistening on the young man’s face and collarbone. “Can you start tomorrow?” He held out his hand.
Jag shook it, his grip light. “Yes.”
Michael didn’t want to let go but did anyway. “You’re new in town?” He nodded towards the rucksack and sleeping bag, which Jag had stacked up against the stage.
“Yeah.”
“Have you got somewhere to stay yet?” Michael heard himself ask the question, even though his brain was yelling at him to shut the fuck up. He didn’t know Jag; he could be trouble.
Jag’s eyes narrowed, and his mouth tugged up at the corners. “Finding somewhere to rent is the next thing on my list.”
Michael rubbed his jaw. “I’ve got a bedsit I rent out sometimes. It’s a bit of a shit hole, but it’s warm, dry, and cheap. It’s empty at the moment. You’re welcome to crash there until you find something more permanent.” He paused as Jag’s eyes became stony. “I can take the rent out of your wage.”
The mention of rent made Jag visibly relax.
He regarded Michael for a few seconds before replying. “Renting your bedsit would be great, thanks. It saves me looking for something else.”
“I’ll show you around the club and then get you the keys.” Michael finished the scotch and put the tumbler down on the bar, allowing his stare to linger on Jag. If he was used to turning on the seductive charm whilst dancing, he had to be accustomed to the attention it brought. He imagined Jag on the stage, under the lights. “How do you feel about body paint?”
Jag’s eyebrows raised. They were thick, tapering to fine points as they curved around his eye socket. “Body paint?”
“You’d make a good angel with silver body paint…” He paused and dipped his chin. “…all over.” He exhaled softly, watching the way Jag’s pupils contracted slightly. “The customers would love it.”
Jag’s lips turned up into a too tempting smile. “I can get on board with that.”
“Good.” Michael drew the word out, savouring the mental image he had, which would become reality the next night, which felt like far too long to wait.
2Jag
The tour of Heaven and Hell didn’t take long, which was a pity. Jag was normally suspicious of everyone, but there was something about Michael that put him at ease. He wasn’t sure what it was. Even though Michael had obviously been mentally undressing him with his eyes, he didn’t come across as a total sleaze-bag; unlike most of the club managers Jag had danced for over the years. Anyway, he’d done his own fair share of mentally undressing Michael. With his golden hair and deep blue eyes, Jag could definitely see why Michael had earned himself the nickname ‘Archangel’. The width of his biceps, peeping from under his T-shirt hinted at a god-like physique that Jag definitely wanted to set eyes on.
Admitting that he found Michael both attractive and sexy opened a trapdoor into his ‘therapy’ sessions. Dr Miller would have asked himwhyhe was attracted to Michael and would have probably concluded that Jag was drawn towards Michael’s strength. He’d have determined that he wanted it for himself because of some perverse, cannibalistic urges. As a teenager, comments like that had both terrified and disgusted Jag. But they’d done their job. They were planted in his mind, and now he couldn’t fancy any man without asking himself why. Couldn’t he just find a guy sexy, without his broken mind overanalysing his feelings? Maybe some small part of him did want Michael’s physical height, strength, and broad, curving muscles because then people wouldn’t look at his short, slim body and see fragility.
He mentally slapped himself. His messed-up thoughts weren’t helping. Michael was a good-looking guy, end of story.
The tiny amount of flirting he’d done with him had been easy and was a good way to show that he was capable of enticing men into paying for a striptease. Flirting more was insanely tempting, but he’d hold off on that until he knew what kind of guy Michael really was. Even though he managed a strip club and had the looks to match, he seemed wholesome enough to want a ring on his finger rather than a one-night stand.
Guilt gnawed away at him as Michael showed him round the changing rooms. He felt as if he’d deceived him by omission. He should have said something when Michael had made the comment about wanting loyal dancers, but he hadn’t, because it was a pretty safe bet that telling Michael he’d be moving on in a few months—probably sooner—wouldn’t have gone down well. He couldn’t afford to lose the job he’d just been given or the offer of renting the bedsit.
