So I moved far enough away that he wasn’t in my life every day. He’s used the past decade to moderately straighten himself out, even got married five years ago. I used the time, and some seed money from my brother-in-law, to build the most successful chain of elite membership strip clubs throughout the West Coast. I wonder what that scrawny, frail kid would think of himself now.
What makes my strip clubs different isn’t the lush interiors or the top-of-the-line talent, but the fact that the women who dance here want to be here.
Too many strip clubs take advantage of the women who are the sole reason they have customers. I take care of my girls, giving them a more-than-healthy living wage, health benefits, and they keep all their tips. And if they offer extra services in the VIP rooms, that’s their decision and their earnings.
I only have one rule. No drug or alcohol use on the premises. My patrons don’t want to see some glazed-eyed woman give a half-assed effort when she’s shaking her tits and ass in his face. My girls sell the fantasy. Every man in my club better feel as though they’re the one the dancer desires—whether it’s because she’s grinding her pussy on his lap and her tits in his face, or because she throws him a look from the stage that reads “I need you and only you.”
I sell the make-believe fairy tale, but the man’s version. That they’re the hottest, wealthiest, biggest alpha dog in the room. Men are such simple creatures that they buy into the illusion without question. As a result, they pay the ridiculous membership charge to get in here and the inflated price of the drinks, and they stay longer than the average consumer at a club like mine. They don’t even balk at the upcharge for a lap dance or a visit to the VIP room.
Everyone benefits—me, the dancer, and the clientele—which has been the key to a long-lasting, successful enterprise. And it’s made me filthy rich. Which is all I’ve ever wanted, but somehow, there’s still an emptiness inside me.
I push away the uncomfortable gnawing feeling and shake my head. Now that I’ve had time to calm down after nonstopbuilding the business, the past has been creeping into my psyche more and more, which is probably why, during a weak moment last week, I did something so fucking stupid. I still can’t believe I did it.
There’s a knock on my office door and I say, “Come in.” I’m thankful for the interruption.
The door swings open, and my right-hand woman, Steph, struts in. She’s worked for me for five years now, and once I knew I could trust her, I assigned her the task of traveling to all the different Black Orchid locations to make sure things are running smoothly.
I used to do it myself, but I don’t enjoy traveling from place to place all the time. Maybe it’s from never having a solid home growing up—at first because my mom didn’t pay the rent, and then with Trent and Ariana because we’d done enough damage in one town that we had to get out before we caught any heat. Either way, I quite like having a home these days.
Sure, I still visit all the locations, but it’s more of a biannual thing than a monthly thing at this point.
Steph smiles and sits in the plush leather chair opposite my desk. Her tight-fitting skirt cuts off mid-thigh, and her blouse has the top three buttons undone, revealing her considerable assets. It’s an outfit that would never be accepted in corporate America, but in a strip club, she somehow manages to look demure.
“You’re back. How’d everything go?” I lean back in my chair and steeple my hands in front of me.
“Everything’s in order, though the Sacramento club is going to need a new manager. Riley put his notice in while I was there.”
I frown. “Where’s he going?”
Steph rolls her eyes. “Said his wife is on him to quit. She doesn’t like that he works around half-naked women all day.”
My lips press together. “Happy wife, happy life, huh?”
“It’s bullshit. If a man wants to cheat, he will. Simple as that. Doesn’t matter if he’s around naked women or not.”
I shrug, not entirely agreeing. Desire and proximity together can be a potent cocktail.
“Do you want me to make him an offer he can’t refuse? He’s a decent manager.”
She’s not wrong, and I don’t want to lose him, but if he doesn’t want to be there, what’s the point in trying to convince him otherwise? We’ll just end up back here at some point.
She crosses her legs slowly, and my gaze drags across the movement. Steph has a great set of legs.
I shake my head. “No, let him go. But once you’ve picked someone to fill his position, I want to do the final interview.”
She smirks. “Don’t trust me?”
Tilting my head down, I look at her from under my brows. “You know I do, but I get the final say.”
She nods before filling me in on some more details from the California clubs. I give her a few tasks, and when we’re done, she stands and walks over to the office door, then flips the lock.
Like some Pavlovian response, my dick twitches. Steph saunters to my desk, squeezing herself between where I sit in my chair and the desk.
I don’t fuck the dancers, and truth be told, I shouldn’t fuck Steph either since she works for me. But she understands the deal, and she’s never tried to make it anything more than it is—two adults getting their rocks off when the mood strikes.
“Something I can help you with?” I arch an eyebrow.
“The business stuff is over now. Time for a more pleasurable experience.” She sets her hands on the armrests of my chair and pushes it backward, making room for her to drop onto her knees in front of me.
