“Someone I should stay the hell away from, but every time I see her it gets harder and harder.”
“Man, fighting it only makes it worse. No man should have to go through that.” He takes a swig of his beer. “Fuck her brains out, you’ll feel better.”
“Is sex your answer to everything?”
“Pretty much.” He shrugs. “So is this the same girl you were dreaming about the other night? Quinn, was it?”
I nod. “What does it matter anyway? Nothing can happen between us, and on second thought, I’ll take one of those beers.”
Chapter 13
Quinn
Acouple of hours after Dwight drops me off home, I head intoLeather ‘n’ Lace.Tonight is one of the nights where I don’t have a shift at the restaurant, but I do at the club, and I start work a little earlier than usual in the hopes of going home sooner.
I do my usual routine, dancing on stage before scoping the lounge looking for someone who’s interested in a private lap dance.
After he took me to get something to eat earlier, Dwight's filled my thoughts more than I’d admit to, especially in the hallway outside my front door. For a split second I thought he might actually kiss me, and a part of me wanted him to, I saw the way his eyes watched me lick my lips as they tingled with the need to feel his own against mine.
But that’s never going to happen. What would he want in a stupid nineteen year old like me, someone who daydreams in his class rather than concentrate and faints on him like an idiot?
I can’t believe I almost let it slip that I’m a stripper. When I’m around him my walls come crashing down and I lose all rational thought. I’m going to have to be more careful in future.
“Sugar,” Rick shouts, startling me as I make my way out into the lounge. “Room five, he asked specifically for you.”
That’s weird. Clients don’t usually make requests.
Rick is gone too quickly for me to question it, and my stomach rolls at the thought of having to do another private dance tonight, but it’s easy money.
Money I desperately need.
I make my way to the private rooms on shaky legs. Greg, the guard who stands watch, nods when he sees me, and I offer him a weak smile. Having him here does seem to make me feel a little better, but not at all what I’d call comfortable. If we ever feel threatened in one of the rooms and the guy gets a little rough or handsy, he's there to protect us. There’s a panic button in every room that alerts him in an emergency.
Bile rises in my throat as I reach the room and touch my hand to the doorknob. I inhale sharply and step inside.
The room is dark, lit only by half a dozen purple spotlights and a strip of purple light that bands around the elevated platform in the corner of the room where a thick chrome pole in the centre runs up to the ceiling. A large red leather sofa lines the far wall, where a man sits confidently in the centre, his arms spread out, resting along the back of the cushions, his legs spread wide boldly.
Music filters through the speaker,like uby Rosenfeldalmost coming to an end.
I shut the door behind me and slowly make my way over to him. Out of habit, my eyes flick to the panic button on the wall beside the sofa so I know exactly where it is should I need to use it.
I come to a stop in front of him, my knees just inches from the edge of the sofa as I stare down at the man. He’s older, maybe mid-to-late forties with a head of greying hair that’s thinning slightly on top, a dusting of stubble across his cheeks and jaw, he’s well-built and dressed immaculately. For a man of his age he’s quite attractive, but there’s something off about him, something about him that unsettles me more than any man I come across usually does.
Working here, men from all walks of life pass through those doors, each of them searching for something different, each of them having a different reason for coming here. Business owners and CEO’s wanting to release a little tension after a long day at work, married men coming to escape the mundanities of life and have a little fun, or guys simply wanting a little company and just spend time talking.
The majority of guys who pass through this club are genuinely nice and respectful, but then there’s a small percentage who aren’t. Something in my gut tells me this guy falls into the latter category.
His eyes.
It’s his eyes that unsettle me.
Standing before him, I feel even more exposed than I usually do.
He smirks and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a stack of bills and sifting through it. He puts it back, only keeping out a few and leans forward, tucking them into the thin strap of my thong. He reclines back in his seat and his eyes meet mine.
“So what’s your name, angel?” he asks.
“Sugar.”
