“You want this, right?” Celesta asks, bringing my attention back to her. “They asked specifically for you.”
“Yes, of course.”
Nodding, I follow her to the room that only a few have seen inside. It has its own private entrance, disguised as a podiatrist’s office.
I’m not excited to bump and grind in front of a hundred eager men, but even if they’re stingy with their tips, I’ll walk away with at least fifty percent of the cover charge. This will push me above the goal I set for this month, and I still have six days left in the calendar month.
Outside a black mirrored door, Celesta turns to face me. “The lights will dim once your set is over. If the patrons need more time, they have to pay an extra fee. If they ask for anything you’re not comfortable with, give them the same request.” I smile with her when she murmurs, “Men’s egos become extremely small when their wallets are on the line.”
She’s telling me everything I already know. I’ve worked in this industry for over two years. I understand all the quirks and how to get the best results and the biggest payday from a performance.
“Ready?”
After a final adjustment to my costume, I nod and then step through the door that leads me directly onto the VIP stage. This stage issmaller than the main area of the club, but far more luxurious. Even the pole has a mirror shine.
Sequins on my dress reflect the pale-blue glow of the stage’s main lights, momentarily blinding me with the glare. The lights in this area are brighter. If it weren’t for the markedx’s on the floor, I might have stumbled over the edge before reaching the pole.
My heels click against the polished floorboards in time with the beat of the song I often dance to, but they also bounce off the silence. There’s no hum of conversation or laughter from the drunk groomsmen encouraging the groom to do something risky during his last night of freedom. There’s not even the clink of the drinks the private bartender supplies freely during the set, since alcohol is included in the cover charge.
It is entirely silent. Eerily so.
My payday already surpasses what I earn per night, but I always appreciate extra tips, so I seductively remove my slinky dress before climbing the pole.
While completing the bird of paradise, a move on the pole that always litters the stage with bills, I use the positioning of my arm and leg to shelter my eyes.
With the stage lights no longer blinding me, I scan the room, expecting to see the usual chaos—the bar staff filling shots, the belligerent suit-clad groomsmen hunched over the edge of the stage, and the weird lurker who’s always at the back, stroking his cock through his pants.
Tonight, no one is here. The bar at the rear of the room has no bartender, and suit-wearing brutes aren’t pushing the bouncer’s patience by getting too close to the entertainment. The only sounds are the faint hum of the air conditioning and my shallow, hesitant breaths.
The price for this room is so high because the groom receives one-on-one attention from his preferred stripper. He doesn’t want to focus solely on the merchandise. He also wants it rubbed against him for more than half of the performance.
The desire to ensure they don’t miss the chance often leads to thegroom sitting front and center. They would hate for one of their wedding party guests to steal away what their wife hopes is his last opportunity to flirt with the opposite sex.
With all the blood rushing to my head, I swing out of the bird of paradise pose and shift into a cast-off. My high perch on the pole offers me a bird’s-eye view of the entire club, and at that moment, I see him.
One man sits in the middle of the space that usually holds a hundred. Someone stacked all the chairs that would normally surround him to the side, and the table I planned to use to create a gap isn’t within arm’s reach of his chair.
I can’t see his face because it’s shaded by stage lights, but I know he’s handsome. His hands, resting on trouser-covered thighs, are veiny and large, and his designer boots scream wealth.
I won’t mention the commanding demeanor radiating from him. My hands are already sweaty from the heat under the lights. I don’t want to slip.
With the timer in my head ticking down the minutes, I perform a few more moves—the cheba split, chopsticks, and closed rainbow—before I steer the performance toward the routine men come here for.
They don’t care that my pole dancing skills are intense and self-taught.
They want me naked.
As I prance toward the front of the stage, I tug on the strings of my bikini.
It’s a fight to keep my bikini top in place when a deep, gravelly tone freezes both my hands and my feet. “Wait.”
Although I shouldn’t recognize that voice, I do.
It belongs to Camille’s father.
