Chapter One
Balls and Stilettos
Harlow
Balls.
I was in trouble.
Speeding in my piece of shit car, I checked the clock. I was dangerously close to being late.
Maybe this is the universe trying to tell me something.
I hesitated for a second, easing my foot off the accelerator before pressing down again. My poor car lurched forward, squeaking its protest.
I may not have wanted the job, but I needed it.
If someone had told me five years ago that I’d be trying to get a job as a stripper, I’d have laughed. Maybe even slapped them.
Most likely I’d have slapped them while cracking up laughing.
But that was when my life was different. Back when I slept well and breathed easy, and it didn’t feel like the weight of the world was on my chest.
A lot changes in five years.
For instance, I’m on my way to becoming a cliché. The wholesome tale of the heart of gold stripper, working her way through college.
Pulling into the strip club parking lot, I wanted to hang a u-ey and burn rubber back out. I put the car in park and dropped my head to the steering wheel, closing my eyes.
A month before, I’d been standing around at the bar I was working at with eighteen dollars in my tip jar. I was up with the sun and crashing shortly before it rose again. And not just for that one day.
For months.
I was averaging a few hours of sleep a night, all so I could have eighteen dollars in my tip jar?
I was done.
I was beyond done.
Unfortunately, finding a night job wasn’t easy. And eighteen bucks might not have been much, but it was something.
That night, a former server came in with some friends. While we caught up, Becca told me about how she was making hundreds a night dancing.
Hundreds.
With an s.
Plural.
Multiple hundreds.
I couldn’t make hundreds in a week, and she was making it in a night.
When Becca had suggested I go and talk to the owner of the club, I’d laughed. Really hard. Right to her face.
Those stage lights hitting my pale skin?
Either I’d blind someone or they’d think there was a flippin’ ghost stripper.
It just wasn’t happening.
No way.
Totally not me.
That was until a week later when I’d gotten fired.
Business had been excruciatingly slow and only one bartender was needed at night. Though I was better at the job, the other girl had been giving the owner a little something special when she worked.
She’d really gone above, and from behind, for her job.
I wasn’t interested in using that kind of elbow grease, so when they had to let someone go, it’d been me.
Shocking.
I’d handed in applications at every bar I could, but hadn’t found one that worked around my schedule.
Which was what lead me to Wicked.
Inhaling deeply, I forced myself out of the car and into the club. It wasn’t a dump near an airport, but it also wasn’t something from a music video.
That’s disappointing ‘cause I could totally use someone making it rain hundreds on me all at once.
“You here for the interview?” a sketchy looking guy asked as I approached the bar. His eyes traveled slowly over me.
“Uh, yes, I’m—”
“I’m Eddie, the owner. I’ll be right with you,” he interrupted.
I was afraid you’d say that.
Trying to look patient and natural, I glanced at Eddie.
He was exactly what I pictured a stereotypical strip club owner looking like, down to the greasy hair and velour track suit. There was an emphasis he put on his job title that filled me with unease.
I can do this. I can do this.
I have to do this.
Repeating my mantra, I picked at my black slacks. I hadn’t been sure what to wear to an interview that involved me taking off my clothes, but I was suddenly feeling both under- and overdressed.
“Have a seat,” Eddie said, grabbing my attention as he pointed to a table. As we sat, a lecherous smile spread across his face. “So—”
“Hey, sorry, lost track of time,” a deep, rough voice said as a man entered the room.
And what a man he is.
At least six foot three, all of it muscle, he looked giant. His dark hair was shaved close to his head, and the dark stubble on his face emphasized his strong jaw and cheekbones. The sleeves of his quality dress shirt were rolled, showing off his tattooed forearms.
I didn’t work there, but I was tempted to give him a lap dance. I wouldn’t have even minded if he didn’t make it rain.
“I’m Lars. You must be Harlow,” he greeted, holding his hand out with a non-lecherous smile.
Why is it always the ones I want to flirt that don’t?
“That’s me.” I shook his hand.
What’s the proper etiquette for interviewing at a strip club? Do I thank them for being willing to see me naked?
Thankfully, Lars launched into the questions. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-two.”
“Ever danced before? Gogo, lessons, anything?”
“I took ballet as a kid for a few years. But nothing like this, no.”
He gave me a reassuring smile as he made notes on some papers. “That’s okay, a lot of the girls don’t have this kind of experience when they start. Any dancing makes a bigger difference than you’d think.”
It almost felt like a regular interview, minus all the various poles.
How do they get them so shiny?
“You got any ugly tattoos?” Eddie snapped, annoyed. “Quality ones are fine. But some guy’s name, a Tinkerbell that looks like she has a mustache, home done shit aren’t. Anything jacked?”
“No, none at all.” As much as I loved ink, my extreme fear of needles basically guaranteed I’d always be admiring them on someone else’s body.
I wonder where else Lars is tattooed?
“Scars? Stretch marks? Shit like that?”
I shook my head.
Eddie clicked a pen impatiently as he looked me over. “You gonna be able to get up and do your thing? I don’t wanna put you on the schedule and have you chicken out. Then I’m out the time and down a dancer. The other girls flip their shit and I gotta pay more, so I’m out money, too.”
“No, I can do this.”
I think.
Maybe.
God, I hope so.
“Alright, the rest is moot if we don’t see what you’re workin’ with.” Eddie leaned back in his chair, King of Sleazeland.
I was ready to bolt when Lars stood. His expression was a weird mix of kind, apologetic, and pissed.
I was glad only the first two were directed at me.
He pointed to an entryway. “Head down that hallway, second door on the right. Sasha is back there, she’ll get you set up.”
When I got to the door, I opened it without knocking.
Note to self: Always, always knock on doors at strip clubs.
Always.
“Sorry—” I said, turning away from the topless woman.
“Hon, I’ve been stripping since I was sixteen. You’re not the first person to see my rack.”
“Right,” I muttered. As much as I wanted to believe I could do this, I was seriously doubting myself. If one skeezy guy and one topless chick were enough to fluster me, I wasn’t sure how I could handle it night after night.
Sasha turned from the scraps of fabric and costumes she was searching through. “Relax. It’s not as bad as it seems. And don’t let Eddie scare you away.”
I nervously laughed. “Is it that obvious?”
“Oh, sweetheart, most of the girls leave when they meet Eddie. The fact you’ve made it this long is impressive. Don’t worry though, he’s hardly ever here. Lars runs things, and he’s a prince. Never flirts, doesn’t get handsy, and doesn’t skim from the top, you know?”
I was relieved to hear that I’d barely be seeing Eddie, and that Lars wasn’t a wolf in sheep’s clothing.
I nodded, feeling a smidge better. “Thanks for the heads-up.”
Sasha stood and looked closely at me. Disconcertingly so. Before I could ask what was going on, she turned back around. “I thought your eyes were just blue, but they’re also green.”
“Yeah.” I gestured down to my blue scoop neck top. “It kind of changes depending on what color I’m wearing.”
“I’ve got just the thing.” She handed me what looked like a two piece and pair of pasties. “The emerald green should be flattering in a ‘Luck O’ the Irish’ kinda way.”
“I’ll take all the luck I can get.” Separating the pieces, I was surprised at how much they’d cover. “I can wear pasties?”
“It’s dancer’s preference. Most girls choose to. What size shoe do you wear?”
“Eight and a half.”
Tossing shoes aside, she pulled out the tallest pair of heels I’d ever seen. “Here ya go.”
I didn’t think I could even stand in them, much less dance. If I didn’t break my neck, it’d be a flippin’ miracle.
“Uh, thanks.” I clutched the items tightly as my stomach started to churn.
Sasha smiled at me, patting my arm in a warm and surprisingly comforting way. “This part is easy. They basically just want to check out the goods. They’ll put on a beat and see how you move. Don’t go overboard, get close to them, or try the pole if you don’t have the upper body and core strength. A lot of women think they can hop right on, then they bust their asses. Other than that, like a bad fuck, just grin and remember it’ll be over in a minute.” She threw her head back and laughed as she walked with me from the room.
When I climbed on the stage, I shut off my thoughts, letting my mind go blank. I ignored the heat of the lights, my elevated position, and the feel of eyes on me. Instead, I focused on the beat of the music, swaying my body to the rhythm. In my mind, I was on a dance floor far away, just one in a crowd of many.
The whole thing passed in a blur, and after barely a minute, the music cut off.
Oh hell. They’re gonna tell me to haul my ghostly ass home.
“So, you want the job?” Lars asked. “I’ve got availability three nights a week, starting tomorrow.”
An unusual mix of dread and relief filled me. I decided to focus on the relieved part. “Yes, definitely. Thank you.”
When he leaned over, his shirt pulled around his muscular arms as he jotted something down on a business card. “Here’s the address of a shop in the city most of the girls get their outfits. See you tomorrow at eight.” He gave me a chin lift before heading down the hallway.
Just like that, I was a stripper.
I can do this.
Totally. Definitely.
Right?
*******
As it turned out, I could do it.
When I’d gone back to Wicked for my first shift, I’d been a bundle of nerves. I’d figured I’d either yack all over some dude’s lap or fall, busting my face.
Neither happened.
That wasn’t to say I was the most graceful seductress. I’d had to get creative with my moves when my heels slipped, and I was almost always out of rhythm. My sweaty palms basically guaranteed I never attempted any of the flirty touches the girls used to up their tips.
Still, I wasn’t expecting to actually kinda enjoy it.
There was no backstage drama or nasty customers. Best of all, I barely saw creepy Eddie.
I had two sets a night where I danced to a couple songs with other girls. If I worked hard, I could block out the audience and pretend I was just drunk dancing with my friends.
Surprisingly, the toughest part was working the room after. Talking was usually my strong suit.
But chatting with people that had just seen my tits?
Awkward.
I’d quickly gotten over my embarrassment when I saw how much money I was leaving with a night.
After two weeks at Wicked, I was feeling better about my decision.
And my savings account.
Heading in after my four days off, one of the bouncers was waiting for me by the back door.
He jerked his head toward the office. “Lars wants to see you.”
“Thanks,” I said, forcing a smile.
Don’t fire me. Don’t fire me. Don’t fire me.
Learning my lesson early, I knocked.
“Come in!” Lars called out.
Opening the door, I stepped inside. I didn’t bother taking my coat off, just in case. “Hi, you wanted to see me?”
He leaned back in his chair. “Hey. How’s it going, Harlow?”
“Good.”
Unless I’m fired, then not so good.
“You settling in okay?”
“Yeah, the girls have all been really nice.”
“Good. Good. Look,” he began, and my stomach dropped. “How’d you like to add a shift? I’m thinking you can start with Friday, but I might bump you up to Saturday, too. Saturdays are steady busy, though Fridays can be crazy.”
My eyes went wide. “What?”
Maddison, one of the other dancers, had already told me how hard it was to get a Friday or Saturday shift.
“You’re a hit,” he said with a broad smile. He was insanely hot always, but when he smiled, it was difficult to focus. “People keep asking about the natural redhead with the long as fuck legs. We’ll add another set to your slower nights, maybe bump it down to only you and one other girl. Sound good?”
“Yeah, definitely. Thanks.” Before I said something stupid to ruin it, I left the room to go get changed.
It wasn’t my ideal job, but money talked and it was saying, ‘take your clothes off!’
*******
“This isn’t the coffee I wanted,” Deborah Swanson snapped as she pushed the coffee cup toward the edge of the desk in the studio.
I knew she’d move her folder the extra inch to knock it off.
We both knew I’d be the one cleaning it up.
“Soy latte, one pump vanilla, two pumps caramel, with frothed milk. Just like your text said.”
“I wanted one pump caramel, two pumps vanilla.” Her face screwed up tight as she glared at me so hard I assumed she was trying to force lasers out of her eyes.
After three weeks working at the club, my bank account had increased and my stress level decreased. I was sleeping five glorious hours a night, making me a much more tolerable person to be around.
Even still, I was having trouble finding the patience to deal with Deborah’s usual bullshit.
I inhaled deeply and tried to rein in my temper. “Okay, I can go—”
“Get it yourself, Deborah,” Gary, her co-anchor, interrupted. “She got you what you texted. You messed it up, you fix it. Harlow, can you grab me the file on the Sullivan Street fire from my office?”
“Of course,” I said, hustling from the room.
“Big surprise you’re sticking up for Fire Crotch. She suck your…” Her words faded as I entered the hallway.
I’d thought the universe was finally shining on me when the intern position had opened up.
I should’ve known better.
I was prepared for all the fact checking, research, and running around to accompany the on scene crews. Even the mindless errands weren’t an issue. I got that it was a demanding position.
What I hadn’t known was it was also a demeaning one. Deborah was the worst, since nicknaming me ‘Fire Crotch’ was kinda hard to beat, but she wasn’t the only one who treated the interns like shit.
I’d only been there for a few months but I was already the senior intern.
Grabbing the file I needed, I headed back into the studio as Deborah was leaving.
Thank God for small miracles.
When she got out into the hallway, she called loudly over her shoulder, “After you’re done taking care of Gary, Fire Crotch, there’s a big coffee spill.”
I hate her.
*******
“What’s up, Pete?” I asked the bouncer on dressing room duty when I got into work that night.
He lifted his chin. “Hey, Legs. Lars wants to see you.”
Though I danced under the name Flame, Legs was the nickname Lars had given me. It caught on.
Who’d have thought my stripper nicknames would be more flattering than the one from my day job?
“Thanks.” I went to find Lars, knocking on his office door.
“Come in.”
I opened the door and leaned against the frame. “Pete said you wanted to see me.”
“Yeah,” he said, turning from the security monitors that took up one side of his L-shaped desk. “I got your email requesting this weekend off. Everything okay?”
“Yeah, sorry. Just a last minute thing.”
After being kidnapped by a whackadoo and ending up in the hospital, my best friend Piper was getting married. She’d wanted to wait until all of her bruises disappeared, and, for once, her fiancé was being patient.
Well, his version of it.
Working with their moms and a family friend, Jake had been planning the perfect wedding. Once Piper was healed, he wanted everything in place and ready to go. I even helped him pick a spot for their honeymoon that was secluded and private, his only stipulation.
An early morning text and a surprisingly detailed weekend itinerary had let me know it was finally time.
Lars flipped a calendar. “That’s fine. Will you be back for next Tuesday?”
I nodded.
He scribbled some notes on a sheet of paper. “You’re set for the weekend off then.”
“Cool, thanks.”
He smiled. “See you around, Legs.”
Hot.
*******
“Do you think they remember they’re in public?” Ray asked, jerking her head toward where the bride and groom sat.
After the wedding ceremony, pictures were taken as the hotel staff quickly set up tables and began offering drinks. Sharply dressed servers weaved their way through the room, offering various heavenly hors-d’oeuvres.
Watching Jake rub Piper’s jaw with his thumb, I felt like a voyeur. It wasn’t an obscene touch, although I’d overheard enough of their whispered conversations to know what they were saying was probably filthy.
Leaning in to Ray, I shook my head. “I don’t think they even know anyone else exists.”
Glancing to the side, I saw Kase watching Jake and Piper, too. A small, proud smile pulled at his lips before he took a long drink of his beer.
“Why does Kase look so smug?” I asked Ray.
“‘Cause he’s always smug. The good Lord blessed him with so much confidence, he has to have his boxers custom-made to fit it all.”
My eyes widened. “You’re kidding… Right?”
“I would not be surprised.”
Edge, Ray’s boyfriend, pulled her chair back and kissed the top of her head. “How do you know about Kase’s confidence?”
“I saw it once when he went streaking. He tried to cover himself, but he only has two hands.”
And here I thought his eyes were the most attractive part of him.
I cleared my throat as I tried not to think about all of his impressively appealing parts. “Right now he looks extra smug. He almost looks prouder than the parents.”
“Oh, that’s because he’s convinced he set Piper and Jake up. He’s been bragging about it nonstop.”
“Really?”
“Yup. When they first met Piper, he invited her to a concert with them so Jake would go for it. When he realized Jake needed another push, he offered to walk her out to her car, knowing Jake would insist on doing it. It worked, but Jake kinda botched that. Still, he eventually pulled it off. And when he’d inevitably be an ass, Kase was the only one that could talk some sense into him.” Ray’s expression tightened, a mix of pissed and sad. “Of course it’s more impressive knowing he was working against someone else.”
Over copious amounts of vodka, Piper had shared everything that’d happened when she was almost kidnapped by Z.
Using the trust and friendship they’d had, Z had manipulated Jake, tugging loose threads of insecurity. Once they’d started to unravel, it hadn’t been long before everything was in danger of falling apart.
Regarding the newlyweds again, knowing everything they fought through, the beauty of what they had seemed magnified.
I pushed away the dark clouded thoughts. “It’s surprising Kase would play matchmaker.”
“Not really. He’s a romantic,” Ray said.
I burst out laughing. Looking at her to share in the hilarity of her joke, I sobered when I saw she wasn’t kidding. “Wait, really?”
“Oh yeah, big time.”
“Are you sure that’s not just a line he feeds girls?”
It was Ray’s turn to laugh. “He’s a flirt, definitely. But he’s not like that.” Her brows lowered before she tilted her head back and got Edge’s attention. “Babe, when was Kase’s last thing?”
Edge smiled down at her. “Haven’t read his diary, and we don’t get together for tea and gossip. But last I remember was a few months ago.”
I studied Kase again as he chatted with a couple guys from the garage.
His brown dreads were pulled back, the sleeves on his dress shirt pushed up. Even from a distance, his crystal blue eyes were hauntingly beautiful. He leaned back in his chair and took a drink of his beer like he was king of the world.
I turned back to Edge. “Are you sure you mean months? Not, oh I dunno, hours?”
He shrugged. “Like I said, I don’t know for sure.”
“I figured he has bi-nightly stands.”
They both chuckled at that as Edge said, “Clearly you don’t know Kase.”
“Why?”
“He’s not a hit-‘em-and-quit-‘em kinda guy,” Ray explained, surprising me further. “I’m sure he’s probably had some one night stands. But, like I said, he’s a romantic.”
“I’ve never seen him with any chicks, though.”
Ray lifted her drink. “I said he’s a romantic. I didn’t say he was a lucky one. Why the sudden interest? Methinks you’ve got a crush.”
Picking up my napkin, I tore the edges a little. “We’ve never even talked.”
She wiggled her brows. “Who said anything about talking?”
I rolled my eyes, wishing I’d kept my big, nosy mouth shut. “I was just surprised. He’s different than I expected.”
Her expression warmed as she looked at him fondly. “That’s Kase for you.”
Piper’s dad stood to give a toast, but my focus stayed on Kase. I wasn’t sure why I found him so fascinating. He always gave me a chin lift, but he’d barely said one word to me.
I was cool with it.
I didn’t talk to him, either.
*******
“Lars is looking for you again, Legs. And, heads-up, he’s in a nasty fuckin’ mood,” Bouncer Pete said when I got into work the following Friday.
“Awesome,” I muttered with a weak smile.
I checked around the main room and the office, not finding Lars in either place. I was about to head to get changed when I noticed the door to the alcohol storeroom was ajar.
“Hey.” Pushing it open, I lost any further words.
If this was a cartoon, my eyes would be bugging out and my tongue would unfurl onto the ground.
Lars, in general, was a hottie. Lars in well fitted gray dress slacks and a black tight beater tank top was a flippin’ thing of beauty. Especially as I watched him lifting a box of booze like it was nothing, the muscles and definition in his arms flexing and becoming more pronounced.
Looking over his shoulder at me, he smiled. “Just who I wanted.”
Sasha had been right when she said he didn’t flirt at all.
Instead, he said stuff like that. Things my pervy mind could easily twist.
And twist it did.
“You feel comfortable enough for private dances tonight? If you’re not ready, you can hold off.”
Wicked’s policy for new dancers was only stage sets with other girls until they showed they could handle more. If someone bolted or was uncomfortable with the impersonal distance of the stage, no way would she be able to handle one-on-one.
Blocking out my inner lusty cartoon wolf, I smiled. “No, I’m fine. I can totally handle it.”
Maybe.
How much did Maddison make last week again? Three hundred?
Okay, yeah, I can do this.
Lars put the box on the top shelf. “Great. If you change your mind, let me know, okay?”
“Yeah.” I turned to leave.
“Harlow, wait.” His hand rubbed across the top of his head then down to the back of his neck. “Do me a favor, bring this inventory shit out to Sasha at the bar for me.”
“No problem.” I took the clipboard, my eyes catching his name. “Your name is Lars Luthor?”
He pulled his dress shirt back on. “Yeah, why?”
Bye sexy, cut arms and amazing ink. I miss you already.
“Lars Luthor, like Lex Luthor’s less evil brother?”
I fought the urge to step back as Lars moved closer to me, making the already small room seem downright tiny.
“Legs,” he murmured, grabbing a small lock of my hair and twirling it in his fingers. His midnight blue eyes watched the movement like it was the most interesting thing in the world as he smiled wickedly. “Who says I’m the less evil one?”
“Good point,” I whispered, suddenly positive he’d put Lex to shame. “I, uhh, better go get ready.”
“Yeah, that’d probably be a good idea,” he whispered back. He let go of my hair, his fingers trailing my jaw lightly as he pulled his hand back. Turning away from me, he grabbed another box. “Good luck tonight.”
“Thanks,” I said breathlessly as I left the room.
Yup, definitely the evil one.
*******
Though I’d been nervous, my first private dance wasn’t too bad.
Out celebrating his bachelor party, the groom’s friends bought him the dance that he’d gone along with for fun. He’d joked about the awkwardness of strip clubs and hadn’t seemed to notice or care that I wasn’t a graceful seductress.
The hardest part was being acutely aware of the security camera in the room.
According to the other dancers, Eddie liked to watch.
According to me, barf.
He also liked to fire girls, including my twice former coworker Becca, if he found their private moves weren’t up to par.
Ignoring the pit of fear I had after botching my first attempt, I danced my last set of the night.
Maddison stopped me when I came out from the back afterward. “Dance waiting in room two, Flame, and he’s hot. I think I need a shower after my last one,” she whispered with an exaggerated shudder.
“Thanks.” I opened the door and halted to a stop.
“Hey, Tiny Dancer.”
Fuck.