Chapter 3

Macey

Strippers lie. It doesn’t matter if they’re your coworkers or not, they’re not your friends. That is the first rule I learned years ago, but I seem to have forgotten it because now that I’m in Vegas, I’m cleaning out the savings I put aside for rent to pay for the “extras” needed in order to strip here.

Everything was going according to the made-up plan I had in my head. Get to Vegas, find a club and start making money. I’d worry about a place to sleep after I had a few hundred in my hand.

But I quickly find out it doesn’t work that way.

After I auditioned and was told that my fresh face would drive the regulars crazy, I was handed two sheets of paper listing everything I needed: work permits, a license to serve drinks and a Las Vegas address. Cora never mentioned anything about work permits or having to serve drinks. It shouldn’t bother me, except it’s spending more money that I don’t have. What is it that they say in business, “you have to spend money to make money”? Easily said when you have it to spend. The second sheet kindly provided a list of hotels that would accommodate my needs.

It’s been hours since I left the stage. I’m hungry, tired and running out of patience. I’m starting to think being an escort is the fastest way to make money, but the thought of sleeping with someone for cash repulses me. Not that stripping is any better, but at least then I’m in control. I decide who and for how long.

Once all my paperwork is in order, complete with a Vegas address from some seedy hotel, I find out that I’m now allowed to strip here for five years. Five years! That has to be some career or long-term goal to get your act together, except it’s not. Some of the women I saw today had me by twenty years, but looked so much better than me. I don’t even want to do this now, let alone for the next five years. This isn’t how I saw my life panning out.

After a quick call to Steph and knowing my baby girl is okay, I’m back at the club with my paperwork in hand, reminding myself that I’m doing this for Morgan. Each time I take money from a man for a lap dance or he gawks at my tits, it’s because of my daughter. She needs a better life. The big burly bouncer checks everything and directs me to the back. The dressing room is nicer and larger than the one I’m used to. Lockers line the wall, the floor is void of excess clothing and there are multiple stations for you to do your makeup at. The one constant is the dense mist that lingers from the copious amounts of hairspray being used.

I cough and wave my hand in front of my face, moving the aftereffects of the aerosol away from me. The glares I receive are priceless. It’s the usual squinting of the eyes coupled with the classic glares roaming over your body that you normally receive from the clique of mean girls at high school. It’s puberty and the girls’ locker room scene all over again, but this time the tits are bigger, the claws are longer and the looks definitely kill. It’s easy to tell who the regular dancers are because they don’t give a shit. They don’t care if you’re here. They’ll still make the same money because they have regular clients who frequent the club.

It’s the ones like me that you have to watch out for. I’m here to make a quick buck and will do what I have to in order to get it done.

“I’m Johanna, the house mom.” The only woman dressed normally approaches me, shaking my hand.

“House mom?” I question, wondering what that means. Her expression is stoic, hard.

“First time here?”

I nod, hating that I’ve made it evident that I don’t know what I’m doing.

“I make sure you have water, snacks, condoms…whatever you need.”

“Oh.” I try to mentally calculate how much her services are going to cost me and make a note to bring my own water and snacks. I’m already in a hole by coming here and can’t incur any more debt or one week isn’t going to cut it.

This time she smiles and sets her hand on my arm. The gesture is sweet and caring. “Your service fee covers my service, but I do accept tips.”

“How did you know?”

“I’ve done this for a long time, sweetie. I know what goes through your mind before you do. Find an empty locker and lock it after you’re done. Never leave it open or your stuff will disappear,” she says, shaking her head. I glance around the room and realize quickly how cutthroat it’s going to be here. “A little tip, the money is better offstage. If you’re looking to make a lot, pay the fee and work the floor.”

She walks away before I can thank her, leaving me standing in the room while women hustle around me. None of them laugh or even speak to each other. The only form of communication is the death glares they’re giving everyone, or the shoulder bumps they force upon one another as they move in and out of the room.

Once I’m changed in to my stilettos and thong, Johanna gives me a tour and the rundown of how things work, along with what the club suggests we charge for a lap dance, or time in one of the VIP rooms. I feel a bit self-conscious walking around with my boobs on full display, but it’s part of the business. The looks from customers give me hope that they’re willing to pay for a dance.

“I said the money is better offstage, but you’ll want to dance a few routines a night to give the customers a show. Most of the men like to chat, so be an ear for them to off-load their problems and don’t forget to set your boundaries. The guys”—she points to various security men around the room who are all watching the floor—“are your best friends. You do not leave the club without one walking you out and if you have any problems with a customer, you tell them. They’ll take care of it.”

“Okay, I think I got it.”

She continues to show me around and finally takes me to an office out back, away from everything.

“Tell him your stage name and you’ll be good to go.” She leaves me in the room with a man who is sitting behind a computer.

“You’re Macey Webster?” he asks, lifting up my paperwork.

“Yes.”

“Right, from now on you’re…?” He looks at me with a raised eyebrow.

“Oh, um…Catalina.”

“Got it.” He returns to hiding behind the computer and starts pounding on the keyboard as if he’s in a rush.

I turn on my heel and head out, remembering everything that Johanna said. The first thing I do is put my name on the sign-up for stage time and pray that this plan is going to work because the next business venture idea on the list isn’t something I want to even think about. The last resort is a line I’m hoping I never have to cross.

“Steph, I really like it here.”

It’s been a week and I’m leaving later tonight on the red-eye back to Spokane. I’ve made enough money so Morgan and I can move to a better place and put a little money into savings. Even after my initial rough start with the paperwork, I worked my ass off at two clubs and took every open shift possible, sleeping very little. And when I was sleeping, it was done outside on a chaise lounge under the sun. The room I’ve rented for the week is questionable and the last thing I want to do is bring home bedbugs. If the manager cares that I’ve been sleeping outside, he hasn’t said anything.

“You can’t move there.”

“Why not?” I’m not even sure that’s a consideration at this point but I’m curious as to what she has to say.

She sighs on the other end of the line. “Because you’d be stripping to earn a living and that isn’t the life you’re trying to lead for Morgan. This is supposed to be a means to an end, Macey, not a job opportunity.”

I know she’s right, but it’s my reality and maybe even more of a temporary relocation if that becomes an option. “Be realistic, Steph. What am I going to do when I get back? Even after Morgan and I move, I still need money and waiting tables at Eddie’s diner isn’t going to pay my rent.”

“You can apply for an office job. Do something different.”

“And do what? I don’t have the skills you do.” Stephanie has been my best friend since high school and is what I call a success story. Even though she finished community college, she chose to bartend, making a boatload of money at night. It’s something I should do, but landing that coveted weekend spot in downtown’s hottest nightclub would be hard and equally as hard would be giving up the tips I earn from stripping.

“I’m only saying—”

“I know,” I tell her. Steph is always concerned for my safety and begged me not to start stripping. Years ago, when we were kids a man killed about thirty prostitutes and we both jokingly promised we’d never become one. She doesn’t see stripping as much different. “Is Morgan there?”

“Yep, hang on.”

“Hey, Mommy.”

“Hi, little miss. Are you being good for Stephanie?”

“Yes, when are you coming home?” I can hear the sadness in her voice and it brings tears to my eyes. I hate leaving her when I go to work so being away for a week has been torture. Each time I walk into one of the clubs I remind myself I’m doing this because of her, so that I can give her a better life.

“Tonight, baby doll. I’ll be there to take you to school in the morning. You’re making sure to get your homework done?”

“Yes, every night. Judy has been helping me.”

Judy is Stephanie’s mom and likely watching Morgan when Steph is working. I never thought about what Steph would have to give up in order to watch my kid so I could come to Vegas and let my tits hang out for every horny convention and spring-break guy around.

“That’s good. Make sure you give Judy a big hug and kiss.”

“I will.”

Judy loves Morgan, but dislikes me. She always has and never wanted Stephanie to hang out with me. Thankfully, Steph makes her own decisions. I don’t know why Judy doesn’t like me, but I suppose it could have something to do with my mother. Lots of rumors floated around back in middle school that my mom had an affair with a married man and I’ve always thought it was with Steph’s dad. From what she says, her father bailed when she was in the sixth grade. At least she knew her dad. Mine has been gone from day one. Much like Morgan’s.

“I love you, little miss. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Bye, Mommy. I love you too.”

She hangs up and I let the tears flow. I hate my life and everything it’s become. I know it’s not Morgan’s fault, but I’m always wondering what it’d be like if I didn’t have her, if I had made a different decision. The stark reality of my situation is that she saved me. I could’ve easily ended up like my mother or worse. And I love her too much to let her go. She’s the reason I take my clothes off for men who want entertainment. Morgan is my everything.

All week I have avoided the casinos. The temptation has been there, though. When I was fifteen my mom’s boyfriend taught me to play blackjack and would sneak me into the underground tournaments he was invited to. He taught me how to be smart with my hand and when to go all in on a bet.

But I have refrained. I’ve kept my tips buried deep in my bag and told myself that I don’t have enough to even consider gambling…yet. That I haven’t earned enough to place a single bet or to even step into one of the hotels and sit down at a table.

Except, my conscience is nudging me to give it a shot, as I know that I could make more. I could take a portion of my earnings and place a bet and double, maybe even triple what I have now.

I’m telling myself this as I get dressed to go to work. The heels are far too high to walk in and my dress is short, my boobs all but sticking out of the top. Not my normal attire, but when I was packing to come here I couldn’t afford to check a bag so I had to cram what I could into a carry-on, which didn’t leave much room for my normal clothes.

Inside the back of the cab I take to work a video plays for Allure, one of the newest casinos in town. From where we are currently at on the Strip, I can see the blue neon sign, beckoning me to check it out.

“Stop here,” I tell the driver, who quickly pulls up to the valet. I pay the fare and greedily take the hand of the attendant who is helping me out of the car. He eyes me up and down with a smirk that tells me exactly what he wants. I drag my finger over the top of his chest as I walk away from him, never looking back to see if he’s watching.

The minute I step into the hotel and hear the slot machines ringing, my mind is made up. I can double my earnings quickly, make it to the club for my last shift and catch my flight home. I’ve got almost an hour before my shift and the amount of money I stand to make will definitely upgrade Morgan’s life and mine if I win.

Scanning the room, I see my targets: two men in business suits who have a stack of chips in front of them. I swap my cash for chips and slide between them. They seem to be big spenders without being at the high-rollers tables. They’re exactly the type of gamblers I need to increase the pot. I can feel both of them staring at me, but I focus on the dealer. I don’t need to look at either man to see their expressions. I have a good feeling both are eyeing my clothes and wondering how much they have to spend to get me in bed.

My ante is placed and cards are dealt. I win. I lose. I win. And I win again. The more I win, the more confident I become. Cashing out would be the best thing right now, but I haven’t doubled my earnings and that’s what I came to do. Losing is not an option. After a bit, I lose count of my win-loss ratio, but know that I’m still well in the game.

The man on my left, the one whose thigh is touching mine, pushes all his chips forward and I do the same. Winning this hand means I’m set. I could go home early and forget my last shift of having my ass slapped for an additional twenty bucks.

Sweat starts to build at the nape of my neck as my hands rest on my chips. The dealer is waiting for me to make up my mind. The voice inside my head is telling me to pull them back, to cash out and go home to my little miss, but the devil on my shoulder is telling me that she wants the toys and electronics that the other kids her age have and if I win I can do that for her without question.

Pulling my hands back, the cards are dealt. My stomach drops when I get a king and a five. The odds of hitting twenty-one from this hand are slim and right now I know I made a huge fucking mistake. Panic slips in and tears cloud my vision when the dealer asks if I want another card. I nod because I have no choice and that is when I see him in all his glory.

Finn McCormick—the hottest guy to ever cross my path—is standing behind the dealer, staring at me. I catch my breath at the sight of him. I never thought I’d see him again. The dealer taps my hand trying to get my attention, but I continue to focus on him. Just as I tear my gaze away from him I see his hands push deep into the pockets of his slacks, pushing his suit jacket up, giving off that casual yet dangerous look. The last time I saw him he had, as I’d written in my journal, “steely blue eyes that anyone could easily get lost in.” I would know because they swallowed me whole every time I saw him.

My world starts to spin as I look at the dealer who is putting down my card. When I see the eight, all the air suddenly leaves my body and I let out a sob that would rival someone going through massive heartache. The man on my left tries to console me, but all I can do is cover my mouth and vacate the table as quickly as possible while the dealer stacks my chips into her tray.

And just like that it’s all gone.

Pushing my way through the people who have gathered behind me, I feel my ass being pinched and my boobs grabbed. I shove bodies out of my way, but not many move willingly. Once I break free, he’s there waiting for me as I round the corner of the table.

“Get out of my way,” I seethe, making sure I put my full force behind my hands as I push on his shoulders.

Before I can get out of the casino, hands grab my arms while another set pick up my legs. I kick and scream, knowing full well that I’m making a scene, but I don’t care. I don’t give a shit that every person in the casino can see my vagina on full display. They might as well know what it looks like because most will be seeing it tonight in their VIP rooms. I have no choice but to bare all for more money.

His voice is smooth and ridiculously sexy as he commands the goons to let me go. They drop me, making sure I hit the ground hard. I’m lucky my ankle doesn’t roll or break from the force of their release. When Finn tries to help me, I yell at him not to touch me. I don’t want his help.

He straightens his jacket and reminds me that I pushed him first.

“You deserve it,” I tell him, even though he has no idea why.

“How are you?” he asks, but I roll my eyes and bite the insides of my cheeks. He doesn’t need to know shit about me.

“What do you care?”

Finn shrugs as if this…as if I’m a waste of his time. “I always care when I see someone from my hometown in my hotel, losing thousands of dollars.”

What’s left of my heart and pride hits the ground and shatters. Of course, he owns the one casino I finally decide to venture into. I can’t help the tears that drip down my face, ruining my makeup. To him I must look like a clown right now. One simple act of desperation…no, it hasn’t been one, it’s many over the years, but this one takes the cake. This one is the mother lode. I was stupid to think I could double, even triple my money because a boyfriend of my mother’s taught me the game. This is fucking Vegas, you either win or you lose and I’ve lost it all and whatever dignity I had left is now gone.

“It was nice seeing you, Finn, but I have to go.”

He reaches for my hand, halting my steps.

“Let me help you.” His voice is soft and for a minute I think about it until I realize what that could mean.

“Excuse me? What makes you think I need your help?”

His eyes roam over my body and he smirks. I don’t even need his words to know what he’s thinking.

“I have a proposition for you,” he blurts out before I can tell him to fuck off.

I stand tall, but even in my five-inch heels I don’t reach his height. I try to square off against him, but I know I’m not scaring him. He tilts his head to the left, waiting for me to say something, and all I’m doing is thinking about kicking him in the nuts. Seeing him bent over and in pain would be a satisfying way to end this epic moment. Instead, I walk away as fast as I can.