So my job that I didn’t want to reveal to the precious, perfect Rhett? I work at a dance club.
That’s code for strip joint.
I’m not a stripper, though. I’m—oh my God—a topless server. Yes, it’s so degrading, but the tips are amazing and the money allows me to live on my own. I may live in a shit-hole, but it’s mine and I don’t have to share it with a stranger who’ll write her name on all her food in the refrigerator and have her slimy boyfriend stay over all the time.
Yes, I’ve got an overactive imagination, thank you very much.
I make good money, mostly in cash tips that go straight into my pockets, and my job allows me to go to school during the day and work at night. I have long, late hours, though. I come home past two in the morning, sometimes almost three. I’ve been propositioned for lap dances, blowjobs and the like more times than I can remember. Plenty of men—and women—have touched my ass. Pinched it, slapped it, cupped it, caressed it. That’s what happens when you walk around without a shirt on for hours at a time.
If my dear, lovely mother knew what kind of person I turned out to be, she’d probably freak the hell out.
Or maybe not, since she’s never seemed to care about me anyway.
Did I mention that we haven’t seen each other since I was a baby? Not even two years old? Maybe I was around seventeen months when she left? I don’t know exactly—I can’t remember that far back—but I’ve heard the story countless times. That one night when she ran out on my dad and me after a huge fight and never came back.
That was twenty years ago. It’s pretty sad that she could forget me so easily. Raise another family—three kids who aren’t even her blood—yet never acknowledge me.
God, I hate that bitch. I hate those kids she raised too. And one of them I’m going to have to fuck and pretend I actually like it. Like him. I’ll deserve an Academy Award for my performance by the time I’m through.
“You’re late,” Don says as the heavy door slams behind me. Employees use the entrance in the back of the club so we don’t have to deal with the customers. Guests, Don calls them. Sounds classier, he’s always saying before he explodes with that phlegmy, gross laugh of his. Which then turns into a coughing fit, and I’m always afraid he’ll hack up a lung.
“No, I’m not,” I say as I check the time just before I punch in for my shift. I head for the employee lockers where I’ll stash my bag and my sweatshirt, Don right on my heels.
“Fine, fine,” he mutters. “So tell me. When you gonna jump on stage? You’re starting to get more requests.”
I jerk open the metal door, shoving my bag inside before I turn to face him. “Never.”
His pale blue eyes fill with disappointment. “You would be perfect out there. You have a fantastic body.”
I’ve become used to people analyzing my body, and I’ve only worked here for a little over two months. I moved to this town to attend the university and got the job before school started. I needed money, fast, and this was the ideal solution to my cash flow problem.
“I’m a terrible dancer,” I tell the inside of my locker. No way do I want to turn and face Don. Since my encounter with Rhett, I’ve been feeling extra low about coming to work tonight. If Rhett knew what I really did to earn money, he’d probably be disgusted.
Shame washes over my skin at the thought of him finding me here, making me burn with embarrassment.
“I bet you’re a better dancer than you think you are. You could probably really shake it on the stage.” Don says this stuff to me pretty much every time I come into work. He doesn’t know when to give up. “You’d look good on stage, Jen.”
I tell everyone at work to call me Jen. It reminds me of who I really am. Sometimes I need that, so I don’t forget where I came from, or what my purpose is.
“Just because I have nice tits doesn’t mean I should be shaking them on stage.” As if to prove my point, I whip off my sweatshirt, shove it into my tiny locker and slam the door before turning to face Don. I can tell it takes everything within him to keep his gaze fixed on my face and not let it drop to my chest. “I’m perfectly happy working as a server.”
Don’s gaze lingers on my breasts for a minute too long and I sorta want to slap him on the face for it. He’s such a perv. “You know you’d make a hell of a lot more money if you stripped, doll.”
Always tempting. He knows where to get me. I’ve never really had money, so I have no idea what that’s like, to be comfortable financially.
No. No way. Keep your eye on your long-term goal. Stripping isn’t it. Getting in good with the Montgomery family is where you’ll find your fortune.
“I’ll consider your suggestion,” I say just to appease him, and he grins, his mouth opening like he’s going to say something I don’t want to hear. I start walking, heading for the bar so I can grab my tray and start taking orders. I came to work in my short, tight black skirt and high stiletto heels, wearing my favorite old gray sweatshirt temporarily so I can be semi-comfortable until it’s show time.
And right now, it is definitely show time.
“You mean it?” Don sounds so hopeful, I almost wish I was telling him the truth.
“Sure,” I say halfheartedly, speeding up so I can lose him, which I easily do. Don isn’t the most physical guy, and we’ve all learned real fast that if you stay quick on your feet, you can outrun him most nights. The majority of us who work for Don want to outrun him as much as possible.
The club is packed, the music loud and the multicolored lights that flash are almost blinding. I weave my way through the thick crowds, chin up, gaze not meeting anyone’s. I know they’re looking at my naked chest, and I know if I make eye connection with any of them, they’ll more than likely make a suggestive comment I’m not in the mood for.
I’m almost to the bar when I hear a friendly voice and I nearly sag with relief. “Hey, hooker.”
I smile at my coworker who calls all of us hookers, almost like it’s a term of endearment, which from her, I guess it is. Savannah is tough as nails and a college student like me, though she’s a senior set to graduate in the spring. She’s been working at City Lights since she was barely eighteen, and she’s seen it all. But she sticks it out since she needs the money. She’s fully funded her college education with her income and tips, and she plans on being a child psychologist someday.
“Don try to get you to strip?” she finally asks when I don’t really say anything.
“Of course.” I grab an empty tray but stay by Savannah’s side. She’s waiting for Chuck the bartender to make her drink order, and I should go start taking drink orders too since it looks busy tonight, but I’m not quite ready to face the crowds yet.
“You finally give in and say yes?”
“Of course not.”
Savannah laughs and shakes her head. “That’s my girl. Don’t ever give in, or else you’ll end up like that.” She nods toward the stage, and we both watch the woman writhing on the floor in nothing but a see-through white G-string.
Candy Raine is one of the older strippers at City Lights, and one of the least popular because she’s so old. And when I say old, she’s barely thirty-five. That’s not ancient, not by a long shot, but in the stripper world it is. Candy can’t seem to do anything else. She has no other job, no other skills, and no ambition to get out of here either. Savannah always uses Candy as the prime example of what not to turn into.
“Seven more months,” Savannah says as Chuck loads up her tray full of drinks. “Seven more months and then I can leave this hellhole once and for all and be done with this place. I cannot wait.”
“I’m jealous,” I say wistfully, though deep down I’m not. I won’t be here as long as Savannah. I have a plan, one that’s way better than working at a strip club for the next four years of my life.
“Just don’t get dazzled by the big tips and you’ll be fine. Keep your head on straight and eyes fixed on the end game. If you do that, lap dances and blowjobs in the back room won’t be your fate.” Savannah’s evil laugh rings as she grabs her tray and balances it over her head with one hand. “See ya.” She winks at me and then she’s gone, off making her way toward her various tables.
“Better get on it,” Chuck urges, his gruff voice making me turn to look at him. He’s a good guy, not very affectionate, but you can tell he cares about us. He never gives me the creeps either, which makes me trust him more than any other guy that works at this club. “It’s extra busy tonight.”
For the tiniest moment, I’m tempted to turn around and run out. Just keep running and never look back. If I could, I’d head all the way back home.
I can’t go back there, though. My home is gone. Dad is gone. This is my reality now. Going to school and stalking some guy I’m supposed to pretend to like. Working at a strip club where I serve leering perverts their drinks while I walk around topless. This is my world.
And I fucking hate it.