“Come on, it’s my birthday.” The guy grabs my wrist, hard. His lips form into the shape of a smile and the apples of his cheeks shift up, but something dangerous flashes in his cold eyes.

His friends around us cheer from their couches, their hungry gaze flicking between my half-naked body and the dancer who’s currently on stage.

“Happy birthday,” I shout over the music that’s blaring in the background, then give him my best customer-service smile and pull my wrist away. “But I don’t do anything beyond lap dances.”

He’s not letting go. At first glance, his arm looks like it’s draped lazily over the arm of the couch, but his big muscles are flexed.

“What time do you get off?,” he insists.

“Let me go,” I say through gritted teeth. “Or I’ll have to call security.”

“Come on, sweetheart. Let’s have a little fun. I thought strippers were supposed to be fun.” That fake smile on his otherwise expressionless face is seriously creeping me out. What an asshole. I look around to see if any bouncer is looking my way.

“Don’t be a creep, man.” One of the asshole’s friends taps him on the shoulder with an annoyed scowl on his face. “Take a hint. She’s not into you.”

“Fuck you,” the asshole says with an annoyed, embarrassed chuckle. He finally lets go of my hand.

I take two steps back and shoot the friend a grateful look. He nods at me and mouths a silent sorry.

The friend—my savior—doesn't look friendly at all. His handsome, angular facial features are frozen in a perma-grump, but something in his intense dark eyes doesn't quite fit the gruff exterior.

Like the rest of his group, he’s a big guy with beefy muscles and hair shaved close to the scalp. I’d bet all my tips tonight that they’re military.

The guy who just saved me… Even standing here among other big, strong men, he towers over everyone else. Wide shoulders, broad chest, hard muscles all over. Through his white crewneck, I can almost make out the lines of his chest and abs underneath, even with the dim lighting inside the club.

Now, if he were the one to ask me for something more than a lap dance…

Well, it would still lead to nothing, actually. I’m serious about my policy to never see any of my customers outside the club.

Still, as I make my way across the floor toward the dressing room, I wonder if he's checking me out my ass.

Good thing I’ve got my stripper strut down pat. It's not hard, really. Just wear impossibly high heels. They push your butt out and force you to swing your hips.

It takes a lot of practice to stand and dance on these babies for hours every night, but my feet still hurt sometimes. Like now, when my shift is almost over.

Most of the men have their eyes on Desiree, who’s wrapping one long leg around the pole as she sways her hips seductively to the loud music. The men standing right by the edge of the stage are shouting at her like they’re her choreographers.

“Show me your ass, baby!”

“Oh yeah, shake those moneymakers!”

A few men sitting at the tables check me out as I walk past, their lusty gaze roaming all over my exposed cleavage, my uncovered midriff, my bare legs.

While the military guys from the group I entertained are fit young men, the average patron in a strip club is… Well, not in such a good shape.

I don’t know why my co-workers date these men. It’s not like they go on to have healthy relationships. From the stories of the girls I work with, dating a customer only leads to trouble.

No doubt the fact that the guy has, at some point in time, walked into the club and gotten a lap dance from his girlfriend affects the relationship dynamics profoundly.

According to the girls who have told their stories in the dressing room, boyfriends bury their resentment at first until it all blows up into ugly arguments and accusations.

“Here’s $20. Maybe that’ll get you in the mood,” said one such boyfriend.

“How was your fucking day? Been rubbing that pussy all over random guys’ dicks all night, as usual?”

“Why won’t you quit for me? Still holding out for a richer guy, huh? I’m too poor to be your sugar daddy?”

Yeah, no. I don’t want any of that in my life.

I enter the dressing room and close the door behind me, shutting out the loud music and the even louder crowd.

“Busy night,” I say to no one in particular as I step out of my shoes.

There’s no answer. Strange.

Someone is always in the dressing room, changing or doing make-up or exchanging the latest gossip. This silence is unusual.

There’s a row of mirrors in front of me, while some lockers line the wall beside me. On the other side of the room, a tall cabinet where we store our costumes and makeup items separates the changing room from the showers.

The smooth concrete floor feels cold on my bare feet as I step toward the cabinet. When I peek behind it, I realize why it’s so quiet.

Nancy stands in the corner, her shoulders hunched, as if she’s trying to make herself as small as possible. Stan, the owner of the club, towers over her, his stance aggressive.

When Nancy’s terrified gaze lands on me, Stan turns around with a glare.

“Everything okay, guys?” My voice comes out steady even though my heart is jumping against my rib cage. Stan is a big, scary guy, but I can’t just watch Nancy in distress and do nothing.

Stan grunts in reply and stomps past me to leave the room. Dance music pours inside when he opens the door, only to be muted again once it’s closed.

“Are you okay, Nance?” I close the gap between us and pull her body into a hug. She’s shaking. Poor thing.

Nobody quite knows the exact nature of the relationship between Stan and Nancy, but all the guys know enough to never even speak to Nancy and all the girls know enough to stay away when they’re together. All the girls except me, that is.

“Yeah.” With her body crumpling into my arms and her eyes avoiding mine, she doesn’t sound very convincing.

“Are you sure? Is there anything I can do for you?”

“No. Really, I’m fine.” Nancy pulls away from me and gives me a weak smile. She looks so pretty when she smiles. Too bad she doesn’t do it often. “Done for the night?”

“Yeah. I should go home now. My mom’s probably fallen asleep in front of the TV again. With no blanket. She gets sick a lot these days. I don’t know why it’s so hard for her to just grab a blanket.” I get my clothes from the locker and change.

“I don’t know how you do it. Classes during the day, working during the night, and then you go home to take care of your mom.” Nancy leans against the cabinet, her arms folded across her chest like a shield.

I shrug. “You gotta do what you gotta do.”

“You should spend some time on yourself or you’ll go crazy. You’re young. Have a little fun.”

“That’s not a bad idea, actually.” I smile as I put on my ballet flats. They feel like heaven after eight hours on my ridiculous heels. I look back at Nancy before walking out. “Take care, Nance.”

“You too, Scarlett,” Nancy says.

Some girls don’t mind sharing their real names with one another, but I use my stage name exclusively. I’m not going to be a dancer forever after all. This is only temporary.

I make my way outside and toward the back door of the club, the beat of the bass from the speakers thumping into my skull.

Maybe Nancy’s right. Maybe I should take a break and have a little fun one of these days.

My mind brings back a recent memory, of the guy who saved me earlier. He seems like the kind of guy I can have some fun with. I can just imagine the weight of that big, hard body pinning me down, those muscles rippling beneath his skin as he moves…

God, it’s been way too long since the last time I got some action. I swear I don’t usually fantasize about random strangers, but there’s something about that guy.

Sure, a relationship with a customer is a bad, bad idea, especially when I already have so much on my plate.

One night of fun, though? Surely it couldn’t hurt.

I’d make an exception for a guy like that, if he’d only ask. Too bad it’s always the weird ones who do.