“Hey, Marco! Can I get a pitcher of Miller Lite for table fifteen, please?” I yell over the throbbing bass of the music in the club . . . and get ignored again. “MARCO!”

He looks over and gives me a half-understanding nod before grabbing one of the plastic pitchers and filling it with . . . well, fudge it, it’s beer at least. I roll my eyes, frustrated that I have to drag the bartender’s eyes away from the stage. He’s been here for years, and you’d think he’d be immune to this after seeing dancers for hours five nights a week.

But he isn’t. Obviously, as evidenced by the way he’s staring at the stage. He moves a hand, and I think he’s going to adjust his crotch, but instead, his hand lifts to his head and he slicks his already meticulously coifed hair into place. In my head, I nag him. Adjust whatever you need to, your crotch or your hair or your suave designer clothes. Just do your dang job so I can do mine. Not too much to ask, is it?

“Here you go, Meghan,” he says, sliding the pitcher the last few inches to me. I notice that he doesn’t apologize that he’s ignored the order I placed on the bar five minutes ago, nor that the delay will likely affect my tip, not his. His eyes still haven’t left the show onstage either. Such a butt-nugget.

With a sigh, I turn to see what’s got Marco so blasted distracted at the moment. I know from the music that it’s Allie’s turn on stage. Besides being one of the people I can call a friend around here, she’s an amazing dancer, definitely too good to be stripping in a place like this. I watch as she spins around the pole, her legs splayed wide in the splits for several rotations as she flips her head around, making eyes at a guy in the front row.

In a flash, she pulls her legs in smoothly, locking them around the pole and lying back in a death-defying backbend move that puts her eye-level with her prey, although she’s upside-down and his eyes are locked on her boobs, not her face. I see her smirk and then kick her legs over, rising to stand tall in her high-heeled red stilettos. It’s impressive, even from just an athletic point of view, although I’m sure most of Allie’s fans aren’t really interested in how much she’s had to train and work for her unworldly strength, balance, and flexibility.

The guy picks up a green bill from the stack in front of him, and Allie slithers down to take it, blowing the guy a kiss with her plump, heavily lipsticked lips, knowing she’ll have the whole pile before her time onstage is up.

I clap loudly, cheering her on, knowing that the cash will help her out with her debt situation. She’s a nice girl, my best friend in this club, and still way too good for this joint.

Still clapping, I don’t hear Marco approach. “She’s something else, isn’t she? Even you can’t keep your eyes off her. Can you blame me? Unless . . . that’s your thing?”

I laugh, glancing over at him to see a questioning look in his dark eyes. He seems more excited about the idea than I would’ve expected because he knows me better than that. I shake my head. “You know I don’t swing that way, but I can appreciate talent and hard work. Especially in my friends.”

“Calm down, Little Miss Goody-Two-Shoes. You know I’m not going near that chick with a ten-foot pole. I like my dick where it is, thank you very much.”

I narrow my eyes at him, attempting to appear threatening, but we both know it’s not the threat of my tiny little librarian-looking self that has him shaking in his Italian loafers. It’s that our boss has taken a rather obvious interest in Allie lately. And no one dares go against Dominick if he’s even considering marking some of that territory for himself.

“If you’re still interested, your Miller Lite is getting piss-warm and table fifteen is looking mighty thirsty,” he says, smirking. “I guess they’re not into Allie. They seem to be paying more attention to their beers and their MIA waitress.”

Shishkabob! My tip is definitely going to take a hit on this table if I can’t turn it around with a little extra sugar. Hoping that maybe they like nerdy girl-next-door types instead of out of this world exotic beauties like Allie, I fluff my girls up in the black bustier that serves as the top half of my uniform and grab the pitcher to walk it over.

“Here you go, fellas. Didn’t want to interrupt your view of Allie’s special talents,” I say, going heavy with the flirty innuendo as I lean over, confident that while my full cleavage is on display, they’re locked solidly in the cups and won’t spill out for an unintended nip slip.

Not that anyone would mind. Except me, of course. Petals from Heaven may be the sort of club where the female persuasion exposes their body parts to the spotlights, and my uniform is decidedly sexier than I would choose myself, but I’ve never felt like I was expected to do more than deliver drinks. Unless I wanted to, which I definitely don’t.

The guys’ eyes all lock to my chest, same as always, and their eyebrows lift. Gotcha, boys. So Allie isn’t their cup of tea, but I am. Well, it takes all types, and it’s sort of encouraging to know that a girl like me can be compared to a goddess like Allie and sometimes get the nod. Maybe my tip won’t be so bad, after all.

I take a moment to pour each of the four guys a mug, feigning a lack of skill that makes the suds at the top spill over the lip and down my hand, the white foam looking decidedly like something more seductive than beer. I might be kinda innocent, but I’m not as schoolgirl innocent as I look, and I know how to tease.

I give the last guy his drink and then casually lick the bubbles from my fingers, letting my pink tongue curl out before sucking a tip into my mouth. All four guys’ jaws drop at my innocent display before the one closest to me grabs my hand.

His blue eyes flick up to me as he holds my hand in a near-crushing grip, grinning drunkenly. “Let me help you with that.”

Before I can say yes or no, he moves forward, his blond hair falling into his face as he quickly swipes his tongue against my finger and sucks it into his mouth. Fudge! Danger, Will Robinson. Need to back this play up without causing a scene. One of the hallmark rules of working in a club—don’t cause a scene unless you really, really need help.

Instead of freaking out, I give my best girly giggle, jerking my hand back and squealing. “Ooh, that tickles!” I laugh as I shake my hand loose. “You shouldn’t be so naughty!”

“Honey,” Blondie says, half getting up, “if you want to see naughty—”

Out of nowhere, Shane appears behind me. He’s part of Petals’ security team and the star of too many of my midnight fantasies to admit. I can’t see him, but I can feel his presence like a physical force pressing against my body. It’s comforting, a little scary, and also frustrating. I can’t help it, Shane’s just . . . well, he’s as sexy as chocolate cake, and probably just as dangerous for my health.

Shane growls, his voice low and dangerous. There’s no weakness, no compromising with that voice. Fact is, Shane’s not afraid of anyone or anything. He might be the only person in the club not afraid of Dominick. “No touching. Or I’ll be the one touching you.”

The threat is apparent, and the guy’s face shows his fear that Shane will kick his ass. Shane’s words have the opposite effect on me, though, and my mind is filled with an image of him touching me, his strong, thick fingers tracing lines along my private silky areas, teasing and tantalizing me before taking me roughly.

Back in reality, finger-sucking guy has his hands up wide, backing down immediately. “No problem, man. Sorry, won’t happen again.”

Shane lets out one more growl before stalking off. I never even made eye contact with him, but under the slip of dark denim they call my miniskirt, my panties are soaked from being that close to him, having his voice wash over me, and that flash of fantasy.

Needing to save the tip, though, I smile at the forward guy, and he does at least offer an apology to me, a rarity in this place. “No problem, honey. Security is just really protective of us. I’m sure you understand.”

“I can certainly understand why,” he says as his eyes float down my body, taking an extra moment on my chest, my crotch, and the length of my legs sticking out of the skirt before tracing back up again. Despite my petite height, this slip of a skirt combined with my heels make my legs look a mile long, and it feels like it takes him forever to uncomfortably peruse every inch. “We’re good for now, but keep the pitchers coming all night.”

He says the last part in a filthy little cadence, emphasizing every word, and I can hear the obvious double-entendre. I nod and giggle, reverting to my innocent girl shtick as I promise to keep them coming.

I walk away, smiling as I hear the guys start loudly talking to each other. Two can play that game, and we’re both hoping to get lucky, just not in the same way. Tip me, tip the stage girls, and get out so I can get some fresh meat at my table with another full wallet.

It sounds crass, even to myself, but it’s the reality. No one is coming to Petals from Heaven strip club to find love, and really, no one is coming to find sex. Well, I guess some of the guys do come in with the fantasy of having an amazing night with a woman who ticks all their mental boxes, but the odds of that are worse than winning the Powerball.

I don’t really get it. Guys crowd in with their other guy friends, pay fart-tons of money for cover, drinks, and tips, then go home to flog their bishop? Why the game? Just watch some porn or something and take care of business.

Unless the guy is paying for a private show, where they’re not supposed to whip it out, but according to my dancer friends, they pretty much know they’ve got a fifty-fifty chance that they’re going to be dancing while the patron gets down to business.

Ew. Just gross.

I make another round of my tables, getting refills, flirting, dropping off checks, flirting, collecting cash . . . and more flirting.

As I work, I keep an eye out for any patrons who might be . . . somebody. That’s my real job, scouting for celebrities, major or minor, politicians, CEO bigwigs, Instagram-famous people, or anyone else who might be interesting and tends to frequent this particular club.

On one hand, they’re usually the best tippers. On the other, they’re why I’m really here, working as Meghan, a cocktail waitress at a strip club, undercover for the tabloid gossip rag I work for. Neither job is my dream come true, but since no one is knocking on my door to write for The New York Times, online trash talking pays my bills.

I got the assignment to get a second job at Petals two months ago, and to my surprise, they hired me right away. Petals is known for being exclusive and VIP-preferred, so I’d been nervous about their hiring plain Jane me. But I’d been hired as a waitress on the spot based on my resume and my other . . . ahem . . . assets. So far, the undercover gig has paid off in a couple of smaller celebrity-sighting stories, but I feel like there’s something bigger here. I just don’t know what it is yet.

But Petals from Heaven is sort of the place to go if you’re a celebrity who wants a taste of the salacious life but you don’t want to get caught out on the town because of your wife, your girlfriend, or just your reputation. There’s a sense of discretion at Petals, and Dominick fosters that, making sure the A-listers get what they want, whether it’s private rooms or flashy top-notch service. Plus, Petals employs some of the most beautiful dancers I’ve ever seen in my life. It’s almost artistic, just nearly naked too. With this combination, something gossip-worthy has to happen eventually, and I want to be here to report on it.

Ironically, this undercover gig is pretty sweet and is paying more than half my bills now anyway. It was an odd realization that the writing and research I love to do and went to school for are actually less financially rewarding than playing airhead and slinging drinks.

Not sure what that says about our society, but it’s not anything complimentary.

I hear the DJ talking loudly over the mic, adding some hype to our last performer of the night and telling everyone in the club to get their last drink and get the fudge out. He doesn’t use those words, of course, but I censor them in my head like I sometimes do.

I drop one last pitcher and the check at Finger-Sucking-Guy’s table and he clears his throat. “Uhm, hey, so I don’t wanna piss off the bouncer or nothing, but what are you doing tonight? Wanna party?”

I forcefully contain my eye roll, choosing to twirl my hair around my finger and kicking my voice up an octave. I deal with this at least once a week. Can’t get the dancer, go for the waitress. “Oh, no. Sorry, honey, I can’t. I’ve got school in the morning, so I’d better be a good girl and get home.”

The reality is, I’ve been out of school for over three years, but they always believe this excuse because I look a lot younger than my twenty-five years. I still get carded when I buy wine.

Luckily, he takes the refusal gracefully, or maybe he’s worried about Shane showing up again. “Mmm. Yes, you should be a good girl. Get right to bed.”

It’s still flirty and slightly sleazy, but at least he’s not arguing with me. I give a wink and turn, flouncing off to close out my other tables.

Once everyone’s gone and the club is cleaned up, I head backstage to change. Pulling on sweats and a long-sleeve T-shirt, I’m thinking of only a few things. Mainly getting home, taking a good long shower to get the leftover smell of the club off me, and then collapsing into bed. After all, I’ve got to be ready for work at ten . . . and my boss hates it if I’m late.