Chapter One
Samantha
I have no idea what’s going on. I’m standing here in this schoolgirl getup my boss put me in. I was supposed to be dancing tonight.
My first night on the job. I spent all day on the verge of being sick, but I’m not stupid. There’s good money in stripping, especially at the Calla Club, and I need every penny I can get.
As soon as I can get it.
The opening dance is an introduction. All the girls file out, letting the men in the audience get a good look at what they have ahead of them. That wasn’t too bad. I wasn’t the only one on stage.
I don’t even know how I got this job. I’ve never done anything like this.
All I know was that my boss, Harry, took one look at me when I came in for my interview and hired me on the spot. Big boobs and a round butt are more important than experience, I guess.
After the opening dance, I make my way back to the dressing room. Everyone who isn’t on stage is back here, seated before brightly-lit mirrors, adding more eyeliner, more lipstick. Adjusting boobs so they spill just right.
I glance down at my own overflowing top. I’m buttoned into this tiny little white top, two buttons straining to hold it closed, the bottom of the shirt tied at my rib cage.
What the hell am I doing here?
But I know exactly what I’m doing here, so I make my way to an empty spot at the mirror and swipe more pink gloss over my full lips.
Mostly, I’m focused on not throwing up. I close my eyes and hear the music I’ll be dancing to in my head. I picture myself up there, dancing, giving the audience the sinuous, sultry moves they’re lusting for. Taking off the top, then teasing them before I take the tiny skirt off.
Yeah, so I had to watch videos of strippers to plan this dance. I’m trying to pretend this is any other performance. I’m just playing a part.
Naked. While hoping that men shove money into my G-string.
“Sam.”
I spin around and spy Harry leaning against the door to the dressing room. “I need you to come with me.”
Oh, shit. Is it possible to get fired before I even start? The thing is, Harry actually seems like a decent-enough guy. So I follow him, rehearsing how I’ll beg him to let me dance. I’ll do better than I did in the intro. My nervousness must have showed or something.
My steps slow as we get closer to the office, but he walks past it and up a narrow set of stairs.
He opens a door at the top and glances at me, then gestures for me to step inside.
This room…it’s not what I expected. I mean, really, I have no idea what to expect about any of this, but a room full of men in suits, sitting there as if they’re about to start a business meeting or something, is about the last thing I thought I’d find here. There’s a raised dais at the front of the room, five other girls standing there in their stripper get-ups.
Harry waves me toward the stage. “Make me proud, girl.”
I numbly make my way up to the little stage, and a few of the other girls smile at me. They seem excited, almost giddy.
Is this where I’m dancing? What is this? These men are clearly rich.
Better tips, probably.
Well. That’s what I’m here for, after all, I think, doing the endless, impossible math in my head. How much I need to make per night to save Pops. I take another deep breath. Just another type of performance. I was born to perform. I can do this, too.
I keep my eyes down, well aware of eyes on me. My stomach twists, and I wish I was wearing just about anything else. The tight white blouse, the skimpy plaid skirt, the knee socks and ridiculously high heels… I’m barely wearing anything at all. My long black hair is put up in pigtails.
I feel like an idiot.
Money. Think of the money. Think of Pops.
There aren’t many well-paying jobs for girls like me. I’ll take what I can get.
Harry steps up to the stage, and as he does, I glance up. But not at Harry. No. At the man in the front row. He’s sitting there, legs spread wide, arms crossed over his chest. Wearing a suit, like the others, but he looks like a cross between a businessman and a male model. Dark hair, with just a hint of wave to it. Dark, intense eyes. His suit is impeccable and clearly expensive. He’s totally polished, except for the dark stubble along his jawline. Somehow, that makes him even more devastating.
His eyes are on me. Calculating, intense. I force myself to tear my gaze away from him, but I swear I can still feel him watching me.
“Welcome, gentlemen,” Harry says. “You are my esteemed guests, and I’m pleased to welcome you to tonight’s auction. Highest bidder for each girl gets a week with her. No questions asked.”
I shoot him a panicked look.
“My girls are worth it,” Harry says. “They can live for months off of one good auction should one of them get chosen now,” he adds, meeting my eyes, raising his eyebrows as if to say “shut up and take what you can get.”
I do.
This was never part of the plan. Dance a little. Probably get groped. But this? A week at the beck and call of a man I’ve never met?
I’m about to protest when Harry speaks again, addressing the men.
“We’ll start the auction with Gracie over there. Starting bid, one hundred thousand.”
My jaw snaps shut, and any thoughts of trying to get out of this float away. A hundred grand would save my father. Not completely, and not forever, maybe, but it’d be a hell of a good start.
I watch the other dancers get auctioned off. One goes for a quarter of a million. One for just over a hundred thousand.
The entire time, the intense, gorgeous man in the front row is looking at me.
Not him. Let one of those other men buy me instead. They look like lawyers or doctors or something. Benign. Something in him, his intensity, the way he watches me, makes me feel like he’d turn my life upside down in about a minute flat. Anyone else. Anyone else.
Just not him.
“Which brings us to Samantha,” Harry says, and I take a deep breath.
“I want different terms,” the man from the front row says, and his voice is a deep rumble, rough, almost hoarse.
“We don’t usually—”
“One month. One month, at my command. You get your hundred K.”
“A month is a long time,” Harry argues.
“She’s gonna be the one doing the hard labor. It’s up to her,” the man says.
I force myself to meet his dark gaze. “I need a million dollars for a month. Up front,” I make myself say.
“That’s a lot of money, even for a sweet little thing like you.”
“You said it was up to me. That’s what I need.”
His gaze holds mine, and I’m sure he’s about to say no. Laugh at me.
One million dollars would get my dad totally in the clear. We could start over. I could go back to school. And if he ever gets involved with the goddamn Mafia again, I’ll kill him myself.
The man is still looking at me, unblinking, still with that calculating, hard look in his eyes.
“Everybody out for a minute,” he says in a quiet voice that makes it clear he expects to be obeyed.
And he is. Everyone—the dancers, the suits, even Harry—file out without a complaint. Harry closes the door behind him, and then it’s just him and me.
“Samantha, huh?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“I’m Dante.” I nod. The name suits him, elegant and edgy all at once. “Stage name or real name?”
“Real name. I’m too new for a stage name.”
“What do you mean?”
“This was my first night.”
He studies me for a while. “Why do you think you’re worth a million dollars, Samantha?”
I glance down. “Because it’s a month. And because I’ll do whatever you want without complaining.”
“You sound desperate.”
“I kind of am.”
He stands up and takes a few strides toward me. It takes everything in me not to back up a step. He walks around me.
“Is this how you usually dress, Samantha? Is this how you’ll dress for me?”
“I’ll dress however you want me to.”
“Do you usually dress like a whore?”
I close my eyes. “No,” I whisper.
He reaches out and runs a big, calloused hand down the side of my waist, and I tremble. Not all of it is from fear. I’ve never had a man even touch that much bare skin before, and it’s a shock.
Not entirely an unpleasant one, and that’s sick, because what kind of girl wants a strange man touching her?
“Why are you so desperate?” he asks, standing in front of me, hands off me now. “Look at me.”
I force my gaze up to his.
“Why?” he repeats.
“My father owes someone money. He’s running out of time.”
“That’s your father’s problem.”
I shake my head. “It’s my problem. He has no way of paying the money he owes. He’s a dead man otherwise.”
“Gambling?”
I shake my head. “He took out a loan to pay for school for me. Arts academy,” I add in a whisper. “And then he lost his job.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-one.”
He stands there in silence. “One million. You’re at my beck and call. You stay with me. What I want, you give me.” I nod.
He reaches out and unties the knot in my shirt with a flick of his fingers. The fabric falls away, and my breasts spring free. I can barely breathe as he stands there looking at me, appraising me.
“Can I touch you, Samantha?” he asks in that low, smooth voice. In its own way, this calms me, even if only a little bit. I get the sense that this man won’t try to force himself on me, when he so easily could. He easily stands nearly a foot taller than me, and he’s built like an athlete: broad shoulders, biceps flexing even under the suit he’s wearing.
“Yes,” I whisper. I need this. One million dollars. My life will never, ever be the same. I’ll do whatever he wants, as long as I get my fresh start.
I can only assume he’s done this before. Does he come here every few months, buy a week with a girl, and move on? His fingertips graze the side of my breast, and I bite back a whimper. I’m trembling. My stomach is fluttering and my heart is pounding. This is terrifying, and yet the second he touches me, it feels like I’ve lost the ability to think.
Instead, I focus on his fingertips tracing the side of my breast, circling around my nipple, which is already an almost painfully hard peak. He brushes his thumb over my nipple, and I do whimper then.
“Very, very nice. It’s a good little act you’ve got going on. Tie your shirt back up. I don’t like anyone else looking at my property.”
I nod and quickly do it, and he stalks to the door and lets Harry back in.
Within moments, Harry’s been paid and this man, this man who owns me for a month, has transferred a million dollars into my bank account.
“Get your things in order. Pack. I’ll pick you up in a couple hours. What’s your address?” he asks. I rattle off my address and apartment number, then my phone number. He leaves the room without another word, and I take a few minutes to try to settle myself down.
One month at his beck and call. One month with a man who outright owns me.
There’s no way I’ll come through this and still be the same as I am now.
I’ll take it all. I saved my father’s life. I can handle anything else.