“Hey. See that guy back there? Third row?”
Godiva craned her neck around the stage curtain, straining to remain out of view of the audience. “I see about fifty guys in the third row.”
I sighed and counted the number of tables. “Third from the front, second from the right. The guy in the black polo.”
She squinted, too vain to wear glasses, and too squeamish to wear contacts. “Yeah. Oh. Yeah.”
I nudged her. “See what I mean? How come all our customers can’t be like him?”
Rhetorical question. I knew the answer to that, just like Godiva did. It was a biological impossibility. Only so many men got the kind of good looks that make your breath catch. And your panties wet—if I were to be honest.
The universe was only so kind. The rest of us were allocated average looks. Not that I was complaining. It was just the way it was.
Thank god for flat irons, makeup, and gym memberships.
“He is quite something,” she confirmed with a nod.
Taken individually, his features were not that special. The semi-mussed dirty blond hair, slightly large nose for his face, and brainy round glasses almost caused me to overlook him.
I admit it. When I had downtime at Club V, I checked out our male guests.
Actually, they were all male.
But when I looked at this particular guy a little longer, the outstanding planes of his face, not to mention his chin dimple, came into view. As if his face had morphed. And become beautiful. Like when you take a few steps back from an abstract painting and it somehow all makes sense.
His brow was strong. Prominent, if I wanted to be precise, extending over his eyes as if to cast shadows. His hairline was high but not too high—the perfect indicator that he was past adolescence but in no danger of losing his hair. His lips were pressed together somewhere between a smirk and an obligatory yeah, I’m having fun grimace, often seen on guys who’d been dragged in by their buddies to see some tits and ass for a bachelor or birthday party. The kind of guy who’d rather be at home watching sports or reading a book in bed.
Strip joints attract all sorts of customers. And when you’d worked at one as long as Godiva and I had, you could size most of them up in moments.
Yup, that’s what we did at Club V. Provided tits and ass.
“Don’t you ladies have anything better to do than spy on our customers?”
We whipped around to find Zin, the impossibly tall, red-headed, and crew-cut proprietor of Club V, scowling.
I rolled my eyes. “Zin, I’m not on for fifteen minutes. What the hell would you want me to do? Scrub the toilets?”
She narrowed her eyes at me, her way of warning me to back off with the smart-ass remarks.
It never worked.
I put my hands on my hips while Godiva nervously finger-combed her long hair.
She closed her eyes as if she were saying serenity now. “Look. Shelle just called in sick. Can either of you cover her shift? Please?”
She only added the please because she’d just scolded us.
“I don’t think—” I started to say.
But Godiva drowned me out. “Sorry, Zin, can’t do it. My kid’s at home with a sitter.” She looked at her imaginary wristwatch. We didn’t wear watches when we performed. “In fact, after my next set, I gotta head out.”
So Zin turned to me, secure in the knowledge that I had no kids, boyfriends, husbands, or partners of any sort and that I could therefore be available whenever she needed me.
“Senna?” she asked.
I bit my lip, wishing I could turn her down just to fuck with her. But that wasn’t an option. I needed the money and would have worked all night long if I thought I could’ve handled it.
I nodded, not looking at her. She needed to think I was doing her a favor and not the other way around. The last thing I wanted was to be in her debt. I didn’t like being in anyone’s debt. Owing people was messy. And I didn’t do messy.
I adjusted my outfit, now riding up my ass, and pointed my toe as best I could in my clear, seven-inch platform heels. Their height was a strain on the ankles, so I was constantly exercising mine to keep them supple. The last thing I needed was to mess up my joints. I needed this job for at least a couple more years. Then I’d be on easy street. Well, semi-easy street.
Zin patted me on the back. “Thanks, Senna. I appreciate it. It’s gonna be a good night, I can tell. You’ll make some money.”
And with that, she turned to find another girl who she could assert her dominance over. She never let anyone forget she was boss.
Zin was a woman of few words and shared pretty much nothing about herself, but rumor had it she’d been a dancer at the club when she was quite young, and when the owner was murdered during a hold-up, she’d slipped right into his place as boss.
Some people even said she’d set him up to take over the club. If that were true, and I’m pretty sure it was, she was crazier than anyone thought.
“What do you think of my new outfit?” Godiva asked, letting the curtain fall shut, curtailing our spying.
I had to hand it to Godiva. She had some of the classiest stripper clothes I’d ever seen on someone who took it all off.
See, at Club V, some of the girls stripped down to nothing but their birthday suits, showcasing their shaved lady bits and breast implants. Others, like me, kept our stuff covered. We were no less sexy in my opinion—in fact, I thought keeping a little on was more sexy. But I didn’t judge. More power to them for getting butt naked. Going that far just wasn’t for me.
Like most of the other strippers, Godiva made her costumes. She’d find something cute at the store, take it home, and find a way to copy it and make it that much more sexy. And her latest creation was outstanding.
For my upcoming act, I wore what would be considered a very revealing one-piece bathing suit. It consisted of a little triangle over my crotch connected to a slightly larger triangle over my ass, and two strips of fabric wrapping from back to front, over my boobs, and tying behind my neck. Godiva, on the other hand, preferred the bikini style costumes. Easier to get off, she’d told me.
She did a little twirl, her ass cheeks jiggling just the slightest bit from her movement, barely covered by her new sexy and glittery chainmail bikini. She’d somehow found matching gold chain and strung it around her hips for a belly chain. When the rest of her clothes were off, this little accent would sparkle nicely in the bright stage lights.
“You look amazing. Was it hard to make?”
She slapped her palm to her forehead. “Totally. I had to use metal cutters for the chain.”
So crafty.
Zin reappeared quietly. “You’re on,” she said to Godiva just as the DJ introduced her.
Godiva’s face blew up in a gorgeous smile. She parted the curtain and disappeared into the bright lights.
