Better When It Hurts (Stripped 2)

This should be easy. Tell him no. Make him believe it. I’ve done this for a thousand men before. Somehow he’s different. Maybe because I don’t really believe it myself.

I know he’s watching me. I know he’s hatching his plans. My heart speeds up every time I turn away from him, wondering if this is the time he’ll pounce. One of these times, he’s going to dig into me with his teeth and his claws. He’s going to hurt me, and I’m not sure I’ll survive it.

Not tonight, though. Not now.

I take a step away from him. “If you aren’t going to pay for my time, I think I’ll find someone who will.”

His eyes darken. “Your call, gorgeous.”

I hear the unspoken message beneath his words, steel under velvet. For now.

* * *

From the stage, the men seem small. It’s a form of power, dancing above them, light where they are dark, being thrown money just to show myself. I know that what I do is sordid and degrading. I feel sordid most of the time. I feel degraded. It’s just a natural state for me, as easy as breathing.

But there are a few seconds when the entire room is looking at me, panting over me, desiring me—and I feel like a goddess. Those seconds make what’s about to happen bearable.

Then I’m on the ground again, mortal and low.

The men turn as I approach, already catcalling the way they did when I was onstage.

“Hey, there’s our sexy girl, come to give us a kiss.”

“What a hot bitch. Look at those tits bounce.”

“How much for a night, baby?”

There’s no power left in me, no goddess in sight. The men loom over me now, crowding me as I stand between them. I cock my hip and thrust my breasts in front of me, the picture of female sexuality. I am a lamb in a pack of lions. I wear my confidence like a mask. It’s the only way I’ve survived. But their smiles, cocky and sure, say they can smell the real me underneath. They can smell their prey.

Two of them step aside for another man, one with a sloppy drunk smile and a cruel glint in his eyes. I hear one of them call him Travis.

My throat squeezes tight. No, no. My gut is too good at picking out the genuinely violent guys from the generic asshole. Except I’m not paid to say no.

“Let’s get a private room,” Travis says, the slur scraping down my spine. “Do I get a discount? It’s my party. I’m getting married tomorrow.”

It’ll be a miracle if he’s even conscious tomorrow, but that’s not my problem. My problem right now is with a mean drunk who wants to buy my time. I have a lot of experience with mean drunks. I know that no amount of pleading or negotiating or fighting back will work.

But all that knowledge, all that experience doesn’t stop me from trying.

“I’ll give you a dance right here,” I say, drawing myself up close to him. Even if I could turn away a customer, I can’t lose out on the money he can give me. I’m already a few hundred bucks in the hole when I start the night, after my house fee and tip outs. And I know exactly how much I need to make, especially on a Saturday night, to pay the bills. And there are a lot of bills.

He grabs my ass and squeezes hard, pulling me flush to a small, hard erection. “Your ears broken or something? I said let’s get a fucking VIP room.”

Panic beats in my chest, and it’s familiar, almost soothing. If I’m not half-terrified, I don’t even know what to feel. My gaze scan the room, searching—always searching. What am I looking for? And then I meet Blue’s eyes. His eyes narrow. He must have been watching me.

I could call him over. I could get him to help me, tell him this guy is being rough.

Except that would be a lie. Technically all he’s done is put his hands on me, and I haven’t even told him to stop yet. I’d give a courtesy warning—or two or three—before getting security involved. So I make myself smile, both for Blue’s benefit and the man right in front of me.

“Mmm, whatever you say. I’m going to show you a great time wherever you are.”

“That’s right,” he says. “You’re damn right about that for what this shit is gonna cost me.”

Not going to be a great tipper, obviously. But then I could have already guessed that. At least security will make sure he pays me the hourly rate. As long as I come out with my fake smile in place and not too many bruises, I’ll consider it a win.

His buddies clap hi

m on the back with send-offs like “cop a feel for me” and “this is your last night of freedom, don’t waste it.”