Charming.
The Grand used to be a nice theater before the city’s economy tanked and they ripped out the seats. Now there’s just a stage for us to dance on and gilded balconies that are kept dark. The VIP rooms are the old ticket booths with the front walls ripped off, replaced only by musky velvet curtains that don’t cover the small space.
We stumble our way across the floor toward the VIP rooms in the corner. He can’t walk straight, and apparently I’m his crutch. I pretend not to notice Blue’s gaze following us as we go.
Chapter Two
A lap dance may seem like a broad, blunt stroke—twisting my body right in his face, shaking my ass against his erection, almost dry humping when the rhythm is right. But really it’s a fine line. I want them worked up enough that they’ll pay for more time, but not so intense that they demand things I can’t give them.
I don’t fuck for money.
It’s not a question of right or wrong, of being a whore or a goddamn angel. I’ve known exactly what I was since I turned fourteen, and that’s not going to change because he puts the tip inside or not. I don’t fuck because it’s not safe, for a lot of reasons. I don’t fuck because I don’t have to. I make enough money through stripping to cover Mrs. Owens’s bills—even the medical ones.
I start the dance off slow with the soon-to-be groom. I sit him down in the creaky wooden chair and step back as far as the hollow gray walls will let me. He’s already more tripped out than I can handle, so I spend a lot of time against the wall, posing and touching myself and hoping that’ll be enough.
“Stop wasting time,” he says.
In the end I’ll have to grind up against him. That’s the promise our bodies make when we shake our asses on the stage. That’s all we are in this building, a warm body to rub against. But I just give him my practiced sultry smile and continue to dance.
There’s a tight feeling in my gut. Every time I’ve felt it, I end up getting hurt. It’s a little like falling, though. Knowing doesn’t help you stop. There’s no way I can avoid getting close to him. I’m already close to him. There’s no way I can avoid shoving my ass against his dick, dry humping him for a handful of bills.
That’s when he grabs my wrist. I freeze.
“No touching,” I say, my voice low in case one of the bouncers is walking by. They keep a pretty tight watch on the VIP rooms. That’s what I like about this club—at least, I did before Blue became head of security here.
It doesn’t matter that I tried to keep it down, because his voice booms in the small space. “What the fuck do you mean, no touching? What’s the fucking room for if not touching?”
It’s true I’m more likely to let a little groping slide when we’re in private. Especially if I know the tip is going to be nice. But I don’t let anyone grab me. I don’t let anyone hold me down. I’m not a scared foster kid with nowhere to go.
“No touching,” I say again. “Or you can take it up with one of the bouncers.”
Of course that only makes him hold me tighter. He yanks me off balance, and on these heels, I don’t stand a chance. I fall right into his lap, into his arms, in a sick parody of a romantic embrace.
Then his hands are on my breasts, squeezing, twisting, pinching.
I gasp in shock—and then pain. Other than that, I don’t make a sound. My brain is shutting down on me. My body too. I know he’s touching me, hurting me, pinning me in place.
But I also know how to block it out. My body does that automatically now, almost against my will. I could shout and scream. I could fight. But when has that ever helped me?
Not ever.
Some part of me is made of steel—a small, dark part. I’m a metal pipe covered in blood at my core. My arms are pinned, but I can still reach down. I reach for his lap, and it makes me laugh, almost, the way he moans when I touch him. As if he thinks this will get better for him. As if he thinks I will give in. I grip his dick through the cloth of his pants and then squeeze as hard as I can.
He yelps and jumps up, knocking me to the floor. I land hard on my ass, my head knocking against the wall. The chair hits the other wall with a thud.
“You stupid bitch,” he snarls. He’s coming at me.
With one hand on my throat he drags me up the wall.
That’s how Blue finds us. The look on his face is pure rage.
He slams Travis back, pushing his elbow against the man’s windpipe. There’s hardly room for two people in these tiny rooms—and not three. Definitely not three when one of them is bellowing breaths like a bull, when his muscles are bulging and he looks like he’s about to charge.
Without a hand on my throat, I slide to the ground, sitting my bare ass flush against the cold concrete floor. I’m trembling. How am I trembling? I have enough experience for this not to affect me.
There will never be enough experience.
This is my life, but I’m still not used to it. I’m still afraid.