The Billionaire's Command
Page 5
“I’m not a nun,” I said. “I’d have to get one of those little hats. I don’t like wearing hats.”
“It’s called a wimple,” Scarlet said, because of course she would know something like that.
“Whatever,” I said. I took another sip of my Coke. “You think the owner’s out there right now?”
She shrugged. “Why don’t you go check, if you’re so curious?”
I probably should have been out there working the floor, chatting up clients and finding a lonely man with a fat wallet and an empty lap; but it was Friday, I had already met my goal for the week, and I was tired. Stripping seemed glamorous until you were in the thick of it, and then it was just dull. The men were all the same. Different faces, but the same empty yearning in all of them, and the same wandering hands.
“I don’t feel like it,” I said, like a sulky child. “Go get me another soda.”
She laughed at me. “Nope. How does my hair look?”
“Fine,” I said, still sulky.
“I have to go dance,” she said, standing. “Are you doing Schoenemann’s party later?”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “Germaine didn’t say anything about it.”
“Lucky,” she said. “God, he’s such a creep. He doesn’t even tip well! Not worth it.” She tipped her head to one side and examined me. “What the hell happened to your knees, anyway? Are you planning to go out on stage with those Band-Aids stuck all over the place? The clients are going to think you’ve got leprosy.”
“I don’t have leprosy,” I said. “I just fell on the sidewalk. It’s not a big deal.”
“It looks tacky,” she said. “You should tell Poppy you can’t dance tonight.”
I smirked at her. “Girl, if I’m doing it right, nobody’s going to be looking at my knees. You need lessons from me on getting them to look at your tits?”
“Trust me, they’re looking,” she said. She blew me a kiss, and then flipped me the bird as she walked out of the room.
Alone, I fluffed my wig and checked the time. Twenty minutes to go: time to get dressed.
Stripping was about the tease. If you went out there buck-ass naked, there was no mystery, and the mystery was what kept the clients watching. I didn’t think I was performing great art, or anything like that, but there sort of was an art to it: shimmy just so, wiggle a little, look back over your shoulder, blow a kiss.
I would never admit it out loud, but I loved being on stage. I loved feeling the energy of all those men looking at me, wanting me, seeing me—for those few minutes—as the most precious thing in the world. It was a rush. And the money didn’t hurt. When I sauntered around the floor afterward, and they tucked hundred dollar bills into my g-string, I felt like a queen.
I took that night’s outfit from my bag: a corset elaborately decorated with sequins, ribbons, and feathers; a matching g-string; thigh-high stockings; black Victorian-style boots that buttoned up the side; and, to top it all off, a long, sheer open robe. I had gotten really into burlesque in the last few months, and stopped pole dancing almost entirely. I’d done pole for a long time, but it started to feel too ordinary. Most of the girls did it. I wanted to do something different, and so I spent a while going to burlesque shows and watching what those girls did, and coming to work early to practice. I had to cough up a bit of money on the new costumes and accessories, but it had been a worthwhile investment. The clients loved it. My tips were better than ever, and I was determined to milk it as much as possible before the other girls caught on and started doing the same thing. For now, they just thought I had developed a weird interest in feathers, but I knew that wouldn’t last.
We were all friends, or at least friendly, or at least mostly; but I wasn’t dumb enough to forget that we lived in a dog-eat-dog world. I wanted to be the one doing the eating, instead of the one that got eaten.
I’d had the corset custom-made with a zipper on the side, so that it was easy to put on—and easy to remove. The difference between me and most burlesque dancers was that I would be fully nude by the end of my dance, and I didn’t want to spend any time fumbling around with my costume on stage. I zipped up the corset, and sat again to pull on my stockings and boots. Then I retouched my lipstick, and critically examined my reflection in the mirror. I looked perfect. Nothing was out of place.
I checked the clock again. Go time.
I left the seraglio and strolled down the hall toward the main floor, my robe trailing on the floor behind me. Scarlet was just finishing her routine, kneeling on the stage with a client’s face buried in her tits. I stopped at the edge of the floor and waited. It was impolite to deliberately take attention away from the dancer on stage. If the clients near me glanced in my direction, well—that wasn’t anything I could control.
The stage was a square platform in the middle of the room, with tables arranged around it on all four sides. That made it hard to appear on stage unnoticed, and so we all went to the other extreme and played it up as much as possible. The clients enjoyed watching us make our way to the stage, and it seemed like they needed the extra time to make the psychological transition from watching one girl to watching another. That was Scarlet’s theory, anyway. She was a lot smarter than me, so I tended to listen to her.
Scarlet’s song came to a close, and she blew kisses to the men watching her, smiling, and then climbed down off the stage to make her rounds and collect her tips.
I pulled my shoulders back, waiting for the spotlight to find me, feeling the familiar rush of adrenaline through my veins.
The Silver Cross didn’t do anything so tacky as announcing the next dancer. Instead, the club’s spotlight came on, and unerringly moved across the floor until I was centered in the pool of light it cast on the carpet. I struck a dramatic pose, head thrown back and one arm raised in the air, and I heard a murmur of appreciation spread through the crowd.
And there it was: I took a step forward, into Sassy’s skin.
Did it make me vain, that I fed on the energy from the crowd?
Maybe.
I didn’t really care, though.
I sauntered forward, the spotlight following me, and made my way to the stage in the silence that preceded the music that wouldn’t start until I stood on the stage.
Who could look away from me, when I was lit like this, and glowing, and ready to perform?
“It’s called a wimple,” Scarlet said, because of course she would know something like that.
“Whatever,” I said. I took another sip of my Coke. “You think the owner’s out there right now?”
She shrugged. “Why don’t you go check, if you’re so curious?”
I probably should have been out there working the floor, chatting up clients and finding a lonely man with a fat wallet and an empty lap; but it was Friday, I had already met my goal for the week, and I was tired. Stripping seemed glamorous until you were in the thick of it, and then it was just dull. The men were all the same. Different faces, but the same empty yearning in all of them, and the same wandering hands.
“I don’t feel like it,” I said, like a sulky child. “Go get me another soda.”
She laughed at me. “Nope. How does my hair look?”
“Fine,” I said, still sulky.
“I have to go dance,” she said, standing. “Are you doing Schoenemann’s party later?”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “Germaine didn’t say anything about it.”
“Lucky,” she said. “God, he’s such a creep. He doesn’t even tip well! Not worth it.” She tipped her head to one side and examined me. “What the hell happened to your knees, anyway? Are you planning to go out on stage with those Band-Aids stuck all over the place? The clients are going to think you’ve got leprosy.”
“I don’t have leprosy,” I said. “I just fell on the sidewalk. It’s not a big deal.”
“It looks tacky,” she said. “You should tell Poppy you can’t dance tonight.”
I smirked at her. “Girl, if I’m doing it right, nobody’s going to be looking at my knees. You need lessons from me on getting them to look at your tits?”
“Trust me, they’re looking,” she said. She blew me a kiss, and then flipped me the bird as she walked out of the room.
Alone, I fluffed my wig and checked the time. Twenty minutes to go: time to get dressed.
Stripping was about the tease. If you went out there buck-ass naked, there was no mystery, and the mystery was what kept the clients watching. I didn’t think I was performing great art, or anything like that, but there sort of was an art to it: shimmy just so, wiggle a little, look back over your shoulder, blow a kiss.
I would never admit it out loud, but I loved being on stage. I loved feeling the energy of all those men looking at me, wanting me, seeing me—for those few minutes—as the most precious thing in the world. It was a rush. And the money didn’t hurt. When I sauntered around the floor afterward, and they tucked hundred dollar bills into my g-string, I felt like a queen.
I took that night’s outfit from my bag: a corset elaborately decorated with sequins, ribbons, and feathers; a matching g-string; thigh-high stockings; black Victorian-style boots that buttoned up the side; and, to top it all off, a long, sheer open robe. I had gotten really into burlesque in the last few months, and stopped pole dancing almost entirely. I’d done pole for a long time, but it started to feel too ordinary. Most of the girls did it. I wanted to do something different, and so I spent a while going to burlesque shows and watching what those girls did, and coming to work early to practice. I had to cough up a bit of money on the new costumes and accessories, but it had been a worthwhile investment. The clients loved it. My tips were better than ever, and I was determined to milk it as much as possible before the other girls caught on and started doing the same thing. For now, they just thought I had developed a weird interest in feathers, but I knew that wouldn’t last.
We were all friends, or at least friendly, or at least mostly; but I wasn’t dumb enough to forget that we lived in a dog-eat-dog world. I wanted to be the one doing the eating, instead of the one that got eaten.
I’d had the corset custom-made with a zipper on the side, so that it was easy to put on—and easy to remove. The difference between me and most burlesque dancers was that I would be fully nude by the end of my dance, and I didn’t want to spend any time fumbling around with my costume on stage. I zipped up the corset, and sat again to pull on my stockings and boots. Then I retouched my lipstick, and critically examined my reflection in the mirror. I looked perfect. Nothing was out of place.
I checked the clock again. Go time.
I left the seraglio and strolled down the hall toward the main floor, my robe trailing on the floor behind me. Scarlet was just finishing her routine, kneeling on the stage with a client’s face buried in her tits. I stopped at the edge of the floor and waited. It was impolite to deliberately take attention away from the dancer on stage. If the clients near me glanced in my direction, well—that wasn’t anything I could control.
The stage was a square platform in the middle of the room, with tables arranged around it on all four sides. That made it hard to appear on stage unnoticed, and so we all went to the other extreme and played it up as much as possible. The clients enjoyed watching us make our way to the stage, and it seemed like they needed the extra time to make the psychological transition from watching one girl to watching another. That was Scarlet’s theory, anyway. She was a lot smarter than me, so I tended to listen to her.
Scarlet’s song came to a close, and she blew kisses to the men watching her, smiling, and then climbed down off the stage to make her rounds and collect her tips.
I pulled my shoulders back, waiting for the spotlight to find me, feeling the familiar rush of adrenaline through my veins.
The Silver Cross didn’t do anything so tacky as announcing the next dancer. Instead, the club’s spotlight came on, and unerringly moved across the floor until I was centered in the pool of light it cast on the carpet. I struck a dramatic pose, head thrown back and one arm raised in the air, and I heard a murmur of appreciation spread through the crowd.
And there it was: I took a step forward, into Sassy’s skin.
Did it make me vain, that I fed on the energy from the crowd?
Maybe.
I didn’t really care, though.
I sauntered forward, the spotlight following me, and made my way to the stage in the silence that preceded the music that wouldn’t start until I stood on the stage.
Who could look away from me, when I was lit like this, and glowing, and ready to perform?
