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A NEW KINGDOM STANDALONE
MAY SAGE AS EMM DARCY
CHAPTER 1
liv
He’s here tonight. I’m unsurprised, but I notice all the same. The ridiculously tall, young, gorgeous guy wears another expensive suit—blue, this time—that must be tailored for him; I can’t imagine any store carrying something that could embrace such large shoulders and show off that narrow waist.
Sometimes, I wonder what he does for a living. He certainly doesn’t fit in here. He’s several tiers over the bulk of our clientele, in all aspects; age—we cater to the midlife crisis crowd, not twenty-somethings—wealth, beauty. Maybe he’s a lawyer. I’d look him up, but I don’t know his name, and I doubt I ever will.
He doesn’t know mine either. To him, I’m Nala, the girl behind the mask.
My stranger first came on a stormy night at the beginning of the summer. I guessed he must have walked in to get out of the rain. I was in the middle of my routine, but at the moment when I twist, head down, to look at the audience and blow them a kiss, I noticed him.
He’s been here every single time I’ve worked since. I wonder if he comes every day, or if it’s just a coincidence that he ends up being here the four nights a week when I work the pole at the club.
I know it’s terribly cliche—poor girl from the wrong side of the tracks becomes a stripper—but point me to one single job paying half as well in all of Andaria for an eighteen-year-old fresh out of high school. I bussed tables the last two years, and it did allow me to have some pocket money—not to mention occasionally eat, when my father forgot to stock the house with anything other than booze.
I finished high school two months ago, and Dad immediately announced that I had to pull my weight if I wanted to stay under his roof. I didn’t want to stay under his roof, and certainly not while paying him, so I packed what he allowed me to take and left. I stayed at my friend’s Patricia’s for a few days, but Tricks’s house is pretty cramped, between her twin and their parents, so I made sure I had a place within a couple of weeks. I’m renting a tiny flat with a couple of girls; the rent is cheap as fuck, but I still need to pay it.
Starting in September, I’ll get my college scholarship, but it’s rudimentary, only covering tuition and board. The books are going to be a fortune, and until then, I need cash, fast.
The seven years of studying ballet with Tricks and Jinx made me flexible, good at following rhythm, so this job made sense. Besides, we’re all behind masks; no one has to know it’s me. I’m extremely careful when I leave and come to this place, to make sure no one sees me.
I stretch my leg over my head, extending into a full split in the air, which never ceases to cause standing ovations, both by the clapping hands of my audience and by the tents in their pants.
Truthfully, I don’t mind this job. After watching my audition, Christina, the boss, immediately gave me a rotation on the main stage, rather than the various poles set up in front of small booths. That didn’t endear me to the rest of the employees—apparently, many worked here for years before even seeing the stage—but it means that I get to do it from too far away for anyone to actually touch me.
Most of the time. I get private requests, though. Many of them. Sometimes, I’m even tempted.
Our patrons can request any of the strippers to perform private lap dances, but it’s up to the dancer to accept or refuse them. Most dancers automatically accept them all. I’m the opposite. I’ve never said yes.
The actual menu on their table lists a private dance for two hundred and a lap dance for three. But the offers can be a lot higher. Five hundred for a blowjob. Seven hundred bucks for a pussyjob—I had to ask what that was, exactly. Some guy even offered a thousand bucks to come on my feet, and god, I was ever so tempted. What do I care if someone wants to use my feet for their spank bank? I could really use a thousand bucks.
But it’s a slippery slope, and one I don’t intend to step on. Being an exotic dancer is one thing. I’m not signing up for prostitution. For one, it’s illegal, but more importantly, I want to walk away from the club with full knowledge that I worked hard and did what it took to make my dream come true without cutting corners.
Why spreading myself open for the eyes of fifty guys while wearing a tiny silver thong is okay but having jizz on my feet isn’t, I’m not quite sure, but a girl’s got to draw the line somewhere. Mine is bodily fluid exchange.
Everyone’s clapping, excepthim. My eyes are inexorably drawn back to his striking figure as I throw my head back in a cambré that would make Tricks’s mother weep. If she knew how I used the lessons she taught me, I think the poor French lady would pass out. Or potentially murder me.Ballet teachers are intense.
It doesn’t matter. It’s a good day, with a lovely, appropriately drunk crowd, and I’ll end up with another two grand in my pocket by the end of the night.
I blow my last kiss, just like I did the first time my stranger walked into the strip club, and leap down elegantly, curtsying to the gentlemen.
The curtain falls, and I rush to leave.
“Fucking bitch,” Sandra mutters.
I try not to let it get to me. It’s not surprising she doesn’t like me: she’s been stripping since she was my age, and she’s in her thirties now. She doesn’t get nearly as many tips as I do. While I only need to dance, with the occasional split to make them all drool, she’s no longer able to get their blood going with something so prudish.
Tonight, she wears her cowboy getup, a sparkly silver catsuit that she can peel away by ripping it off her body with one tug. Underneath, I know her bra’s cupless, and she has tassels dangling off her nipples. While I wear a thong, she’s likely in a minuscule bundle of strings leaving nothing to the imagination. She’ll also take lap dances tonight in the VIP room. And with all that, I’ll likely bring home as much, just from my four dances.
I smile, biting back any retort. Sandra isn’t my enemy. She’s a warning of what my life could very well become.
CHAPTER 2
