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“Baby Doll!” Archer gets up from his seat. “Here! Over here!”
“What the fuck are you doing?” I stare at him. “Have you gone crazy?”
He chuckles darkly. “If she’s going to lap dance for someone, it’s going to be us.”
“That’s crass,” I mutter.
“No, that’s her best bet. I bet you a hundred bucks that her boss is ready to throw her to the wolves. Get her to whore herself out. Those guys are sniffing after her. They know she’s sweet. That she is innocent. Fresh meat. They all want a bite.”
My stomach drops because I know he’s right. “And what are you going to do? Be here every night to shower her with dollars, get her to sit in your lap? Let me remind you, you have to work.”
“We’ll find a way between the four of us, won’t we?” He’s still waving the goddamn money at her.
The idea is preposterous. Impossible. Terrible. Laughable.
And yet…
I bite back the first ten replies that come to my mind. Finally, I settle for, “You make it sound easy. But I can’t always call in favors. It’s my business. I have to be there.”
“Then we’ll have to convince her quickly to leave this place, and come work for us.”
I blink. “What?”
“At the Alpha Bet. We’re looking to hire dancers.” He leans back in his chair. “And we take good care of them.”
“Archer…”
“Call me Arch. We’ll take care of our girl no matter the cost, got me?”
“Jesus. Yeah.” The relief swamping me is fucking huge, even as I’m so damn confused by this guy. “Gotcha. We will.”
I’m not sure what’s going on, but I’m game.
24
BRINLEE
Ican’t believe this is happening.
They are still here. All four of them. Sitting at a table right by the stage. With the spotlight and my focus on dancing, I didn’t see them before. I thought they’d gone. Did they watch the show?
And I can’t believe they called me over for a lap dance. I’m half mad at them, and half… I don’t know. Confused. Embarrassed. Unsure of myself.
Kinda sad.
They weren’t supposed to be here at all. Let alone watching my show and asking for lap dances. What has my life come to, when the only guys I’ve ever felt attracted to will pay for me to grind myself on their thighs? An all-time low.
Why did they have to see me like this? Now how will I ever be able to pretend I’m a normal girl? How will I show my face at the Book Café or the library?
Tears prick my eyes as I make my way to them, as slowly as it’s humanly possible to walk on my super high heels, in my sexy costume, under my extravagant makeup. Sometimes, I manage to shut out my shame and fear and enjoy dancing here, feeling liberated, free to move and flirt and just be whoever I want to be, but right now, I’m way too aware of the reality outside the club.
These men are from my real life, my real hopes and dreams, intruders in this glittering, fake world, this dangerous world where I need illusion to keep myself sane.
And then their presence impacts me, a physical blow—their faces, their big shoulders, their scents reaching me through the artificial perfumes flooding the club.
Good God.
Objectively handsome, I think, they are objectively gorgeous, but more than that, they seem made for me. I feel, I know we’d fit so perfectly together.
