Chapter One
“For
fuck’s sake,” Dawg muttered. He glanced at the digital clock that was hidden
behind the bar for the tenth time.
The
bitch was late.
She’d
begged him for an audition, even though his stable was full.
Her
soft, husky voice over the phone finally convinced him to say yes. Against his
better judgement, of course. Because when he asked her if she was experienced,
she beat around the fucking bush.
Which
meant she wasn’t. And he had no patience for amateurs or novices.
None
what-so-fucking-ever.
Scrubbing
a hand over his beard, he shot a glance at the front entrance, then at the
clock once more.
He
grabbed a cold Iron City beer from the cooler behind the bar, popped the tab on
the can and lifted it to his lips.
He
was done.
No
bitch was worth the wait.
None.
He’d
been stood up. Almost like a bad date. Though it had been a long time since
he’d been on anything that was even remotely similar to one.
Well,
unless fucking some random snatch until she came all over him was considered a
date. Most likely it wasn’t. An actual date probably included flowers, a movie
and even dinner.
Or
at least a shot of whiskey and a little fingering, before busting a nut.
“Fuck
you, bitch. Dawg waits for no one,” he muttered to the sweating beer can in his
hand, then took another swallow of the ice-cold brew.
But,
fuck him, if he didn’t stand there and wait even longer. Again, it was that
smooth as warm honey voice that made him keep his ass planted right where he
was. He’d give her until he finished his beer. Then he’d head back up to his
apartment, knock a quick one out with his own palm, and catch some more zzz’s.
He
slammed the can onto the bar, causing it to splash over his fist. With another
curse, he wiped his dripping hand along his jeans.
Then
he heard the door open down the front corridor and a sliver of ass-crack-of-dawn sunlight reflected off
the wall. Suddenly a woman was standing at the end of the hall, pale as shit
and eyes wide. Like a skittish doe about to be plowed down by a Mack truck.
Raking
his gaze over her from top to toe, the first thing that hit him was she had
sweet fucking tits. If they were real, she already had a leg up on this
audition. The second was...
She
was wearing a fucking high-neck blouse.
Who
the fuck wore a boring beige top that covered her as much as a turtleneck to a stripper
audition?
Her
waist was narrow, her hips curvy, and...
She
wore a skirt all the way to her fucking ankles.
And
she wasn’t even wearing heels!
“What
the fuck,” he muttered.
Maybe
she was confused and was looking for a church nearby.
While
there were a lot of “Oh Gods!” being said in his establishment, they were
usually during private lap dances.
“Are
you Dawson?”
A
muscle ticked in his jaw as his teeth clenched. Dawson? He hadn’t heard that
name spoken out loud in a long damn time.
“Dawg,”
he grunted.
She
blinked, but remained at the end of the corridor. He wanted to see what color
those eyes of hers were and if they matched the husky tone of her voice.
“Dog?
Like the woof-woof kind of dog?”
“What
the fuck,” he muttered once more. “No, like Dawg...
D-A-W-G.”
She
tilted her head and studied him. There was another thing wrong with her... Her
hair was pulled up high and tight. His customers liked his girls’ hair long and
loose. So they could swing it when they danced. So the men could imagine
fisting it while they fantasized about one of his girls sucking them off. Or picture
pulling it like the reins of a pony while fucking one of them doggy-style and
slapping their ass.
Which
never happened on his watch. Fuck no. His girls weren’t whores. They were “exotic
entertainers.” They didn’t put out for money. If they did, and he found out
about it, they were outside looking in faster than they could say “G-string.” He
ran a respectable joint and certainly didn’t need Shadow Valley PD breathing
down his goddamn neck.
Though
some of them did give it up to his brothers in the Dirty Angels MC, that was
their choice and not for money. None were forced to do it. It had to be a
mutual agreement between the brother and the girl.
A
little reciprocal pleasure.
As
he stared at the woman still hovering by the nearest escape route, he doubted
this woman would give it up to any biker. She seemed way too uptight for that.
“I-I
think I made a mistake.”
That
was an understatement. “I’d fuckin’ say so.”
Dawg
finished off his beer, crumpled the can in his hand and whipped it into the
recycle bin under the counter, then rounded the end of the bar.
Her
eyes widened once again when he approached her. Which kind of, sort of, bothered
him.
Yeah,
he knew he could be a little intimidating. He was a big dude. He had a beard.
He had a bunch of tats. He wore bulky silver rings on his thick fingers and a
cut proclaiming that he was DAMC and damn proud of it. But he wasn’t a man who
hurt women.
Fuck
no. When they screamed it was because he was licking their pussy so good
that...
Fuck. Now he had half a fucking hard-on.
And if he yanked on it to adjust it to a more comfortable position, she might
just pee her panties. Or bloomers. Or whatever the fuck she wore under that
awful shit-brown skirt.
“Don’t
know what you’re lookin’ for, but it ain’t here.”
He
couldn’t miss how hard she swallowed before taking a tentative step forward. “I
called you about an audition.”
Dawg
eyeballed her up and down in slow motion on purpose, so she’d realize this
place wasn’t for her. When color flooded her cheeks, it cemented his opinion.
“What
fuckin’ stripper wears a goddamn shirt that don’t show any cleavage an’ a
skirt—” he lifted a ringed finger, “—not short and leather, fuck no. One that
covers her down to her ankles?”
She
glanced down at herself for a second, then looked back up at him and shrugged
slightly. “A kindergarten teacher.”
Dawg’s
head jerked back. “A fuckin’ what?”
She
cleared her throat and pulled her shoulders back. Which he just happened to notice emphasized those big-ass tits. “A
kindergarten teacher.”
He
blinked and let what she said sink in. “You wanna role play when you strip? My
clientele might like that. Kinda like a sexy librarian. Or a sexy teacher who
knows how to use a wooden ruler in a good way, but you gotta drop the
‘kindergarten’ shit. That might be a turnoff.”
She
shook her head and bravely took another step forward. Now she was only a few
feet from him, causing his nostrils to flare when he caught a whiff of her
scent. Flowers. Or something light. Nothing heavy and clingy like his girls
wore.
And
from where he stood, he didn’t think she had a stitch of makeup on.
“No.
I’m a real teacher. I teach kindergarten. You know, with children?”
He
frowned. If she was a teacher, what the fuck was she doing in his club? Dawg
waved his arm around Heaven’s Angels Gentlemen’s Club. “Does this look like a
fuckin’ kiddie school to you?”
Her
head lifted slightly higher when she answered, “No.”
He
studied her for a second and decided he needed a better look. “Step under the
light so I can see you better,” he ordered. In no way was this woman here for
any kind of audition. He pointed to the recessed light in the ceiling that was closest
to him.
After
a slight hesitation she did it. She bit her bottom lip and held it between her
teeth as he checked her out once more. The lip thing was pushing the blood into
his dick at an alarming rate. Which was surprising since the way she was
dressed did nothing for him.
He
took a step closer and her body wavered slightly, but she didn’t back up even
though she barely came up to his chin.
“Look
up,” he demanded. And when she did, he finally saw how blue her big eyes were.
Even
though she held his gaze, she was nervous, and he could see the determination
in her. She had a fire in her belly. He liked that. The woman was here for a
reason and that reason was important, whatever it was.
Her
blonde hair looked like her real color. Not all bleached out like some of his
girls. He hated that shit and yelled at them all the time for it. He wanted his
girls to look as natural as possible, but it was a losing battle.
But
all that blonde hair was pulled back tight at the back of her head in a bun or
whatever they were called. Similar to how Bella wore her hair when she was
working in the bakery to keep it out of the cupcakes and icing and shit.
Her
face was, just as he thought, clean of any makeup, naturally pretty, even wholesome
looking. A perfect example of the girl-next-door.
But
something about her was definitely not girl-next-door
if she was here for a job.
“If
you’re a kindergarten teacher, you already got a job,” he murmured, fighting to
keep from reaching out and running a knuckle along her cheek to test how soft her
flawless ivory skin felt.
“I
need the money,” she whispered back, not breaking his gaze. A spark had flared
in her eyes when she admitted that.
Being
a stripper wasn’t one of her career goals. Fuck no. Probably wasn’t even on her
bucket list. She needed cold, hard cash. That was the real reason she was
standing before him, trying desperately to hide her fear of him. She thought
that flashing her tits would be a windfall, would get her out of whatever
financial jam she was in.
“For
what?”
She
dropped her gaze and shook her head. “That’s personal.”
This
woman was here for the wrong reasons.
Suddenly,
he was feeling generous. “Look, if you need some scratch... a loan...”
Her
eyes flicked back up to him. “No, no loan. I’m already in debt because of...”
“’Cause
of what?”
She
swallowed hard. “Nothing.”
“Ain’t
nothin’.”
She
sucked in a breath. “Just forget it. I’m sure there are other clubs in the area
who will give me a chance.”
Though
he needed fresh faces and fresh bodies to bring in new clientele, and to keep
the regulars coming back, he didn’t need any right now and he was sure he would
regret his next decision.
When
she turned to leave, he grabbed her wrist. “Hold up.”
She
stared at where he held her, her wrist looking tiny in his hand. He loosened
his grip slightly since he didn’t want the bulky rings on his fingers to bruise
her, but not enough where she could slip away.
“What’s
your name?”
“What?”
“Your
name. What’s your name?” Dawg barked.
“E-Emma.”
He already knew her real name; she had told
him it on the phone. “No. Your stage name.”
The
confusion on her face was another telling sign that she didn’t belong in his
club, or even on a stage. And certainly not naked in front of a crowd of men,
for fuck’s sake.
“Em...”
She hesitated. Then with a look of understanding, she began again, “Em... Ember!”
Ember. Fitting for that flame
inside her. “Better. Can’t have a kiddie-garden teacher named Emma on my
fuckin’ stage.”
Her
eyes widened in surprise. “You’re going to give me a shot?”
Fuck. His big dumb ass was
going to regret this. “Gonna give you an audition. Nothin’ more ‘til I see what
you can do.”
Relief
crossed her face, and it made him shake his head.
He
was such a fucking sucker.
He
released her wrist. “Got an outfit you need to change into?” He jerked his chin
toward the back of the club. “Dressin’ room’s in the back.”
She
glanced down at what she was wearing again.
As if she didn’t find anything wrong with that shit she covered herself up with
from neck to toe. She could be going door to door, preaching religious shit and
handing out pamphlets, dressed like that.
“I’m
wearing it.”
His
lips twitched. Sure she was. “Got you. Wearin’ it underneath that getup.”
Her
mouth opened, then it snapped shut. Right.
“I-I
have to dance for my audition?”
His
eyebrows shot up his forehead. “No, you’re gonna hand me your fuckin’ resume
an’ I’m gonna look it over... Of fuckin’ course you gotta dance. Jesus fuckin’
Christ.” He turned on his heels and ducked behind the bar.
Normally
on busy nights he had a DJ playing. During the day and on slow nights, he just
used the high-tech sound system that was wired throughout the club. Each VIP
room had their own smaller system, so the girls could pick whatever music they
wanted for private dances. Then there was also a room off the main stage area for
private parties, VIPs and special traveling entertainment troupes. It was a
smaller version of the main club area, with its own stage and a bar.
He
had to admit that his club was the shit and the nicest in the greater
Pittsburgh area, if he said so himself.
He
glanced at the woman who remained frozen in place near the entrance. “What
music?”
“What
do you mean?”
“What
do you wanna dance to?”
She
blinked at him.
“Ah,
fuck. You don’t have a routine ready an’ a song picked out?” Of course not. All
the red flags in his head were whipping in the wind.
“Should
I have?”
This
whole thing was going to be a disaster. He should just chase her out of there
and stop wasting both of their time.
But
he couldn’t. He was dying to see what was underneath that virgin-like outfit of
hers. If she had potential, he could get one of his seasoned dancers to give
her a few pointers.
Yep,
that’s what he told himself. Had nothing to do with him wanting to check her
out for himself. Fuck no. She didn’t make him curious at all.
“Rock?
Country? R&B? What?” he prodded.
When
she didn’t answer, he scrolled through his music and found a song that worked
well to get his girls moving on stage. He set up the track and, grabbing the
remote, headed down the long, narrow stage that was dead center in the main
club area. It had a pole, from stage to ceiling, on each end and the bar was
attached to the end closest to the entrance.
He
settled his bulk into one of the low, vinyl club chairs that sat directly in
front of one of the poles. He wanted a good seat and a very clear view.
He
glanced her way. “Need help gettin’ up on stage?” He jerked his chin toward the
steps. “Stairs are down on this end.”
She
unfroze herself, shook her head and moved toward the back of the club where the
three steps led to the lighted stage.
“Might
wanna take those things off your fuckin’ feet first,” he suggested. He wasn’t
sure what they were called, but they were the most unsexy shoes he’d ever seen
on a woman. Besides Crocs. Those gave him limp dick. Her shoes were a close
second. Some kind of brown pleather shit.
She
got to the end of the stage, bent over to unstrap her shoes, then kicked them
off. Straightening her spine, she blew out a breath and climbed onto the stage.
Dawg
leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “Lemme know when
you’re ready, Ember. I’ll hit the
music.”
She
nodded and eyeballed the pole.
“Poles
are clean,” he reassured her. “Cleaning crew just left ‘bout an hour ago.”
With
a little nod, she wrapped a hand around it. He really wanted her to fist that
hot little hand around his dick instead.
He
sighed. “Gotta plan, right?”
Her
gaze dropped to him. “Yes. Get naked.”
Well, damn. “Normally gotta keep your
bottoms on. Ain’t legal to take ‘em off when we’re open to the public. But
since the club’s closed, leavin’ that up to you. Sometimes I give private
parties for my VIPs an’ the girls go totally naked. They really rake in the
tips those nights.”
“I’ll
keep that in mind.”
“You
do that,” Dawg said and then snorted, shaking his head.
“Okay,”
she said softly, staring up at the pole.
He
cocked an eyebrow at her. “Okay, what?”
“I’m
ready.”
Dawg
pinned his lips together. “Sure?”
She
nodded, a determined look on her face.
Dawg
shrugged and hit play on the remote. Ginuwine’s
Pony began to blast through the
hidden speakers.
Her
body jerked at the sound. “What’s this?”
“Music.
Just go with it.”
She
bit her bottom lip again, and that went straight to his dick.
Then
she began to move...
He
was hoping he’d been wrong, and she was a secret little slut with hot moves
that would make him want to bust a nut. But fuck no, she wasn’t. Her hips moved
in a wooden circular motion as she held a death grip onto the pole with one
hand.
Dawg
groaned. This was going to be worse than he thought. As she tried to match the
rhythm of the song, she threw her head back and closed her eyes, letting the
music move through her.
Dawg
sat forward in his chair. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad...
She
reached up to pull her hair clip out, and her golden hair cascaded down around
her.
Holy fuck.
All
that blonde hair and her natural looks...
He
lost his breath as she continued to shift around awkwardly but reached for the
top button of her blouse. Which was promising...
With
visibly shaking hands, she worked the buttons out of their holes one by one,
and as the fabric gaped, he caught glimpses of a black bra underneath.
He
attempted to swallow the lump in his throat and he willed her fingers to move
faster.
The
little he saw was no grandma panty set. Fuck no, it wasn’t. He swore he got a
glimpse of see-through lace.
She
stopped unbuttoning when she got to her waist and reached around to the back of
her skirt. Suddenly it shifted when it became loose and she caught his gaze as
she began to push it down her hips.
The
“suggestive” wink she gave him looked more like an eye twitch.
Even
though this woman had the seduction skills of an eighty-year-old virgin, Dawg’s
breath caught.
She
stopped moving around the stage as she rolled the long skirt down her thighs.
But he couldn’t see shit since her baggy blouse covered the V of her legs. He
wouldn’t be surprised if the woman had a huge untrimmed bush trying to escape
her panties.
Finally,
the skirt dropped to her feet and she stepped out of it, almost tripping
herself. He jerked forward as if he could catch her, but she caught her own
balance and then stood there unsure, wearing just her blouse partially
unbuttoned.
His
eyes slid from her face down to her legs. What the fuck?
She
was wearing thigh-high stockings!
Maybe
she wasn’t lying about wearing an “outfit” under her conservative clothing.
But
she just stood there, staring at him!
“You
done?”
She
shook her head. And, fuck him, she bit that bottom lip of hers again. That was
going to be her signature move. She could do some sort of naughty teacher routine,
and bite her bottom lip, while giving his customers an I-need-to-be-fucked look.
They’d
be throwing twenties at her. Fuck, maybe even fifties.
She
had no idea just how dick-hardening sexy she appeared with all that blonde hair
loose, wearing thigh-highs and that half-open blouse. Like her brains had just
been fucked out, and she was in a sex coma.
Jesus. He needed to see the rest
of her. But not up on that stage. That was too impersonal, and he wanted to get
so much more personal.
“Maybe
that big stage’s makin’ you nervous. How ‘bout makin’ this dance a little more
personal.”
Her
brows furrowed. “How?”
“Gotta
show me somethin’. Some kinda skill. Right now, you ain’t showin’ me nothin’ I
wanna see.”
For
the most part anyway. Nothing a strip club manager would want to see. Dawg, the
man? Fuck yeah. That was different.
He
pushed to his feet and came around to the steps, holding out his hand. She
stayed where she was on the stage, her skirt pooled at her feet, her blouse
hanging crooked. She stared at his hand as if it was going to bite her.
“All
my girls gotta do private dances... you know, lap dances. Get up close an’
personal with my customers. Makes both of us some extra scratch. Better than
the tips you’ll make on stage. The stage is just used to entice these fuckers
into the VIP rooms. Got me? It’s the tease. Gotta get ‘em droolin’ for you, get
‘em rock hard. Make ‘em think they got a shot with you. They pay big money for
that personal time. That’s where you make most of your scratch. You act like
they’re special to you, not just any regular Joe, an’ they’ll become regulars.
The regulars are the best. They’ll even ask you out. You always say no, got me?
No datin’ the customers. No fuckin’ ‘em, either.”
“Am
I hired?” she asked, surprise clearly in her voice.
No
shit. He was just as surprised that he was wasting time on this woman who had
no fucking clue what she was getting herself into.
“Nope.
Ain’t hirin’ you yet. Gotta convince me to. Just like you gotta convince the
customers to throw those dollar bills on that stage. Right now, you’ve only
convinced me that you’re lost.”
“What
do you mean?”
“That
you don’t belong here. This ain’t for you.”
She
nodded. “You’re right. That’s exactly what I am. I’m lost.”
Well,
damn. He hadn’t expected for her to agree.
Dawg
dragged a hand through his hair that needed a damn cut and shook his head. “Woman,
you’re crazy for bein’ here. This ain’t you. Anyone can see it.”
“No.
I’m not crazy. I’m... I’m desperate. I need this... this job.”
“Strippin’
ain’t a job, it’s a career.” One that could be lucrative for the right woman.
Only she wasn’t the right woman.
“What
do I need to do to get this job?”
The
desperation in her voice, in her eyes, killed him, twisted his gut.
“Like
I said. Money’s in the lap dance. Gotta sell yourself. Right now, you ain’t
sellin’ nothin’ ‘cept that you’re an uptight teacher up there. C’mon down.” He
held out his hand again. She grabbed her skirt and approached the end of the
stage, but avoided his assistance. She took two steps down until her gaze was
level with his.
“I
need this,” she whispered.
He
wanted to close his eyes and savor that honeyed voice of hers. But he didn’t.
He had to remind himself that this was business. “Why?”
“I-I
have to make a lot of money and make it fast.” The desperation was thick in her
voice. And that bugged him.
“Why?”
Instead
of answering him, she shook her head.
“Girls
ain’t got no secrets from me.”
“So
you think.”
Damn. She was probably right.
But when they were down on their luck, and they needed help, he was always
there for them. He took care of his girls, made sure they didn’t want for
anything, and in turn, they took care of him. They came to work with a good
attitude, and that spilled out on stage.
Happy
strippers made the club money, ones with problems didn’t. It was difficult to
shake off a bad attitude when you were in the spotlight swinging around a pole
only wearing a thong. There was nothing to hide up there.
He
knew it. The clientele knew it. So he kept his girls happy.
“I’m
going to ask again. What do I need to do to get this job?”
Posts
