“Storm’s told me a lot about you.”
With a start, I realize Cain has let go of my hand. My lungs deflate. “Has she now?” I say in a shaky voice, stealing a glance at Storm
He smiles warmly. “Yes. She said you’ve helped her out a lot. You’re smart and you’re in need of a job. You’re stunningly beautiful. I can see that now, firsthand.”
I choke, my tongue disappearing into the back of my throat.
“Have you ever worked in an adult establishment?”
“Uh … no … sir,” I answer and silently pray to God that Storm hasn’t told him otherwise. I don’t know why, but I find suddenly that I want to impress Cain. He carries an authoritative air to him, like he’s much older and wiser than his appearance suggests, like he’s a caring human rather than unscrupulous strip club owner.
My answer doesn’t seem to bother him. “One of my bartenders is pregnant. She and I both agree that a gentleman’s club isn’t the best place for her so … how many nights can you commit to?”
I look at Storm and shrug. “All of them?”
Cain’s head tips back as he laughs whole-heartedly, revealing a tattoo beneath his left ear. It reads, ’Penny.’ She must be someone special if he named his club after her and tattooed her name on himself. “Don’t sign your life away, Sweetheart. Five or six nights will do.” His eyes skim my arms now, skittering over the white scar snaking down the outside of my shoulder, and I silently chastise myself for not covering them. They probably frown upon disfigured women working in adult clubs. “You have a fighter’s body,” he says instead.
“No fighting. Just staying fit,” I answer quickly.
He nods slowly. That seems to impress him. “Good. I like a woman who can take care of herself.” He settles behind his desk again, saying, “you’ll train Kacey, right, Storm?”
Storm is grinning ear to ear. “Yes, Cain.”
He looks up at her again, and I see the look for what it truly is. Adoration, not lusty animalism. Like he worships her. I wonder if they’ve slept together. I wonder if he sleeps with all his staff. I’m sure he could if he wanted to. Will he try to sleep with me? I don’t have time to think about it anymore because Storm leads me out the door in a daze.
“Come on. We’re opening soon. I need to get you comfortable.”
***
The night goes by in a blur. Storm and I work the main bar together—Storm on the more complicated drinks, me on beer and straight shots while she teaches me the basics. The place is nothing like I expected. It’s huge and three stories high in the center with a low ceiling around the perimeter, allowing sleek alcoves for the bars, shiny black high top tables, and a hallway to the V.I.P. rooms. Apparently Cain is strict about what happens back there. Nothing illegal, he tells all the girls. “I don’t go back there,” Storm says with a serious look that says “don’t go back there, Kacey.”
On a raised stage in the center, the girls dance. There are three dancing at all times, each with their own little stage jutting off the main one to accommodate the group of leering men in front row. A blue light shines down over the entire space, creating a mystical ambience. The rest of the place is dark, the air heady with booze and testosterone and lust. Music throbs through my body, its beat guiding the dancers every move on stage.
Storm and I joke and chatter casually back and forth as we serve, and I can’t help but start to relax around her. The place is busy, but people aren’t climbing over each other at the bar to get a drink like the night clubs I’ve been to. She introduces me to three girls who she promises me I’ll like. Ginger, Layla, and Penelope. They’re all drop dead gorgeous, giggly, and friendly. Everyone there seems to be gorgeous, giggly, and friendly, and I can’t help but wonder for the hundredth time why Storm would think I’ll fit in here. But I say nothing, nodding to them all, making sure I’ve got two full hands so I avoid all contact. No one seems to notice.
I get a bunch of “new girl” comments from customers who are obviously regulars, but I ignore them. I keep my head down and I work hard so Cain doesn’t have any reason to expand my job description to lap dances and V.I.P. room customer support. I take orders, I make drinks, I collect money without touching anyone’s hand. In that order. Still, I feel eyes on me—drifting over my curves, sizing me up, even with plenty of flesh to look at in this place. Asshats.
The bar is my fortress. I am safe behind this half wall.
***
“So, how are you making out so far?” Storm asks during a two minute lull late in the night. “Think you can handle bartending in a strip club six nights a week?”
I shrug. “Yeah, no big deal. Just a lot of boobs and ass cheeks and I avoid the stage so I don’t see …” My attention drifts to the stage where an Asian girl wearing nothing but a piece of silver floss wraps her legs around her neck. “That!” I jerk my head away. “How can she do it?”
“That’s Cherry. She’s into hot yoga.”
I roll my eyes. “No, I don’t mean how. I mean … how!”
“Everyone’s got their price,” is Storm’s only response as she dispenses another round of Jim Beam.
“I guess so,” I mutter, silently wondering if Storm has set a price.
“Okay, so now that you’re familiar with the bar, Kacey,” Storm begins, “you can start smiling any time. You do know that if you smile at the customers, you’re likely to get bigger tips, right?”
I smirk. “Why would me smiling make them give me more money when they can save it for the person humping their leg? Are they idiots?”
“Just … trust me.” She sighs patiently, moving back to serve a customer, hollering over her shoulder, “You’re the shiny new red-haired toy and you’re forcing them to use their imagination.”
Great. That’s what I want to be. Some guy’s wet dream.
To prove her wrong, I give the next three customers the widest grin my face can handle without splitting in half. I even wink at one. Low and behold, the tips double. Hmmm. Maybe we’re on to something. If only smiling wasn’t such a drain.
A middle-aged cowboy with an oversized hat and Wrangler jeans leans forward over the bar, his mouth twisted like he’s chewing on a piece of straw, but there’s nothing there. “Ain’t you a pretty sight, all toned and natural,” he says, lingering too long on my cle**age. Why, I don’t know. I look like a ten year old boy next to every other female in this place. When he sneers, I see that his teeth are stained yellowish brown by years of tobacco.
I swallow my revulsion and force a smile. “What can I get you tonight, sir?”
“How ’bout a Tom Collins and a private show?”
“One Tom Collins coming up. I’m fresh out of private shows.” I keep my smile, all the while my level of annoyance climbs, anxious to get rid of this guy. When I slide the drink across the bar to him, and reach for the twenty dollar bill, his paw closes over my forearm, his fingers coarse and impolite. He leans in and I catch a whiff of stale tobacco and booze on his breath. “How ’bout you take your break now and show me that tight ass of yours?”
“I just bartend here, sir,” I force through gritted teeth, my body shifting into defensive mode. “There are plenty of girls here who can give you what you want.” And I’m not exaggerating. Everywhere I look I find ass cheeks and ni**les and worse. I played a lot of sports in high school so I’ve seen my share of naked bodies in showers after games. Heck, I labeled Jenny the “Grand Rapids Exhibitionist” because she had no qualms with stripping down to buck in front of me. This place is different though. They’re wandering around, peddling their wares. Selling their bodies.