The money Avery pays me barely covers my rent, which is why I dance. The money is good, the hours work around the ballet classes and babysitters, and I can dance. I’m not cut out to work nine to five as a slave to some chauvinist boss because I don’t obey the rules. I never have.
Dancing is my way to be free. And I was until Bull walked into my life and tilted it upside down.
“Stop being such an idiot,” I whisper to myself, as I walk to my truck. It’s an old pickup, but she does the job.
The daylight has already given way to night. I quicken my step, keys in hand, but when I hear a bottle roll along the ground, the hair on the back of my neck stands on end. With mace in the other hand, I run to my truck and unlock it quickly, before diving into the driver’s seat. Then I slam the door and press the lock down.
After three attempts, my truck finally roars to life. When I turn the headlights on, I’m half expecting the boogeyman to appear in front of me. Putting the truck into drive, I pull out of the lot and focus on the road and not on the fact that the boogeyman destroyed me long ago.
The long drive back home had me thinking about my brother, Christopher. He left a few months after Jordy was born. Although he never told me, I knew my pregnancy broke his heart.
When Jordy was born, I promised myself that I would protect him with my life. I was sixteen, and Christopher was twenty when I gave birth to Jordy. I was a single parent, but even if Jordy’s dad was in the picture, I wouldn’t tell Christopher who he was because Christopher would have killed him.
Jordy’s dad, Michael, was Christopher’s best friend. I was young and stupid, but I never regretted getting pregnant or falling in love. Jordy is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. And so was his father, until he left town.
Michael is the only man I’ve ever loved, and when he left, I promised never to be vulnerable to that kind of heartache again.
Shuddering at the memories, I quickly make a beeline for the dressing room since my shift started fifteen minutes ago. I hate being late, but I had to drop by and see Jordy first. My neighbor, Erika, is looking after him.
Christopher made sure I was fed, went to school, and was well looked after when our mom remarried and moved to Vegas. She left us the trailer, which cleared her conscience of abandoning her kids, but I had to move out of the trailer after Christopher left. There were too many memories there. So I moved into a small two-bedroom apartment. The place isn’t flashy, but it’s close to Jordy’s school.
Every day I wake up promising myself this life isn’t forever. Before working at The Pink Oyster, I worked any job that I could to bring home an income. But it was never enough, which is why I’ve danced for the past nine months.
The money is good because, unlike at most clubs, Lotus pays a wage. It’s small, but it’s an incentive to stay because it’s a steady paycheck. Her house fee is half of what the other clubs charge, and she doesn’t charge an off-stage fee. If we don’t want to work onstage and just want to do lap dances in the VIP room to earn more money, then we can. Tip-outs aren’t mandatory either, which is why Lotus doesn’t have a DJ.
We keep what we make and aren’t expected to tip the staff because there isn’t anyone to tip.
Basically, Lotus is the best boss I could ever ask for, and as for the clientele, I can treat them like dirt, and they keep coming back for more. Win-win.
“You’re late.” Bae smiles at me as she shimmies out of a gold dress. “I covered for you, so don’t worry.”
“Oh, thank you.” I press my lips to her forehead before rushing to my locker. “What’s it like out there?”
Bae slips into sweats and a baggy T-shirt as her shift is over. “The usual,” she replies with a shrug. “Dogs in heat, but full of Georges. One guy actually asked me to squash his balls with my heels.”
We both shudder in disgust.
The world is full of sick perverts, but we deal because most are Georges—generous tippers. Bae and I have given them what most of our clients want—the girlfriend experience. We’ve spun hurl stories, tricking them into thinking they’re our white knights.
We give them this, and they chum the waters—tipping big, so we pay more attention to them for the rest of the night.
Stripping isn’t about taking off your clothes—it’s about strategy. Men mistake Bae to be a delicate little flower because she’s barely five feet and weighs next to nothing. But she’s lithe like a tiger. And as for me, I dance my ass off, sticking to my motto of less is more, and they tip me big.
It’s all about the hustle. They think they’re in control, but they’re not. We’re the ones hustling them.
Tossing my bag onto the floor, I strip out of my jeans and sweater. I showered before coming here, but I still feel dirty the moment I take off my bra and thong. When I put on my uniform—because that’s what every outfit I wear in this place is—I become Tigerlily.
Tonight, I’m dancing to “Rock You Like A Hurricane” by Scorpions. I don’t ever refer to what I do as stripping. Yes, I take off my clothes, but I’m not a stripper. I’m a dancer, who just happens to take off her clothes.
I very rarely dance to pop music because it doesn’t have the same feel as a rock song. Rock songs are filled with angst, passion, and sex. And seeing as I haven’t had sex for many, many years, at least I can feel sexy when on stage.
“Have you met the new muscle?” Bae asks, fanning her cheeks as I slip into my baby blue netted crop top and matching thong.
This is a little risqué for me, as I usually don’t wear anything completely see-through, but just the mention of Bull, as I know that’s who Bae is referring to, has me wanting to rub everything I have—not literally—in his face. I still don’t understand what about him gets under my skin, but on that stage, I will show him who’s boss.
Last night when he disregarded me like nothing, and even today in this dressing room, he really pissed me off. It’s evident he doesn’t like to be touched, which is why I gave him an air dance. I thought I was being nice and respecting his boundaries, but then he goes and throws it into my face by being all up in Tawny’s face.
Fuck him.
“Earth to Lily,” Bae teases, snapping her fingers in front of me.
“Yes, I’ve seen him. He looks like another tattooed asshole with a chip on his shoulder.”
“A chip on his very muscled, very broad shoulder,” she amends, giggling when I roll my eyes.
Hunting through my makeup bag, I quickly slick myself up with oil. I then apply my booty dust, so my body shimmers. My makeup consists of silver glitter eye shadow, fake lashes, flawless foundation, and shiny red lips.
Smacking my lips together, I remove the elastic band from my hair and shake it out. As I look in the mirror, a devilish smile tugs at my mouth. I look wild and feral. I look in control.
The men out there may think they own me, but they don’t. I own them…all of them except one.
Tossing my things into my locker, I begin to stretch and warm up because I never get on stage unprepared. I can’t afford any injuries. Once my muscles are limbered up, I slip into my six-inch blue glitter heels and smile at Bae.
“How do I look?”
“God help every man out there,” she replies, grinning. “Although I’m pretty sure only one man out there needs all the help he can get.”