Surprise registers on Monica’s pretty face. “Dee must really like you. The last woman who crossed her was fired. She left in tears.”
My brows go up, unease pricking at me. Lucky that Dee likes me, even if I don’t know why.
“Well, come on, slowpoke. Better get to work on your section.” Monica thanks a customer as she puts his tip into the tip jar behind the bar. It’s already half-filled with bills. She sets an assortment of drinks on a tray for me. “You’re filling in for Vicky in the left section.”
At least I’m not in the section closest to the stage. That section always seems to have the creepiest guys.
I set to work, weaving my way through the tables, dropping off drinks and avoiding wandering hands as I go.
Apparently, there’s a rule that none of the customers are allowed to touch the strippers, but it doesn’t seem to apply to the hostesses. The leering stares of men make me feel as if surrounded by hungry predators. I’m working a nine-hour shift. I need a shower.
A week into the job, and it still surprises me how huge this place is. There are doors to private rooms everywhere, and halls that lead to more of them, plus a whole second floor with another stage. It’s a maze you could easily get lost in if you aren’t careful.
Now and again, I still get the feeling I’m being watched, but when I glance around, I don’t notice anyone who’s watching me any more than usual.
The next few hours crawl by and my feet are killing me in these heels. How I haven’t broken my ankle, I have no idea, but I’m starting to understand what Monica meant when she once told me that she thought high heels must have been invented by a man with a sick sense of humor.
My break finally comes, so I serve up the last drink, setting a whiskey down for a man in a suit, my eyes on the table. He thanks me.
“You’re welcome, sir,” I mumble, without lifting my head. “Enjoy the show.”
I return to the bar with a fifty dollar tip from him and have to keep myself from whistling in surprise.
That’s more money than anyone’s ever given me at one time. In the Colony, we don’t get paid. Everything goes to the church, and the leaders decide where to spend it, supplying everyone with what they need.
I put the tip in the jar. The club has things set up so that, at the end of the night, the tips everyone receives are divided up between us.
“That man just tipped a fifty,” I whisper to Monica.
She shakes her head at me with a smile.
“What? Oh, no, what did I do now? Did I get the orders mixed up?”
“No. Why do you do that, though?”
“Do what?” Great. I’ve done something stupid again, haven’t I?
“When you serve a woman customer, no problem, but when it’s a guy, you get all weird with him. You won’t look him in the face and you get all mousy. It’s…interesting.”
Oh my Lord. Am I still that bad? I’ve been trying not to do that. There’s no good answer I can give. I’m not about to tell her I’ve spent almost my entire eighteen years in a Colony where women are forbidden to raise their eyes to or speak to a male without permission.
When I left the Colony, I’d promised myself I wouldn’t be a doormat. I’d speak up, not stay silent and just let things happen. Not speaking up, made things worse and got people I cared about hurt. Never again.
So why am I still doing it?
Cheeks hot, I take a leaf out of Dee’s book and do what I’ve seen her do when she doesn’t want to answer someone—shrug and give that little shake of my head.
“Okay,” Monica says as she wipes down the bar. “Keep your secrets, mystery girl. I’ll get it out of you eventually.”
Heavens, I hope not.
“The little subbie act works for you, but you need to show more skin. Come here.”
“Er…subbie act?” I join her behind the bar.
“Yeah. The whole submissive, ‘Yes sir,’ thing. It suits you, but you’d make better tips if you throw in a smile now and again.” She undoes two of the buttons on my shirt. “That’s better.”
I look down at myself. My cleavage is almost falling out.
Only two buttons on the shirt are still done up, preventing my boobs from being exposed to the world. I cover myself with my arms, my face heating from my neck to my hairline. “Monica, that’s too much.”
“No such thing, honey. The more skin you show, the better the guys like it.”
I swear I’ll never get used to this. I’m not in a position to leave money sitting on the table, though.
Sighing, I make my way back around the bar and order a bag of overpriced pretzels and a drink.
“What’s your pleasure?” Monica grabs a glass for me.
“I’ll have a soda. The brown kind.”
She snorts. “You mean a Coke?”
My stomach tightens at her teasing look. I nod and pull open the pretzels with my teeth.
“Seriously? You’ve never had a Coke? What are you, a Martian?”
My insides churn. I take a deep calming breath. My lack of knowledge of the outside world isn’t going to expose me. No one is going to figure out I’m an escapee from a secret society because I’ve never had a soda.
Again, there’s no good response, so I shrug.
Monica just laughs it off. Then she looks at her watch.
“Oh, shit.” She grabs a couple of trays for drinks and signals for Sylvia, the other bartender, to cover for her. “Time to get the boys their drinks.”
“Boys?” I get the feeling it’s an expression; no way is she talking about kids.
“Yep.” She grabs a couple of bottles of liquor, each containing enough strong booze to put down a pachyderm. “The bikers. They’re in a meeting in their private rooms.”
I stare at my pretzel, trying to work out what she means, but not daring to ask. The word bikers makes me think of men on those fancy racing bicycles I’ve seen people ride in the street, but somehow I know that’s not what she’s talking about. There’s a flush to her cheeks and a huge grin on her face. Until she looks at me, and then she cocks her head.
“You don’t know what a biker is, do you?”
I avoid her eyes and sip my Coke. I love the sweet taste, and it’s neat the way the fizz dances across my tongue and down my throat. I’ve never had anything like it.
Monica shakes her head. “Girl, you don’t know what you’re missing. I swear, being hot must be a requirement for getting patched in.”
“Patched in?”
She nods as she finishes loading up her trays. “They’re members of the Devil’s Outlaws MC. Dee’s husband Snake is one, too. Even he’s hot, and he’s like fifty.”
Okay, I’m this close to asking her to let me serve them so I can get a look at these gorgeous bikers for myself. Guilt stabs at me for my lustful thoughts. To the isolation chamber for me.
Besides, I know I’d only end up acting stupid around them.
Monica works as she talks, moving so fast I wonder if she has some of that super-speed I’ve heard about.
“Fast,” I compliment her.
“Yeah, well, that’s the thing with those guys. You don’t make them wait if you know what’s good for you.”