And so help me fucking God, if she lets one man that isn’t me, Archer, or Jensen touch her … she won't be able to sit for a month.
4
Mare
“Can I help you, little lady? This isn’t exactly the kind of place for a beautiful woman like yourself.” I looked into the curious eyes of the bouncer and felt my nerves ease just a bit. He was huge with a barrel chest that was covered in a tight black t-shirt, the blocky lettering ‘SECURITY’ glowing under the black lights of the entrance. Huh, I didn’t even expect that … maybe this place wasn’t as shitty as I assumed it would be based on the outside. At least they have some kind of security to keep out assholes. Hopefully.
“I was told this place was hiring,” I said, but my voice was drowned out by the pulsating music coming from inside. Bending down, the bouncer cupped his ear to hear my near shouting. With an irritated huff, I leaned up and yelled into his ear, “I need a job!”
“Ah, I’ll page the manager and see what we can do then, pretty lady.” Ignoring the endearment, I gave a grateful nod and stepped out of the way as a middle-aged man stumbled past me and nearly plowed into the bouncer. Graying hair and a wrinkled button-up that was only half tucked in had me scooting further out of the way, avoiding his gaze. The scent of alcohol wafted from the man as the bouncer glanced over his ID and let him in.
I waited, watching as a few other men—several throwing me curious and appraising glances—approached, had their IDs checked, and went inside. Get used to it, Mare, I told myself, trying to contain the shiver that worked down my spine. If you get the job, a lot more guys are going to be giving you those kinds of looks.
When the manager finally showed up, his smile was bright as he gave me a quick once over. He didn’t bother to say anything, choosing to wave me into the club and guiding me through the dark space by putting his hand on my back. The DJ announced the next dancer, his voice loud as it ricocheted off the walls. My attention was drawn from one location to the next, bouncing from the men sitting in seats surrounding the main stage to the women working. Every single waitress was clothed in a skimpy outfit, their hair and makeup done up to perfection as they strode through the room. Some found clients immediately and politely perched on their laps, their smiles tight and phony. Others carried small circular trays laden with shots and drinks, distributing them at will.
“In here, please,” the manager hollered over the noise, pushing into an ‘employees only’ door and waving me forward. When the door swung shut, the music was dampened. It was still loud, but I could at least hear myself think. Hopefully I’d be able to talk without having to shout. “Take a seat, Miss…?”
“Mary. Mary Peterson.” After five years, the name still sounded foreign to my ears, but I managed to make it roll off of my tongue as if it was my birth name. Sinking into a pleather chair, I tried not to think about what could be coating the pebbled surface as I gave the man a thin smile.
“So, Bruce said you’re looking for a job? Dancer or server?”
“Uh, I haven’t … been on a…” I trailed off, waving my hand awkwardly in the air. “Server,” I stated after finally getting my thoughts together. It didn’t go unnoticed that he hadn’t introduced himself, jumping straight to business talk.
“You’ll be required to wear one of the uniforms we have and work nights, obviously. When do you want to start?”
“Right away, if possible, and the uniform won’t be a problem,” I stated. Internally though, I cringed. A couple scraps of fabric that didn’t cover much of anything didn’t count as a uniform, but I didn’t tell him that. Mr. Grandlen, I noted from the nameplate on the desk, committing it to memory as he hummed in thought.
“Are you at least eighteen?” he asked, eyeing me.
“I’m twenty-three,” I answered honestly.
“A bit old,” he grumbled, “but we did just have a few girls call out tonight, so if you’re up for starting now, you can. We have a collection of uniforms in the back. One of the other girls can get your hair and makeup presentable. Come on.” I ignored the comment about my age. Twenty-three was not fucking old, but I supposed to this man, the younger the women, the more time they had to work the stage. It didn’t even surprise me that he hadn’t asked for any kind of identification. Even with the bouncer at the front door, he’d just proven all of my earlier thoughts about this place. Bottoms Up Gentlemen’s Club wasn’t exactly in the part of town that inspired by-the-book procedures.
Hopping up, I couldn’t stop the surge of hope building within my chest. This might actually work, giving me the chance to come up with the money, after all. Sacrificing my dignity was second to living on the streets. I had done that once before, briefly, and I wasn’t up for doing it again, so I hurried after the manager, following him back into the hall.
I hesitated for a moment when something out of the corner of my eye caught my attention, a flash of … I didn’t even know, but when I looked, it was already gone. That tingling sensation appeared, niggling at the back of my mind. I scanned the hallway, but there was nothing. Knock it off, I scolded myself, you’re just on edge; of course, people would be looking at you here. Shaking my head, I darted down the hall to where the manager had stepped up to a nondescript red door.
“Alright, let’s see what we’ve got.” Not bothering to knock, Mr. Grandlen shoved into what seemed to be the dressing room. Based on the girl sitting at the counter who didn’t even glance up as we entered, it didn’t appear to be all that uncommon. “Perfect for a Mary,” he paused, chuckling to himself. “Holy Mary,” he muttered, shaking his head before lifting a scrap of fabric and holding it out to me. “Here, put this on. Shoes might not fit, but everything else seems close enough. If the shoes don’t fit, just stuff something in the toe of ‘em. Should keep ya good until you can buy your own.”
My eyes widened at the outfit he held, the plaid skirt not even long enough to be considered underwear, accompanied by a tied-front white button-up shirt and tie. Catholic schoolgirl, I realized as he held out a pair of thigh high stockings and black Mary Jane stilettos. I took the items with a strained grimace of a smile and shuffled behind one of the curtains to change. This is what being honest and trying to do the right thing gets you: possible eviction and the death of your pride.
The skimpy outfit layered nicely over a white lace bra and underwear set—those, at least, were my own, a gift from an old coworker from Brutello’s whose boyfriend had bought them in the wrong size. I wasn’t sure if I should count my blessings or be irritated at my luck, having chosen the day that I started working at a strip club to wear them. At the very least, they worked well together, and I wouldn’t be told to go without. The random internal commentary quieted as I slipped on the shoes I’d been given, noting with relief that they fit and didn’t hurt.
“You done in there? Need to do your hair and makeup before you can go out on the floor.” The woman calling out sounded tired, irritation blatant in her tone. “Ah, there you are.” Her eyes appraised my outfit quickly. “Yeah, they’ll love you. Skinny little pale thing like you, hardly looking old enough to work here.”