“Go ahead, honey.” Momma motioned to the stage. “Show us what you’ve got.”
I sashayed to the stage and glided up the five stairs. Standing on the platform, the spotlights in my eyes, I couldn’t see a blessed thing other than the stage itself. Probably done on purpose to keep dancers from getting nervous, seeing so many eyes on them. Me, I liked the attention.
From the speakers mounted above either side of the stage, drums tapped out a beat—bump, ba-bump, bump, ba-bump—followed by a guitar. Southern rock, maybe country gone the way of blues…Marc Broussard’s “Home.” A good tune. I let my body pick up the pulse, felt it move through my hips, my shoulders, my neck. Marc began to sing, his voice deep and lush with emotion. Feeling the passion in his voice caress me, I let his words carry me across the stage.
Stopping in front of Roman and Momma, I planted my feet wide and dropped my body down, then rolled up slowly, snaking my hands up my calves, my inner thighs, my belly, my breasts, then raised them over my head, all the while my hips working the beat. I felt Roman’s eyes on me, locking onto my hands as they traveled the length of my body, boring through my clothing as if he wanted to eat me alive from the inside out.
That’s right, sweetie. Feast on me.
Moving to the music, I pulled the pins from my hair, freeing my curls. My hands swam through my locks, gathering up my hair and letting it crash around my face. I smiled at my audience as Marc sang, feeling as sultry as his voice.
Next to Roman, Momma’s head nodded, either to the beat or for my performance. I didn’t care which it was—as long as she didn’t grab a cane and yank me off the stage, she was encouraging me to go on. And I did, letting my body speak the language of foreplay, promising sweat and tangled sheets.
Marc sang, “Here we go,” and clapping hands amplified the drumbeat, making my steps bigger, bolder. Crossing my arms in front of my stomach, I grabbed the bottom of my shirt and pulled it over my head, then let it drop to the floor. Hips grinding to the music, I unclasped my bra in a fluid motion and swung it away. Freed, my breasts bounced as I danced, my nipples erect and my skin dotted with goosebumps. My amulet bobbed against my skin.
Maybe it was an icebox in the club, but I was feeling hotter than the Lake of Fire. There was no way I could strip off my jeans while dancing in low-heeled sandals, so I opted to keep them on. Instead I popped the button and unzipped my pants, then mimed peeling them off. Roman’s face told me he easily pictured the real deal. He looked like he was thinking with Mister Happy instead of his brain.
Awesome.
Crying out to his audience or his God, Marc begged that someone take him home. I dropped to my knees and arched back, my body undulating to the beat. The sound reverberated along my flesh, teasing me, seducing me, and I opened wide as I let the music fuck me.
And just like sex, it was over too fast.
I held my final pose for a moment after the song ended, thrilled by how my blood pounded, how my breath had quickened. Then I lifted myself up until I was on my knees. Still smiling my Come Here Sailor smile, I planted one foot and rose gracefully, awaiting judgment.
Roman’s eyes shone, a wolf contemplating the possibility of lamb chops. “When can you start, love?”
Feeling proud, I toted my shopping bags as I marched down the hallway of Hotel New York, searching for my room. I was looking forward to my new role as a dancer. Granted, Roman seemed to be a real ass, but I liked Momma. Maybe that’s because she’d buttered me up as she’d given me the lowdown about working at Belles.
“You’ve got terrific sex appeal,” she’d confided after my audition.
“It’s my scented body wash,” I said. “Vanilla. Does wonders for pheromones.”
“Hygiene helps.” She chuckled, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “But on you, it’s more than a smell. You radiate sex. If you’re half as confident with a live audience during your shows as you were for the audition, you’ll actually score decent stage tips.”
“I’m feeling confident. But I’ll buy some new lingerie just in case. You can’t help but feel sexy when you’re wearing new lingerie. Maybe some new shoes.”
“Shoes are wonderful. Go with a minimum of four inches. Five, if you can swing it—you’re a tiny thing and can use the extra height. Break ’em in before you show up tonight. And don’t forget to put grips on your heels. Stage floor’s polished and can be a slippery bastard. Don’t want to see you taking a spill.”
I grinned, bemused by her concern. “You really are the house mom, aren’t you?”
“It’s what I’m paid for. Actually,” she added, lowering her voice, “that’s a lie. I work for tips. But my girls are good to me. And I’m good to them. Makeup, hair, costume repair—you name it, I’ll do it. I even have spare G-strings, if you ever need one. But those are a dollar a pop. The other stuff is free.”
“Good to know.”
“You’ll do well here, honey.” Her eyes twinkled as if she had a marvelous secret. “I can tell. And you’ll find that even though we’re small, we believe in quality. And that’s not just for the entertainment.” She began ticking off points on her fingers. “We don’t use funny money here, and we’ve got an ATM on the premises. The music’s never so loud that you can’t hear your customers talking to you. Our waitresses know better than to hustle drinks, and God forbid the bartenders screw around and water things down.”
I had no idea what the “funny money” comment meant, but I just smiled like I understood and nodded my head. When in doubt, pretend you have a clue.
“Okay, let’s discuss your role. You’ll do a minimum of three shows a night, three songs per show. We don’t require lap dances, but you’ll probably want to work the floor. That and the VIP room’s where the money is.”
I nodded again, filing away her advice for later use.
“We’re a medium-mileage place for lap dances. The customers know there’s no touching your breasts or genitals, ever. You, on the other hand, can touch the customers however you want, just not their crotch. Feel free to grind, if that’s your pleasure.”
Hmm. Get them all hot and bothered, with no follow through. Maybe the place should be called Blue Balls instead of Belles.
“Fees are pretty good, all things considered,” Momma said. “Only a forty-five dollar stage fee, but it’s more if you’re late. Roman’s a bit of a dick when it comes to that, so do yourself a favor and show up on time.”
“Noted. Thanks.”
“There’s no cut for table dances, which usually go for twenty bucks for three minutes. If your men want privacy, there’s the VIP lounge upstairs with couches, and the VIP room itself. Ten dollars of every thirty-dollar couch dance goes to the house. VIP room’s two-fifty for a half hour, with fifty going to the house for a room rental fee. What you arrange for dances in the VIP room is up to you. No fixed salary, of course. All we have here are house dancers. Features are prima donnas, and they mess up the rotations and put the house girls in bad moods, so we don’t book them.”
My head was spinning from all the information. What was the difference between a table dance and a couch dance? And what were the prima donna features? Ah, screw it. I stretched my “Yes, I understand completely” grin from ear to ear. I’d figure everything out on the job.
“You’ll do the last shift, nine to three. Long dresses required before ten. Short dresses from ten till midnight. Then it’s lingerie and bikinis from twelve until closing.”
Mental note: Go on shopping spree.
“Like I said before, we’re about quality here. We don’t want Neanderthal asshole customers, so we expect our staff and dancers to follow certain