Dirty Secrets

by Landish, Lauren

  I head to the back studio to set up. Encore Studio is decent-sized, with three rehearsal rooms lined up along the left side of the building with the lobby and other facilities arranged on the right.

  Normally, I like snagging Studio One because it’s in the front with full glass windows, so I feel like we’re performing every time we hold class there.

  But for Stripper 101, I’m choosing Three, all the way in the back. It’s almost the same size, but with no windows, it feels cozier. My choreography for this group is a bit risqué, including some good floor work, and I’m betting the ladies will prefer the privacy over flashing their business to everyone on the sidewalk.

  I set up the music, dipping back into the nineties and naughty eighties for that slow, sexy RnB that straddles the line between sexy and slutty. Even I get the warm tingles when Janet Jackson sings Anytime, Anyplace, and I’ve danced to it before.

  That done, I set up the snack table with the sandwiches and cupcakes the maid of honor dropped off earlier. I grin at the little plastic dicks stuck in the pink frosting on top of the cupcakes, thinking that at least there’s diversity in the coloring. Although if any of the ladies does find that her man has a naturally blue dick, she should take him to a hospital.

  Eileen set up a borrowed frozen margarita machine earlier, so it looks like everything’s ready. I change out of my pink leotard and into black booty shorts and a loose tank top with a light sports bra. I could be going to yoga or the gym, but nope . . . Stripper 101 class is in session.

  “Okay, ladies. All right, remember, this isn’t about the guy. Trust me, most men are easy. If you just show up and show some interest, he’s gonna be in there like a rocket. Stripping is about the slow seduction, letting the anticipation build and creating tension. You’re dancing for your partner—”

  The blonde to my left interrupts me, squealing out, “Jason!”

  The bride blushes but finds her balls and says decisively, “Hell, yeah, I’m dancing for Jason.”

  I smile at her confidence, something the shy brunette had been lacking an hour ago. She’s beautiful, and Jason’s a lucky guy . . . who’s going to get his world rocked after this session.

  “Yes, definitely dance for Jason,” I say, giving her a wink, “but also for yourself. Find your own strength and sexiness in the moves and seduce yourself just as much as your partner. They’ll respond to seeing your arousal more than if you’re focusing on choreography or doing something ‘right’ or ‘wrong’. Just live in the moment and enjoy.”

  Pep talk complete, I hit Play on the stereo and watch as the group of twenty-something, giggly girls turn into sexy women right before my eyes. Softly, I coach them.

  “Long lines. Point your toes. Use your eyes to direct his gaze . . . that’s it, Sarah.”

  The music gets bass-heavy, the lyrics more pointed, and every woman in here is feeling like she ‘Earned It’ as they work the floor, toss their hair, and let their hands trace their curves as their hips sway.

  “Great job, ladies. Jason is one lucky man, Sarah.”

  She grins and the girls all high-five before grabbing drinks and sandwiches. Lesson’s over. I don’t mind if they toss back the tequila with abandon now. I let the music play, fiddling with the stereo so as not to intrude on their after-party.

  I’m about to pull a fade and let them have their time when the maid of honor comes over.

  “Hey, Allie? Do you think you could show us how it’s really done? I mean, I feel like I’m definitely better at this than I was an hour ago, but maybe a bit of inspiration would help? It’s not like I’m ever going to be dancer, but I’d like to seem . . . comparable?”

  She says the word questioningly, like she’s not sure if that’s what she means, but I get it. Some women freak about their guys going to strip clubs, like the stripper has something they don’t, and God knows, society encourages women to compare themselves enough.

  “First,” I tell her, “don’t compare yourself to anyone else. You do you, and you’ll be just fine. But if you want to see, I guess I can do a demonstration for you guys.”

  She nods, and I realize that the whole group was waiting to see if I’d agree. I really don’t mind. I perform all the time and enjoy it. It’s like my therapy, allowing me to live in the moment, creating a connection that threads from the music through my body to the audience.

  It’s a powerful rush, whether I’m dancing ballet or seduction or even working the pole. There’s no pole here tonight, but that’s okay too.

  The women all crowd over, sitting on the floor and leaning back against the mirror with cupcakes in hand. I click into character, hitting Play on the stereo and striding to the middle of the floor as Imagine Dragons fills the room. It’s not a routine I normally do, but I love it nonetheless.

  Before my first hair flip, they’re caught in my trap, cupcakes forgotten and mouths hanging open as I sway my hips, dropping to the floor in a slow plié and letting my knees splay wide. I stretch one leg out, letting my fingertips dance from my ankle to my hip before turning to plant my hands, lifting my hips in a sexier version of downward facing dog.

  I dance and move, tease and tantalize until the final notes of the song ring out, and I let my eyes drop for a beat before looking up through my lashes at Sarah, making the bride feel extra-special as a way of saying thank you.

  The women all clap, one hand popping against their other wrist so they don’t drop their dick cakes.

  “Wow,” the maid of honor says. “I want to do that!”

  I smile at the praise, but more importantly, seeing these women empowered and happy in their own sexiness and cheering on their fellow females is pretty amazing. It gets me through the cleanup, which actually isn’t so bad as the designated driver makes sure all the garbage is hauled out.

  I lock up the studio after the bachelorette party leaves, loving that not only did I make half the rental fee, but the maid of honor tipped me rather generously too.

  It nearly made up for my missing one of my usual performances at Petals tonight. A piece of me wishes I could just go home, put on sweats, and curl up on the couch, but I promised Dominick, my boss at Petals, that I’d be in for my late-night performance. He’d been understanding about the missed time, and he probably would’ve given me the night off if I’d asked, but I need the money, so I can’t skip the whole night even if I wanted to.

  As I walk to my car, I scan the deserted lot. There are security lights so it’s not dark, but the emptiness makes me feel vulnerable. I swear I can feel eyes watching me, following my every movement.

  On stage, that’s what I want. Here, alone in the parking lot, it feels spooky. It’s been that way since that night, even if I’ve been able to get past most of it.

  Still, I glance under my car and in the backseat, just like those Facebook warnings tell you to, and hop in, immediately locking the doors.

  I pull out of the lot, laughing at myself a bit. I’d planned to stop for a Monster Zero on my way to the club, but with the way my heart is racing, I think I’ll skip it and use the adrenaline pumping through my body to perk me up after the long day for my performance tonight.

  Chapter 2

  Dominick

  I watch her from my vantage point across the parking lot. Allie doesn’t know it, but as soon as she started teaching classes at Encore Studio, I rented a second-floor apartment in the strip mall.

  In theory, it could be a safe house. In reality, I know what it is. It’s my blind, though I’m not hunting her, merely watching her to keep her safe. Sometimes, I come here to keep an eye on her myself. Other times, I delegate the task to one of my men, but tonight, I’d wanted to be here to make sure the bachelorette party hadn’t gone astray. Judging by the smiles on everyone’s faces when they left, it’d been fine.

  She hurries to her car, looking around as though she can feel the weight of my gaze upon her. Perhaps she can.

  The thought gives me pleasure.

  I stand in the darkness, knowing my bla
ck suit and dark hair hide every trace of me through the tinted glass. I wait until she pulls away before heading to my own car.

  I don’t need the GPS tracker I had installed on her car to tell me where she’s going, but I turn the app on anyway, letting the glowing green dot of her car soothe me as I start the car. It’s not my usual Mercedes, but rather a nondescript black Lexus sedan, like so many others on the road in East Robinsville.

  At least, until I touch the accelerator and the work that my boys at the chop shop did on it comes to life and I quickly leap out of the parking lot.

  I easily catch up to her, maintaining a safe distance behind her so she doesn’t notice me, and follow her straight to Petals from Heaven. I’m a little surprised. The other times I’ve guarded her like this, she usually stops for a quick energy drink and sometimes a bite to eat.

  Tonight, though, I phone in to Logan, who’s working the back door, and he wisely answers my call on the first ring.

  “She’s coming to the back parking lot. Escort her in,” I tell him.

  I pull over to the curb, my lights already turned off so that I blend into the night. I want to keep her safe, not creep her out. I know I’m walking that line. Shit, I’m probably over it, but I also know how to make sure she doesn’t ever have to worry about her safety again.

  Before she even turns her car off, Logan is at her door, his muscular frame properly contained within his suit, just like I insist. I can read his lips, greeting her politely and offering to accompany her inside to safety without a smile but also not hard. It’s why I trust Logan to do this job more than the others. He walks that line perfectly.

  I see the flash of lights as she locks her car before tossing her keys into her bag. Logan scans the lot, keeping his eyes open for any threats and off Allie.

  Smart man.

  He sees my car and gives the slightest lift of his chin. It’s why he works for me. He’s smart enough to know better than to touch what’s mine but also skilled enough to protect it.

  I wait until they’re both inside and then move the Lexus to the front of the building, parking it in the far corner of the lot next door. I own it too, so no one will question the lengthy stay.

  In my office, I check the crowd through the one-way glass that overlooks the floor. I have security monitors, of course, new ones that cover every inch of the club to make sure nothing ever happens again like what happened before.

  But still, it’s sometimes better to look out over the club this way. It gives me a better feeling for the atmosphere. I know that nothing is amiss, or else one of the security team would have alerted me, but I like to check for myself as well.

  A man who depends solely on others is a man who is neither independent nor dependable.

  Everything seems to be in order tonight though. There’s a group of businessmen, more interested in their wheeling and dealing than the show, a bachelor party by the stage, a few couples, and multiple tables of single guys, both alone and in small groups.

  Everyone is being respectful and behaving themselves, not that I’d have it any other way in my club. Some places may get rowdy, but not Petals. I won’t allow it, and anyone who knows a damn thing about me wouldn’t dare. I don’t just run Petals with an iron fist. I run the whole damn city, though I prefer to keep that little tidbit quiet.

  Let the local media think it’s someone else. I don’t need the adulation. I just want the power. Those who need to know, do, and those who don’t should hope they never need to meet me or it’s a sure sign their life insurance is about to come due.

  The knock on the door is expected since I saw Logan climbing the stairs on the security monitor.

  “Enter,” I say simply.

  Logan comes in, his bald head freshly shaved, his coat and slacks impeccable, and his respect obvious in his stance, feet apart and hands clutched behind him.

  If I hadn’t investigated him thoroughly myself, I’d think him a military man. But Logan’s background isn’t military. No, he grew up in strict fighting gyms, respect beaten into him by trainers who pushed him to be better with every landed punch and kick.

  He’s my best fighter, though I rarely need him to use his considerable skills. Why use a precision scalpel when a dirty axe does just as effective of a job? Logan seems to appreciate my respect for his abilities too, especially when he has a fight coming up and needs to stay fresh.

  I like that about him too.

  He has dreams and plans of his own and isn’t dependent on me for some lifelong goal to be a made man in my crew. I don’t play by the old-school rules like that anyway, though there are a few of my dad’s old company men still running crews.

  No, I prefer for everyone to know that today could be their last day and act accordingly, myself included. This isn’t the old days. There are no gimmes, no free passes, nothing deserved. Only earned.

  Logan waits for my eyes to land on him, the permission to speak silently given.

  “Sir, the evening has been as expected. House’s averaged eighty percent full, bar and waitresses running acceptable delivery times, and the second round of performances is well underway. Allie is in back, getting dressed, and she said she’d be ready for her stage time at midnight. Wilson is on the front door, Thomas on the private rooms, and Gavin and I are floating the crowd.”

  He pauses, knowing I’ll double-check his report on the security monitor.

  “Good. Anything else?”

  Logan nods. “Pete came in early. Said to tell you that he knew your meeting wasn’t until later, but he wanted to enjoy the evening before, if that was okay. He’s ready whenever you are.”

  I turn back to the window, eyes searching, and then I see him sitting alone at a corner table, his back to the wall ensuring him a full view of the main floor. Pete is one of my captains, a holdover from my dad’s days, though Pete was just a soldier then.

  He’s in his early sixties now, well past his prime, but he can still admire the view, he says. He runs the crew on the South Side, making sure product moves smoothly, the violence stays at a minimum, and the streets are safe for families. When he retires in a few years, it’ll be tough to replace him.

  “Very well. Send him a couple of fingers of Yamazaki in appreciation for his patience. Tell him I’ll see him at one as arranged.”

  In the reflection of the glass, I see Logan dip his chin and leave, the door shutting softly behind him. Moments later, Sarah delivers a glass of the amber liquid to Pete. He holds it up aloft, toasting his thanks to the black windows he can see from his side, trusting that I’m watching.

  But as the bass I know all too well begins, my eyes float to the stage.

  At the press of a button, the speakers come to life, filling my office with the music. I sit in my desk chair, the black leather soft beneath me as I spin to watch the show.

  She may be dancing for the fuckers down there on the floor, the ones laying twenties on the stage to tempt her into coming closer, but as her eyes glance up to the window where I’m sitting, I know who this show is really for.

  She can’t see me, but she’s performing for me. There’s a connection between us. It might be unspoken, but it’s there, and in the months since I carried her away from the bloody shooting, it hasn’t lessened. Even though we haven’t acted on it . . . it’s there.

  I watch as she moves her lithe body from the back of the stage to the front, making eyes at every man along the rail.

  One man has a stack of green sitting in front of him, and though I can’t tell the denomination from here, it must be high-value because Allie chooses him as her mark. She drops down into a squat, her skirted ass resting on her heels and her knees spread wide.

  I growl, knowing that even though her skirt hangs between her legs, the fucker is too damn close to her pussy. She runs a black fingertip along the jeweled strap of her tiny corset bra, leaning close as she pulls it out slightly.

  The man takes the hint and slips a bill between her skin and the strap, thankfully for him, not touchi
ng her.

  Watching her this way is somehow the sweetest torture, knowing that she enjoys being onstage and is getting what she needs, both personally and financially, but wanting to kill every asshole who so much as glances at her.

  The demon on my shoulder reminds me that I like knowing that though they may watch, not a single one of them can lay a hand on her. No one ever does . . . because she’s mine. Whether she acknowledges it or not doesn’t change the fact that everyone else knows.

  Allie slowly pulls her knees closed, waiting for the man to look up and meet her eyes. With a smile that could make an angel have lustful thoughts, she hair-flips around and drops to her hands and knees, her ass pressed back toward the rail. She glances over her shoulder, her eyes full of false heat, and pulls at her hip.

  Forty dollars later, or hell, maybe it’s two hundred, she crawls away, making sure her hips swing right and left with every inch closer to the pole she gets.

  She’s like a panther, all dark hair and honey skin in the warm light. She presses her shoulder to the pole, letting her head hang down, and with a kick, she’s suddenly in a handstand, her ankles wrapped around the brass so quickly it seems like she floated there.

  There’s a collective gasp in the audience, and then Allie lets one ankle free, her leg stretching long before her foot comes to rest on the floor. With one leg on the pole and one on the floor, framed by her hands, she holds the splits position before she slowly, and with enviable control, lowers her leg from the pole to stand tall, as if what she just did was normal. She plays with the tie of her skirt, teasing it loose and then letting it drop to the stage at her feet.

  Her costume tonight is one of my favorites, the thong framed in innocent pink satin even as the black see-through lace panel and jewels show her other side, a perfect blend of nice and naughty. The pink tone even gives me hints of the sweet ballerina inside her.

  She stands proudly, letting everyone look their fill, though I suspect my eyes would never tire of her beauty, before beginning her show in earnest. It’s worthy of the fucking Cirque de Soleil, trick after trick along the pole, spinning and climbing before inverting and dropping.