The Hunting Town (Brothers Book 1)

by Elizabeth Stephens

  I clear my throat. “Dixon, where should I…”

  “I shouldn’t have said what I did last week. It was none of my business and frankly, I don’t care. While you’re in this building you’re my employee and I’ll respect you as such so long as you do your job. We don’t need to be friends and I don’t need to know anything else about you.” He licks his full charcoal lips and when they part, I see pink.

  His gaze holds mine in a way that’s fixed and level, even as his feet shuffle uneasily. I can’t see the hall at all past his breadth. I can’t see anything but him.

  “Understood?” Every time the man talks it’s like a punch straight to the gut. I physically flex my stomach to help steel myself against the impact of his words but they still sweep over me like a wave and I’m almost, but not quite, swept away.

  “That sounds good.” My pitch is higher than normal and I hope he doesn’t notice. I don’t want him to think he’s had any effect on me whatsoever. “Thanks for letting me know. Where should I go to get ready?”

  Dixon’s eyelashes are naturally curled and inky black, like his eyes, which betray nothing but suspicion as they narrow against me. He nods once. “This way…”

  “Oh hey, Dixon. I didn’t know you were in today.”

  I spin and see Donnie on this side of the black curtain. He winks at me and I smile in response. He’s a nice guy, if not a little creepy, but hey. I guess it comes with the line of work. “I am,” Dixon says shortly.

  Donnie’s face falls and he pivots. “Okay then, Sara why don’t you wait there and I’ll be back with Marilyn to show you the ropes.”

  “I got it.” Dixon’s voice is brutal and intimidating.

  Donnie gives him a surprised look before saluting and disappearing behind the curtain. “Whatever you say boss.”

  “So,” I turn to him and rub my hands together, not so much cold as I am uncomfortable. The man just seems so flawed and scarred, but I won’t be drawn into it. This is a job. Just a job. “When am I on?”

  “When we’re finished here.” He points to the curtain separating us from the bar. “No customers come back here under any circumstances, and no men are allowed back there.” He points to the second curtain to my left that the rude woman disappeared through earlier.

  “Not even you?”

  “Not even me. The dressing room is where you will spend most of your time though. In there, you’ll find a locker with your name on it. The combination to the lock is 0-0-35-89-48.”

  “Wait just a second. Sorry. Let me write that down.” I pull out my phone and quickly make a note of it.

  As I go to put my cell away however, Dixon opens his mouth, as if he’s about to say something. When he doesn’t I prod, “Something wrong?”

  He shoves his hands into his pockets and grunts, “That your kid?”

  On my lock screen is a picture of Brant and me with our faces pressed together. In it, we’re both laughing and that makes me laugh out loud then as I recall the reason. “Yeah. That’s my baby boy. I took it at the park last weekend. Brant was obsessed with this woman’s dog. Every time he saw it he went completely mental…” I realize I’m rambling and cut myself off with a hard swallow. “Sorry.”

  Dixon stares at the phone murderously until I shove it back in my purse, then says, “The dressing room is where you’ll change before you go on. There are stairs that lead directly from the dressing room to the stage so you won’t have to go all the way around. I don’t like my dancers on the floor.”

  Confused by the direction of the conversation, my mind is slow to catch up. My fingers reach out and touch his arm – my polite way of interrupting – but his reaction is severe: he tenses beneath me. I jerk back.

  “Sorry,” I say again for the second time in sixty seconds. Some people just don’t like to be touched, but with him, I feel it’s a whole lot more than that. “Donnie told me that after I strip on the big stage, I’ll need to give private viewings in the booths. If they’re on the other side of the bar, then how will I get there if you don’t want me out with the customers?”

  Dixon’s teeth clench and he seems angry again, though I can’t possibly imagine what I’ve done this time. “You’ll go back to the dressing room, put on one of the robes, then go to the private rooms directly. Don’t waste time on the floor.”

  “You make it sound dangerous.” I smile at him weakly.

  He doesn’t smile back. “Cocktail waitresses are on the floor. Dancers are on the stage or in the private rooms. You’ll soon learn that dancers have celebrity status within these walls and you are naturally beautiful. You’ll attract a lot of attention.” His inflection doesn’t carry the weight of a compliment as other men’s do. Instead, he speaks as a fact – and not a very interesting one. Meanwhile, my heartbeat races. So what if a hot guy thinks I’m hot? Get it together!

  “Marcel stands at the front door and watches what happens in the private rooms on his iPad. He intervenes where necessary, but it can take him a few seconds to react if things at the door are busy.”

  I nod, understanding what he doesn’t say directly: yes, it can be dangerous. “Where will you be?” I immediately regret asking, though try to keep my expression passive so he doesn’t read any expectation into it.

  He cocks his head. “In the office. Working.”

  I smile and make a face. “I’m sure you don’t watch the shows. They probably got old after the first one.”

  He looks surprised again, black brows arching over his forehead, the color of espresso and like an espresso, he exudes warmth and a certain lightness, as if a switch has been flipped under his skin. I tell myself to stop looking at him – focus only on his eyes, but I’m still distracted by the fire in them.

  “No, not even the first was interesting. Dancing isn’t my thing.”

  “Dancing or stripping?”

  His arms cross over his chest and he stares down at me furiously enough that I want to pull away, but don’t. Instead, I stand my ground because if I don’t now I never will. Not when every interaction with him is pure warfare.

  He opens his mouth to speak, but a woman’s voice interjects, “Dixon, don’t be so tough on the new girl. Even I know you like watching the dancers sometimes.” The rude woman peeks out at us from behind the curtain – the one reserved for ladies only – this time wearing only a pair of thong underwear and pasties beneath an open robe. She’s so naked and though I was wearing even less last time I was in the building, I still feel flushed.

  She waltzes up to Dixon and leans against him, pressing her torso to his while she hangs off of his shoulder. “Then again, maybe it’s just me.”

  She winks at me while Dixon’s upper lip curls back to reveal white teeth. Other than that, he doesn’t seem to mind her leaning on him. I doubt most men would. I wish that didn’t irk me but I feel a momentary pinch of self-consciousness when I remember the last time I was here and how Dixon reacted when I had on even less in front of him than this woman does now. He was loathe to touch me, and would barely look at me. I haven’t been touched by a man since I took on Brant and though it’s only been about a month, it feels like years.

  Dixon mumbles something to the woman under his breath and my efforts to eavesdrop are thwarted when a second voice cuts in. “You must be Sara.” I turn to face an open palm and the pretty woman standing behind it. “I’m Marilyn. Sorry for keeping you, sweetheart, but Laurent was giving one of my waitresses a hard time so I had to straighten him out. Plus, it looks like you had lots of company with Dixon and Mindy here waiting on you. Now let’s get you outfitted and up on that stage.”

  Marilyn draws the curtain back and ushers me inside the fitting room, which is long and narrow, lined on one side by a sequence of eight vanities that are exactly how they feature in fiction: exposed light bulbs surrounding gold-gilded mirrors. Everything is gold, even the short rolling seats and the tabletops. The walls, ceiling and floor are all black. All in all, it’s not the hovel I exp
ected. In fact, if you changed all the curtains to red it would kind of remind me of a 1950s burlesque nightclub.

  Marilyn starts into the room after me, but before she enters, Dixon catches her elbow. “I don’t want her going full nude on stage.” He doesn’t look at me as he says that.

  “You got it, boss.” Marilyn gives him a short salute – same as Donnie had – rips the curtain closed and gestures for me to follow her towards the lockers all the way in the back.

  “Not that I mind but, why doesn’t he want me going full nude?” I say as she pops open a locker with my name on it.

  She beams and between chocolate cheeks, her square teeth couldn’t be whiter. With hair cropped close to her scalp and a full set of curves, evident beneath her black jeans and black, thick-strapped tank top, she may be the most beautiful woman in the bar.

  “If you keep some clothes on, more guys will want you for private dances. That’s where the bar – and you – earn the most money. The bar keeps seventy percent, but still, at three hundred plus a pop, that’s decent income for an hour’s work. Now why don’t you take off your clothes and let’s see which of these will fit you.”

  My cheeks burn as I return from the lockers – not because I’m ass naked in a room full of six other women in robes, but because for a second I thought that Dixon might have been keeping me in clothes for more altruistic reasons. I guess not. Glancing down at the stack of clothes Marilyn’s laid out on the vanity, I drag my fingers across the sequined patterns.

  “These are yours,” she says, gesturing to them as she sweeps her gaze up and down over my white, shaved skin. “They’re brand new and should fit someone who’s thirty-two, twenty-five, thirty thirty-four.”

  “Wow.” I smile at her as I pluck a pair of gold hot pants from the stack. “You’re good.”

  She winks. “I’ve been doing this for the past eight years, sweetheart. Now let’s get you up on that stage before the dogs get too rabid.”

  And before I know what’s happening I’m walking up a short flight of black stairs wearing eight inch heels, a white crop top with a deep V, and glittering gold boy short underwear. My heart is beating fast and the grin I’ve got on my face feels stretched like a mask, but I’m ready. At least, I think.

  I push the curtain back and step out onto the stage, hands planted on my hips. I comb my fingers back through my hair as the DJ introduces me to the crowd as Sara Sweetheart. Donnie told me that most of the other girls choose stage names that aren’t their own. I didn’t really see the point. This is me.

  The room has over thirty four-to-six-person tables, all of which are packed, as is the bar area in the back that’s crowded with dozens of bar stools. Too many to count. The whole room is clapping, whistling and cheering my name. I’m nervous to speak in front of so many people, but as the music quiets and the cheering follows suit, I know I’m expected to say something. I swallow hard and approach the stripper pole, taking it in one hand.

  Then I see him. All the way in the back at the mouth of the hall that leads to his office, Dixon is leaning against a wall with his arms crossed, nursing a beer. I grin a little broader and my heart does a tiny summersault that might have annoyed me if I didn’t feel so suddenly sure. I’m reminded that I’ve done this before and I remember that instant when Dixon’s stoic expression broke. He hadn’t wanted to hire me, but I’d changed his mind. I did it then against an unwilling audience. I can do this now.

  “How are y’all doing tonight?” I say. The men in the room respond with cheers and the whole first row – just feet from me – bangs on the bar abutting the stage. These are the premium paying customers and the ones I’m supposed to cater toward, but I can’t seem to unhinge my gaze from the man standing at the back of the room who, earlier tonight, told me he didn’t watch strippers dance.

  “My name is Sara, I’m twenty-five years old, and I’m a Southern girl born and bred. I’m a little nervous, because this is my first time…” The men erupt again. “But I’ll do my best to give y’all a great show tonight. Are y’all ready to see me dance?”

  They cheer and I give them a few more sassy remarks before the music comes on and I begin. Marilyn gave me twenty minutes, but I’m only dancing for about ten when the first customer is removed from the room by Marcel. No one else seems to notice and I can’t imagine why he was expelled – he hadn’t been jumping at me like some of the guys sitting up front, or spraying beer towards the stage like the drunks seated at a table a few rows back. Marcel reenters the room and goes straight to Dixon who gestures to two other men in the room. Marcel promptly removes the first – he has his hand down his pants, and so does guy number two. Gross.

  I finish off my routine by prowling around the edge of the stage so that men can slip dollar bills into my clothes. Most manage to do so without incident, but one guy sticks his sweaty fingers all the way down my shorts to cup my ass and another does the same to my tit. I don’t make it past him before hands grab him and the other guy from behind and throw them from their chairs. This time, it’s Dixon.

  “What are the rules about touching, gentlemen?” he snarls, looking back at Marcel as the massive bouncer scoops the two men off of the floor and drags them to the doorway.

  The kid I come to has big, wide eyes and flushed cheeks. As he rises a little out of his seat to reach money towards me, I can see he’s got an erection. He’s careful though, slipping the money into the strap of my boy shorts. The last guy’s dollar bill I take between my teeth before sliding it salaciously into the front of my bra.

  My routine is over, but Dixon’s taken one of the now empty seats, so as a final number, I crawl right in front of him and place my hands on the bar – not allowed. I lean forward, hinging at the hips until I’m low enough to take his beer into my mouth – definitely not allowed. I take it deep into my throat, remembering how much fun he’d been to tease and for a moment I’m having fun myself. Surprise lights up his face as I suck his bottle off in the way I’d suck a man.

  The surrounding guys have gone nuts, thrusting their bottles towards me and waving fives, then tens, then twenties, into the air hoping to claim my attention. I don’t give it to them though. Instead, Dixon holds onto the bottle as I pop it free of my mouth. I slide up to standing and when Dixon reaches into his wallet and pulls out a fifty dollar bill, I turn from it proudly. Let him think what he wants about me – wasn’t that what I said? Somehow now I’m determined to change the record.

  I’m thrilled that my performance seems to have warmed some of the girls to me. They congratulate me when I step back into the dressing room and immediately begin asking for pointers when they see how many bills are tucked into my underwear. Apparently I got more than average.

  I don’t have time to count it though when Marilyn comes into the room. “Wowza, sweetheart. You have got some killer moves.” She’s holding a pen and pad and flips through several pages. “You have nine requests for private dances. Six for an hour, and the rest for half that. One guy even said he’d be willing to pay fifty bucks more to go first. You won’t be able to get through all of them so guys will have to go see other girls or come back later in the week. This is a huge boost for the business. Dixon will be pleased.”

  She gestures to the robe hanging on my vanity and I try not to smile at what she’s said – not the first part, but just that last bit. “Come on then. We don’t have time to dilly dally. Get your robe on and head to booth three.”

  Dixon

  The girl is confident, I’ll give her that much. She’s also either reckless or naïve and I’m willing to bet on the latter. The kid’s got no idea what she’s done. The men who had front row seats to the show she just put on with my beer bottle are thirstier than ever and the moment she steps off stage a line forms at the bar and I head straight back to my office.

  I open my computer and bring the cameras up. I tab over the ones that show the bar and the outside entrances until I get to the screens for private viewing. There are six r
ooms, but typically only three are occupied – Saturday is the only day they ever fill up. Wednesday three is the max. The booths are empty while the main act was on stage, and they remain empty for a few minutes more until men file into three of them, and then fill the rest.

  The girl is single handedly bringing in double my typical weekday business and I want to feel shock but I don’t. Instead, all I feel is a ringing in my chest that I had been able to fill with alcohol – until I watched her dance. I shouldn’t have done that. All I could think of as I watched her spin around that pole was the incident from the other day, when I’d seen her at the grocery store.

  She’d been pushing her cart, a latte-colored boy seated in the front basket shaped like a car, and she’d been pushing it fast. The kid’s fists were up in the air and his tiny feet were kicking; he’d been shrieking and laughing and she’d been laughing along with him as she finally loaded her groceries and her kid into her car. She’d pushed the cart away, careful not to move too far away from her vehicle. And as she looked into the backseat window, making faces against the glass, she’d just looked so damn happy. The kind of happiness I’ve never known. The kind of happiness to kill for.

  Watching her through my computer screen now as she enters the third room, I pinch my fingers over her face and zoom in. The smile she wears isn’t the one I saw in the parking lot, but it does exude happiness. Maybe that’s why the first guy she sees doesn’t ask her to strip, but just to sit there and talk. I watch them for the full hour as she takes a seat beside him on the black C-bench instead of climbing up onto the mini-stage and shaking her ass on the pole, like the other girls are.

  At the end of those sixty minutes, he reaches out to hug her and I grip the arms of my chair, struggling to remain in it. But rather than touch him and violate one of the only rules I gave her, she holds up both hands. A few words are exchanged between them and he reaches for his wallet but she waves her hands. It bothers me to no end that she won’t take extra money from him either.