by Lulu Pratt
“Don’t you want a better one?” one of them sniffed, as though he was here on his own dime and not mine. It really was something, to be indignant that your free ride wasn’t finer.
“I like this section. It’s got… good service.”
“Shut up, guys,” Colin insisted. “A new girl’s coming on.”
The lights overhead swiveled and went pink, and indeed, another performer made her way onto the stage, dripping in crystal and pink feathers like some kind of Old Hollywood starlet. She appeared to be black and Asian, with flared hips and large, possibly fake, breasts and dark eyes that would drown weaker men. She was stunning and all eyes were on her. Several of the men at my table made sounds like they were physically wounded by her beauty, and others shifted to cover the tent rising in their pants.
She dipped backwards, and just like that, the boa that had been covering her top half dropped, revealing her pert tits. Another swivel around the pole, and her skirt disappeared. She stood statuesque in just a crystallized thong, sparkling heels, and nothing else.
Just as I was beginning to grow bored, she glided to the edge of the stage and took the stairs down to the ground level, much to the excitement of the rest of the crowd. The performer slinked through them, and the men’s gazes followed with an almost comically animated unison, like their eyeballs had bulged out and gotten stuck to her ass cheeks.
When she made a hard left, it occurred to me what kind of trajectory she had in mind, and I leaned against the seat with exasperation. Of course she was coming to me. I’m sure somebody tipped her off backstage, said, ‘hey, the big boss is here tonight, go make a good impression.’
Every man — and some of the women — in the room were staring at me with unabashed envy, but all I could do was manage a polite smile as the stripper halted in front of my table, stretching her arms out to grab me by the collar.
“Hello,” she cooed in a thick accent.
Before I could respond in turn, she climbed onto the table, hoisting herself onto all fours and diving her head to me, ass uplifted in the air. She was mesmerizing, strong, confident.
And yet, I didn’t give a damn.
I reached into my pants and pulled out a stack of bills, choosing to discreetly hand them to her, as opposed to tucking them into her thong or doing something more ostentatious. I hated when men “showered” performers in money. It made the girls have to scamper around to pick up the bills, which was unnecessary and, I thought, a bit mean-spirited.
“You’re great,” I said with a nod.
“Would you like a dance?”
“No, no thank you.”
Somebody at my table groaned with exasperation, and the dancer climbed down from the table, appearing confused but otherwise unaffected.
“You’re crazy, man,” Shane grumbled. “Did you see that chick? I mean, fuck!”
“Yeah, she was nice.”
“Nice?!”
I lapsed into silence, uninterested in a discussion of her anatomy. I had eyes. I knew the dancer was hot. I also knew that when I looked at her, I didn’t feel excited. No part of me jumped at the sight of a simply attractive girl. At this age, there needed to be something else in the mix to really draw my attention.
She needed to be…
Kiki.
Speaking of which, where was she?
I cast about the club for an answer, and soon saw her rushing from table to table, frazzled by the sheer number of orders. Though frustrated, I resolved to sit back and wait until she came over again, in the interest of not appearing quite so desperate for her attention.
Then I saw a male patron at another table reach out and try to grab her ass.
“Knock it off, pal!” I shouted, standing up from the table before I knew what had gotten into me.
People’s heads rotated away from the stage and to me. Fuck.
I gulped, and continued, “Nobody touches the waitresses in Dazzlers. House rule. Apologize and then tip her.”
The man sneered at me but did as he was told, passing over a bill to Kiki, who threw a grateful expression in my direction. I made a ‘come hither’ motion with my palm, and she obliged, tucking the money into her waistband and returning to our table.
“You can sit down,” she giggled, holding her tray against her hip. “And, for the record, I can take care of myself.”
I wanted to reply, but knew that we couldn’t have a real conversation with a group of horndogs watching our every move.
“Gentleman, scram,” I told my table.
They looked fairly peeved, but stood up all the same.
“Come in,” I said to Kiki, patting the seat next to me. “I just decided your shift is over.”
She eyeballed my hand. “Does that mean I’ve made my penance?”
“Yup, you’re off the hook.”
“Well… okay. But I’m only sitting down because I’m fucking exhausted and my feet hurt.”
“Fair enough.”
She slid into the booth, stopping a few feet short of me, careful to leave room between us.
I flagged down another waitress, and shouted over the music, “Please get my friend a water and some aspirin. And the section needs a new server immediately.”
The woman nodded and hastened away in search of the goods.
Kiki watched the whole exchange in silence, then said, “You know, ordering people around, using your money and all that — it’s not endearing. I’ve been on the other side of that, not even five minutes ago. Money isn’t impressive. It’s just a thing you have.”
This was gonna be a tough nut to crack. Usually, I had to make a few gestures of interest and a woman fell for me. This was proving to be a bit trickier.
“Okay, how does one impress you, Kiki?”
She shrugged. “I doubt a guy like you can. You’ve been given everything all your life. You don’t know how to work for shit, even a girl’s attention.”
“Well then, allow me to try.”
Scratch “tough” and “tricky.” This would be downright fun.
CHAPTER 9
Kiki
OKAY, CONFESSION time. I was fully, totally aware that Tate was a pompous asshole whose family had basically caused the demise of my own, that he had more money than Croesus, that he didn’t know the word ‘no.’
And I was still kinda loving the moment, loving all the attention he was lavishing on me.
Is that wrong?
Nobody ever paid attention to me, and here was this billionaire, looking at me, in a room full of beautiful women, as though I was the only one there.
“How’s work been tonight?” he asked, fingers skimming across the table.
“I’d rather have been in bed.”
“Oh yeah? Doing what, exactly?”
I scowled, but answered honestly. “Reading or journaling.”
“Are you a writer?”
Why was he so interested? “No, it just helps me figure things out. It’s where I make plans for the future, and think through ideas.”
“What kind of plans?”
“Never mind, it’s stupid.”
He moved an inch closer to me, and his dark blond hair was turned bronze under the red lights.
“Why do you have up so many defenses?”
I scoffed. “Why do you?”
He laughed without making a sound, and replied, “Touché.”
What the fuck was going on? I was sitting next to the hottest, richest guy in town, and we were, like, having banter. I wasn’t a girl who bantered. Why did Tate, owner of Dazzlers, care about my silly little dreams?
He’s a conman, a sage voice in my head reminded me. This is his game.
That was true enough. Casinos are designed to get people to lower their guard. That’s why they pump in fresh oxygen, keep bright lights on twenty-four hours, seven days a week and never install any clocks or have windows to the outside world. It’s a maze meant to keep you running and running until you realize you’re either broke or dead.
Could Ta
te be a walking, talking casino, tricked out with distractions advanced enough to get even me to play the game? No, I wasn’t that naïve. I might be a virgin, but I knew a come-on when I saw one.
Anaia, who Tate had sent for water and aspirin, returned with my items, slipping them to me with a wink and a whisper.
“He’s cute. Have fun,” she giggled under her breath before returning to work.
Great, everybody was in on it.
I swallowed the aspirin and sat uneasily on my hands, trying to keep still.
“Do you like the show?” he asked.
“They’re very talented,” I replied, hoping my tone was diplomatic.
“You’re not required to like it, you know. I enjoy your honest opinions.”
I turned to face him in full, and was momentarily caught off-guard by his profile in the dim fog. Those blue eyes peered out at me with deep perception, his full lips wet with vodka.
“Okay, then honestly? I don’t know why you’d rent out a theater to strippers and call it a ‘show.’ There’s a million strip clubs in Vegas. Putting one inside a casino doesn’t make you special.”
Tate took this in stride, but now he’d opened the floodgates, so I battered on.
“And hiring a show of all Asian women, and doing the advertising you guys did? It’s a little creepy. And sort of racist.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “I noticed that on the way in. You’re right.”
“I am?”
“Yeah. Not very twenty-first century of us. I’ll get my team on it. Any other complaints, while we’re here?”
I held back a smile. “What are you, HR?”
“Think of me as HR Extreme.”
“Is that your official job title?”
“Yeah, hadn’t you heard? It’s CEO and HR Extreme. I’m a man of many hats.”
Snorting at his bad joke, I replied, “I can’t imagine what those hats would look like.”
“Oh, you know. Probably a fancy top hat.”
“Like Mr. Peanut?”
“Precisely.” He grinned, smile lines creasing around his mouth.
Why do the bad ones always have to be so fucking cute? It’s like the universe just won’t play fair. It should be the social workers, the teachers, the veterinarians who get the hot genes. Rich boys with daddy’s cash deserve to look like Mr. Toad.
But here was Tate, the sexiest, douchiest guy in town, looking at me as though I was something special, and the laughs between us felt real. I felt my earlier anger at him begin to dissolve as those blue eyes probed deeper into mine. Why couldn’t I just stick to my guns and call this guy out for the entitled asshole he was?! Ugh, Kiki!
The lights shifted around us, turning a deeper red, signaling an act change. The classic woo woo woo siren noise of a strip club DJ sounded, and Tate and I grinned at one another in recognition.
“They’ve had this same sound cue on a loop since 1980.”
“Which is weird,” Tate replied, “Because it sounds like some kind of sinking submarine. Not exactly sexy.”
“Mayday, mayday, tits alert!”
He slapped the table with a laugh, and his hand brushed against mine. We both went rigid at the contact, and then, much to my surprise — and yeah, okay, a little delight — he let his fingers remain on the table, just barely grazing my own, like that painting of God and Adam, a single finger reaching to the skies to make contact.
Neither of us commented aloud on the fingers, just smiled knowingly at one another. Fuck, was I really doing this? Was I going to be seduced by the last man in the world I would’ve given the time of day to?
Suddenly, confetti burst from the ceiling, dousing our heads in paper bits.
“Did the show just end?” I called out to Tate over the cheers of the audience.
He pulled pink tissue paper off an eyelash. “It must have. I guess we got… distracted.”
His fingertips began to move over my hand, one index tracing my knuckles, as the air around us fluttered with the explosion.
“How,” he murmured, in a low voice, “would you like to get a little more distracted?”
My pulse quickened, and a throb reverberated through my vagina. I don’t know what I would’ve done next, because without warning, there was a wail through the DJ’s mic, causing Tate and I to momentarily start back in surprise.
“Attention, ladies and gentlemen,” the voice boomed. “The show’s now over, but the party will go on. This theater is now a nightclub, and we’ll be spinning sweet tunes all night long. Stick around for a hot and sexy time.”
I looked to Tate and imitated the DJ’s voice. “Hot and sexy time.”
He laughed, and joined in. “Oh, baby, give it to me, pussycat.”
We doubled over, guffawing at our own silliness and the generally foolish nature of the damn show.
“This guy’s totally been DJing here since the seventies, right?” I asked once I’d regained my breath.
“Actually, yeah. His name’s Martin — my dad hired him when Dazzlers first got running. He played records out in the floor area, but when we got a speaker system, my dad kept finding new places for him to work in the casino, just because he couldn’t bear to get rid of Screamin’ Martin.”
I flinched at the reminder of Tate’s father. I’d been doing so good at blithely ignoring Tate’s seedy origins. I mean, in fairness, my family tree isn’t exactly a grand oak, but at least we weren’t rotten to the core.
But it’s a story about his dad doing something nice, my mind, desperate to forgive Tate, countered. He was making sure a guy kept his job.
The more pragmatic side of my brain shot back with, Yeah, probably so Screamin’ Martin could come gamble and drink away the day. That was a familiar enough tale.
All I wanted was to get out of my head, to stop weighing rights and wrongs for one solitary fucking second and just… exist.
“You wanna dance?” I asked Tate out of nowhere.
“Hell yeah.”
I slid out of the booth, Tate following close behind me. I could feel his body behind mine, the heat emanating off him. Together, we made our way to the center of the floor, where tables and chairs were being shifted away to make room for hundreds of bodies. With a little twinge of regret, I mentally apologized to the other waitresses for not helping them strike the seating areas. Guess I’d have to make it up to them some other time.
A set of hands was on my waist, and they spun me around — it was Tate, and he was so close to me I thought my skin might catch fire.
He pressed into the small of my back, pulling me closer, as people filtered in around us, taking up every square foot of the dance floor. I put my arms around his neck, hoping that he couldn’t feel my chest rising and falling with abandon. There were a mere few inches of space between us, and I knew that one isolated tilt of my body would bring us together.
Tate bent down to my ear, and whispered, “You’re a gorgeous dancer.”
“Thanks,” I stammered, taken aback by his mouth so close to mine. “You’re not bad yourself.”
“I do all right,” he said, coyly modest.
His face pulled away, and I found his eyes once more. They were searching my features, moving away from my mouth and then back again, as if he were actively trying to think about something other than kissing me. Or maybe I’m projecting, because that’s exactly what was racing through my mind — don’t kiss him, don’t kiss him, you’d be a traitor.
Yeah, maybe, but what’s so damn good about loyalty to the cause? Isn’t it human to throw practical concerns to the wind and focus on our carnal desires?
Just for one night, I wanted to be bad.
And Tate was looking at me like I was a meal to devour.
The beat thumped through us, moving our bodies in a rhythm, drawing them closer and closer.
His chin shifted down, and I could feel the kiss coming with the force of a waterfall, inevitable and powerful.
“Hey, dude,” a voice other than Tate’s said, mere inches from
my face. “’Sup?”
Tate’s eyes squinted then rolled upwards, obviously brimming with frustration. With great reluctance, he tore his stare from mine and looked to the side.
“What?” Tate snarled.
Next to us were a group of hammered guys, each more stereotypical than the next. They all wore too-tight collared shirts with large collars, watches so heavy they could knock out a grown man if used right, and pants that showed off their unimpressive bulges. The one talking seemed to be the de facto leader of the pack, with slicked-back hair and uncomfortably white teeth.
The guy held up his hands. To Tate, he said, “Whoa, sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt anything. Just wanted to let you know the escorts were here.”
Uh, what?!
“I’m sorry, did you just say escorts?” I bellowed, my voice rising precipitously.
“Get lost,” Tate hissed at his apparent friends, but the damage was already done.
Escorts rang in my ears as the other man shrugged.
“Okay, bro, whatever you say.”
The group meandered off, and a few feet away from the dance floor — even through the red haze covering my eyes — I could see them pairing off with a gaggle of distinctly Botoxed girls. No, that was just my rage talking. The girls were beautiful. It was Tate I was really mad at.
“What the fuck was that?” I said, whirling around on my dance partner.
“Kiki, you don’t understand—”
“Like hell I don’t! I grew up here too, remember? And even if I didn’t, that was pretty damn clear. Your buddy got you escorts. So why are we dancing when you’re supposed to be plowing some high-end pussy? I got distracted for a second, with the dancing and the conversation and all the bright lights, but you’re exactly who I thought you were — a player. A pimp.”
My mind raced. Thank God I hadn’t kissed him. Kiss a guy like that, a womanizer, and he immediately wants more. Maybe I would’ve let him take my virginity, and you know what? It would’ve meant nothing to him. Zero, zilch. I would’ve just been another scratch on his bedpost. And though he could buy escorts and anything else he wanted, my virginity wasn’t for sale.
Well, at least not for him.
“Kiki, please listen—”
