Unless one of us decides otherwise.
Perhaps this newness is due to the change of scenery. Outside the walls of the club and the hotel, I’m a real person. Not some fantasy that he can fuck and set aside for later, like some kind of porcelain doll.
I stand a little taller feeling that infusion of power that usually only comes when I’m working the stage. “You said it clicks when you try to start it?”
“Yeah, it just clicks.”
Brushing past him, I walk around to the driver’s side and slide into the buttery black leather seat. This car is a luxury in both price and style, and I take a moment to commit the elaborate dashboard, hand stitched leather and chrome details to memory. Hell, even the little tree, that smells of men's cologne and hangs from his mirror, holds a special place in my head. Through the windshield, I see the professor blink hard and collect himself.
Right, time to teach him a little about who I am.
Although the car won’t start, I try turning the ignition anyway so I can hear it for myself. It clicks once, and I watch for any signs of life from the dashboard. “Did it try to turn over the first time you attempted it?”
Crossing his arms over his chest, I can’t help noticing how the material of his shirt pulls at the shoulders and around his biceps. I had my hands on those last night, I think, smiling to myself.
“The stereo lit up for a second, but it stopped working. Everything stopped working.” His eyes narrow as he watches me get out. He tracks my movements, pivoting out of the way as I brush by him again to get a look under the hood. I know what he’s thinking. What does this girl think she knows about fixing cars? The answer: more than him.
My ’92 Toyota, a car that should last forever, is a lemon. The constant cost of repairs was eating up money as fast as I could make it, so I’d taught myself a few things. For instance, I know exactly what is happening to the professor’s overpriced hunk of metal.
“Your starter is bound up,” I say, looking over my shoulder at him.
His eyes widen in surprise, but then narrow into suspicion. “Let me guess, your dad or brother taught you a few things growing up.”
Again, he’d know the answer to that if he’d ever taken the time to get to know me. I can see this is about to turn into a crash course for him.
“My dad’s dead and I’m an only child,” I say casually, though I can see, by the way he drops his arms down to his sides and takes a step back, that he is shocked and regretting that last statement. “What I know about cars, I taught myself. Your starter,” I say, pointing at the car, “is shot. It’s a relatively cheap fix, especially if you can do it yourself.” I scan his fancy clothes critically. “But something tells me you’re not up for the challenge.”
He glances down at his clothes, as though trying to find something wrong with them. When he looks back at me, I see that my words have sparked something in him. Professor Scott reaches up to grip the top of the open hood. “And you are?” He treats me to the same look I gave him, eying my black tank top, white skinny jeans, and peep-toe pumps with contempt.
Smirking I say, “I don’t mind getting a little dirt under my nails. Unfortunately, I just put a new coat of lacquer on them this week and I don’t have time to redo them. What I can do, though, is drop you off if there’s someplace you need to be.”
I have to say, I am enjoying this. Turning the tables on someone who is always in control has got to sting. Payback for the sting I experienced when he so callously booted me from his hotel room.
I watch him closely, waiting patiently for his answer, but the clock is ticking. I can’t afford to be late for work.
Professor Scott doesn’t look very happy with his options, but thankfully, he doesn’t take long to think them over. With a rough sigh, he slams the hood shut and retrieves his keys from the ignition. With very purposeful strides, he heads toward the passenger side of my car. “I’m meeting someone at the River Front Plaza. Do you know it?”
I should, considering it hosts the most upscale restaurant in the city, is a block away from the club, and he fucks me every other week at the hotel next door. Pointing this out to him, though, seems trivial. Of course, he already knows this.
Playing off the note of relief that it was on my way, the slice of disappointment that whoever he’s meeting isn’t me, and the excitement that I get to spend a little extra time with him, I climb behind the wheel and start the engine. “I’m familiar with the area,” I say shortly.
Clipping his seatbelt, I notice that Professor Scott doesn’t seem overly enthusiastic about the way his day is going. I, on the other hand, see a golden opportunity that has just fallen into my lap. As I ease up to the parking lot exit, I see the evening rush beginning to take hold, and at the first opportunity that presents itself, I shoot out into traffic.
“So business or pleasure?” I ask him as I speed up to beat a red light. We float through the busy intersection, just beating out the flash of the red light cameras that were installed last year. Beside me, the professor has a death grip on the door handle, and I chuckle to myself.
“What?” he says, his voice strained. I almost have to laugh, because this is the only time I have ever seen him outside of his comfort zone. Usually, he has all the control, and I am the one at his mercy. The feeling of power is heady.
Frankly, my driving is terrifying. I know this because Annie has told me many times, which is why whenever we go anywhere together, she drives. The problem isn’t that I’m reckless, though. I’m aggressive. Not a lot of people can give up enough need for control to handle my driving, which is why it impresses me that he has been able to keep his comments to himself this long. But the sickly pallor suggests he might be on his way to an early heart attack, so I ease up on the pedal.
“Business or pleasure?” I repeat.
As the color returns to his face, Professor Scott pries his eyes from the road long enough to glance at me. “What do you mean?”
“Are you meeting a friend? Business associate? Your wife?”
“Pleasure, I guess.”
I nod, pretending as if the information didn’t just suck all the oxygen from my lungs. “So wife?”
He gives me an odd look, and I wonder if he’s picked up on the strain in my voice. “You’re my student, Josephine,” he reprimands. “I’m not going to tell you that.”
“That’s fine,” I say quickly, hardly fazed by his cool tone. “I already know you’re not married. I’m going to guess girlfriend.”
“And how do you know I’m not married?” he asks, turning to face me with one eyebrow arched.
Reaching over, I tap the third finger on his left hand. “No ring.” It was the first thing I checked the night he’d handed me his business card and asked me to meet him outside the club. I may be many things, but I am not a home wrecker.
He looks away, out the window, and to my disappointment, the conversation ends before it begins. Pulling up to the restaurant, I take a moment to soak it in. I’ve never been inside, but the sheer size and grandeur of this building always takes my breath away.
I release a low, long whistle of appreciation as I lean over the steering wheel and peer up at the steel skyscraper. “Swanky.”
Professor Scott chuckles softly and shakes his head. “That it is,” he says, reaching for the door handle. “Thanks for the ride, Miss Hart. I owe you one. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”
He’s gone in seconds, and I pull away wondering just how he intends to pay me back. But as I enter through Mirage’s back door, less than five minutes later, to the thick blanket of darkness and the pungent smell of perfumes, alcohol, and faint mildew that envelope me, the reality, that he was meeting with someone else, strikes me. Our time together has come to an end.
It shouldn’t feel like someone has died, but I feel the familiar ache that followed my parents’ passing like a knot forming in the center of my chest. Acid burns in my stomach and I have to remind myself that I knew this day was coming. I just didn’t think i
t would be this hard to walk away.
“You’re late, J.” Kota, the owner of the club, enters the dressing room without knocking and leans his shoulder against the wall as he watches me change into my outfit.
His unwavering stare was creepy when I first signed on as one of his dancers, but as with most things in life, I got used to it. It helped to realize that Kota doesn’t give two shits about how much skin is on display. He’s been working the business long enough that one set of tits is the same as the next. He’s more concerned with the bottom line.
“I had to help out a friend,” I say vaguely, because less is more around here. The only thing Kota or anyone else needs to know about me is what made it into my paperwork. “I’ll work extra tables to make up for it before I go on.”
“No tables,” Kota says, his bald head shining as he shakes it. “I need you on the floor tonight.”
I shrug and nod apathetically. All the girls have to trade off throughout the week, so since I’ll be working the floor tonight it means someone will have to work the floor for me somewhere down the line. I guess this means I’ll be changing my outfit tonight. “Who called off?”
“Christine. She’s got the flu or some shit.”
“Hope she isn’t prego,” I say with a laugh, but then I catch the scowl on Kota’s face letting me know the joke wasn’t appreciated, and it evaporates. Getting pregnant is the kiss of death. It’s a guaranteed boot in the ass. Another incentive for me to keep it in my pants, so to speak.
Straightening his posture, Kota throws open the door, allowing the pounding music to flow inside. “Light a fire under it, Pussycat. It’s going to be a busy night.”
FIVE
Kota wasn’t kidding when he said it was going to be busy. I’ve been racing around all night, and my body aches everywhere. After dropping drinks off at my last table, I tuck my tray behind the bar and wave my hand overhead to gain Kota’s attention.
“I’m taking my break!” I shout, and when he nods and turns back to filling drinks, I head for the bathroom. The first thing I do is rip off my heels and stretch my toes. It feels so damn good, I moan. This job is definitely for the young, because I can’t fathom still being here in ten years. After this year is done, I’ll be moving on to bigger and better things.
I take my time freshening up, patting myself down with damp paper towels to cool my heated skin, and running my fingers through my hair. As I’m finishing up, the door to the women’s restroom screams open, and I look up to see Bernice poke her head in.
“There you are,” she says, sounding relieved. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Kota says you’re needed in the VIP lounge.” Her brown eyes flicker with amusement as her gaze drops to the foot I have planted in the sink basin.
It’s the best relief I can get from those damn shoes, and I don’t feel the least bit bashful about it. I lift my chin toward the paper towel dispenser, and Bernice rips a couple off, stretching her arm out to hand them to me.
“Did he say who it was?” Sometimes we get regulars. They’re easy, because they’re predictable.
But Bernice’s scrunched nose tells me I won’t like her answer. “Nope.”
I sigh. After the day I’ve had, I’m not in the mood to entertain. “Well, do you know who it is?”
“Nope.”
Great. This guy had better leave a big tip. “Let him know I’ll be there in a minute.”
“Will do, but a word to the wise, I wouldn’t keep him waiting too long. The guy looks important.” With a small smile, she ducks back out.
I sigh as I dry my feet and slip them back into the six-inch platforms. They pinch as I leave the bathroom, and I barely manage to paste on my happy face. I try to look on the bright side. I guess I’ll get to put on a show after all.
***
The VIP room is located at the end of the single dark hall located off the main floor and to the right of the bar. It’s lit by diffused neon pink lights and each of the six doors leading up to the last is closed, indicating that they’re all in use. As I reach the end of the hall, I feel a flutter of nervous anticipation. I never know what I’m going to find once I open that door. One man, or two? Hot or not? There’s no telling, but Bernice’s words about him looking important give me a small ray of hope. Whatever the situation that I am about to walk into is, it’s going to be more intimate than walking out onto that stage. And it’s going to pay even better.
My hand shakes as I turn the handle and walk inside.
The room is larger than the rest, big enough for a party of twenty to fit into the bank of red leather booths forming a semi-circle along the far wall. Kota claims the leather gives customers the impression that the establishment is classy. In reality, anything looks classy when the only source of light comes from a fluorescent tube. It’s just easier to clean up the mess when they’re through. A circular stage with four gleaming silver metal poles sits in front of the booth and takes up the majority of the center of the room. The wet bar to my right ensures that bachelors can get shitfaced while they have their dicks teased, but tonight, it stands empty.
This evening’s venue is small, and as I set my eyes on the two figures seated directly across from me, I find myself wishing for a party.
A woman a few years older than me dressed in a black pencil skirt and plunging red blouse that matches her lipstick gives me an eager, heated look as I enter the room. She looks like a firecracker, and I decide to call her Red. Ten to one, this was her idea. Probably looking to spice things up in the bedroom. This often happens with couples coming for a dance together. It makes no difference to me. Money is money, and it’s not my place to judge someone else’s relationship. But I am judging, because I recognize the person beside her, the face staring back at me. I’d recognize that easy, laid back pose and those dark eyes anywhere.
Maybe it wasn’t her idea, after all.
My worlds have collided again—merging like pools of mismatched paint spilled across the linoleum floor. I hadn’t expected to see my mystery man again, but here he is, sitting in front of me, waiting for me to touch him. It’s enough to steal my breath.
I don’t know what he’s doing here, and I hate that he brought someone with him, but I can’t stop my eyes from eating up every inch of his delectable frame. He is a vision in a black suit, the first few buttons on his crisp white shirt undone to reveal a smattering of chest hair. As if that wasn’t enough to convince me that he was up to no good, the crimson glow bathing him from above, makes him look like the devil—utterly sinful and impossible to deny.
Professor Scott’s reluctance to reveal who he was meeting is no longer such a mystery. I wonder if he brought her here just to see how I’d react, maybe even as a punishment for attempting to dig for information. It’s something I can see him doing. Whoever this woman is, she must be from out-of-town, because I certainly don’t recognize her. I doubt very much that Professor Scott expected to run into his lover inside his classroom, just like I never expected for him to be one of my instructors. But my mystery man? Every move he makes is deliberate. Calculated. I have no doubt that tonight is a test of some kind.
I am out of my element. I feel betrayed, but at the same time, I remind myself there was never any commitment between us. Still, I can’t shake the vision of him doing to her what he does to me in that hotel room.
Has she taken my place?
The thoughts racing through my head make me sick to my stomach. I’m a wobbling mess, and I need a fucking drink to calm my nerves, but to his credit, Professor Scott appears completely at ease. And why shouldn’t he? He’s the one pulling the strings here. It makes me wonder how often he does this. Although the knot that formed in my stomach the second I entered the door is becoming tighter and tighter with each step I take, he shows no signs of emotion. I can’t tell if he’s bothered by my presence, or if he’s anticipating what’s to come.
I’d like to think that’s anticipation I’m reading in his eyes. Even though I never expected to give one of
my professors a lap dance, I can’t deny that a part of me is elated that I finally get the opportunity to get even closer to the man who has dominated my every thought and emotion for months. The more I think about it, the more I realize that I shouldn’t even care that he has a girlfriend. He’s entered my domain, and if anyone should be feeling uncomfortable right now, it’s him. Tonight, I intend to show him what it feels like to be dominated.
Bolstered by this realization, I focus on the fact that I get to do to him what he has always done to me—sweet torture is my specialty. If he behaves, I might even let him touch me. The very idea of it makes me wet.
With slow, practiced movements, I set my knee on the stage and proceed to crawl across it. My eyes hold Professor Scott’s as I twist around, seat myself on the edge, and plant my heels on either side of his and the woman’s legs, spreading mine open wide. Professor’s gaze drops to my crotch, and I smirk at the hunger I see in them.
It’s the shot of courage I need.
“First rule: No talking.” My voice cracks like a whip, bringing both their attention to my face. This isn’t a house rule, but one of my own. I like my performances uninterrupted, and talking tends to ruin the mood. “If I ask you a question, a simple nod or shake of the head is all you need.
“Second rule: No touching. I will touch you, but you will not touch me…unless I let you,” I add with a sultry smile as I meet Professor Scott’s scorching gaze. He’s no stranger to this rodeo. He knows the rules. But I have no doubt he’ll break them in an instant if given an opening.
“Do we understand each other?” They both nod and my smile grows wider. “Excellent. Now, are we looking for a simple lap dance?”
The woman nods quickly, but her expression turns doubtful when she notices Professor sitting still as stone. My smile turns inward as I sense trouble on the horizon for this budding couple. I have no idea how long they’ve been together, but not knowing what each other wants is a sure sign of bad things to come. I know what he wants. I know exactly the kinds of dirty, nasty things get him off. Can she say the same?
Dance for Me Page 3
