by Wild, Nikki
Maybe if I made enough money, I could get a new outfit. Something skanky. Something with higher heels. And then maybe Ginger could go jump off a fucking bridge.
I was halfway to the champagne room when Chelsea spotted me. She was on some drunk guy’s lap, which was pretty much where you could usually find her, if she wasn’t at home. Even when we went out to the clubs—the ones without naked chicks all over—Chel was a bloodhound for the guys with one too many drinks in ‘em and more money than they could spend. Sometimes I wished I had her nose for it. Maybe then I could get the fuck out of Gunner’s place, this club, and this whole damn city.
“Hey, look who’s here!” Chelsea said, giggling as she bent backward. With her tits straight up in the air she looked at me, batting her baby blues. “How’s the hand, sweets?”
“Shitty for dancing,” I told her, smiling as she straightened back up. She undulated like a snake, her flesh always moving. Her customer seemed pleased. “I got someone in the champagne room, though.”
Chelsea spun around, kicking her legs off the man’s lap to grind her ass into him. “Ooh, maybe you’ll get another regular? I’m tellin’ you, sweets, a steady stream of loyal customers is the only way to go.”
“You want loyal customers?” one of the fat, greasy men next to her sneered over the rim of his Jack and Coke. “Shut the fuck up while you’re on the job.”
The man under Chelsea winced. “Jeez, Dad. Leave her alone.”
I stood there for a moment, taking in the scene. Chelsea was ignoring the men pretty successfully, but I couldn’t. I just didn’t have her resolve.
It fuckin’ killed me to see the generational misogyny evolving right before my eyes. Maybe the kid wasn’t so bad, but he was still here, wasn’t he—taking advantage of women with no viable alternative for survival? Renting our bodies like we were any other whore on the street? He might not have been a blatant dick like his dad, but what would happen if Chel saw him in a Starbucks someday, and he thought he could get her into his car and back to his house because, hey, he’d bought and paid for her, right?
When she said no, what was the first thing he’d say back to her? No? You’re a fucking stripper. Who the fuck are you to tell me no? Fucking bitch. You’re nothing but a whore.
I’d seen it happen. I’d been on the receiving end of that shit way too many times. Thank God I’d always been able to walk away. I knew a lot of girls who never had that choice and came to work the next day with scrapes and bruises as a result.
And here that vicious cycle was, perpetuating right in front of me. Men’s ownership of women, of our bodies. It made me think of what Gunner would say if he could see me here, shaking my tits up on stage.
That was why I had to get out of his house. He was just another Jim waiting to happen. I was sure of it.
Hell, they all were.
I left Chelsea to it after mouthing “we’ll talk later” and seeing her wink in reply. No way she was gonna give up a sweet tip just ‘cause of the guy’s fuck-face father. I understood it. Didn’t like it, especially since she was my friend, but money makes the world go ‘round.
I knew that all too well.
As soon as I neared the back door, the smell hit me: sweat, sex, and somebody’s shattered dignity. It hung stale in the air. I wrinkled my nose. It had smelled exactly like this the last time I was in here with a man—the one who’d turned me off to the idea of private dances for a long, long time.
Usually, all a stripper had to worry about was some guy who didn’t know when enough was enough. Some asshole who’d get too handsy, or who wouldn’t listen when a girl said “no.” Then we’d just call one of the bouncers and hope they got to us before the guy had a chance to clock us, or worse, get their bodily fluids in our hair.
But this guy_._._._I’d known from the moment I shut the door that something about him was off. Maybe it was the mask he wore over his face. Like Comedy and Tragedy, only this guy had forgot the Comedy part.
I could see his eyes glinting through the dark socket holes, and I think that’s when I knew for sure shit would go wrong. There was nothing there. No hope, no desire, not even a drunken spark. His eyes were flat and dead. Like a shark’s.
He didn’t want me to dance, either. He wanted me to take my top off. He wanted me to stand in the middle of the room and he circled around me, looking me up and down, judging me, scrutinizing me. He’d made me feel like a slab of meat.
Then he’d bent me over the stage, spread my legs, and began grinding between my ass cheeks. I could feel him filling up, getting harder. When I tried to speak, he put his hand on the back of my neck and squeezed. And then he’d started talking.
He used a voice scrambler—holy fuck, was that horrifying. He’d told me all about his mother, how she used to be a stripper just like me. How she’d been a whore, too, though he thought I might be above that. He said there was something pure about me, something perfect. I reminded him of what his mother could’ve been. I’d probably make a great mom, myself.
And then he told me how she died. How one night, she’d fallen asleep after some rum and Vicodin. He told me about how some nights when she was passed out, he’d sniff her panties. But how on this night, he’d stuffed them down her throat.
“The way she choked is a sound that will never leave me. How does it sound when you choke, Tanya?” Too fast for me to stop him, he’d wrapped his arm around my throat. “I’ll bet it sounds the same.”
That’s when I screamed. It took everything I had, but I shrieked and bucked and bellowed Nick’s name until he’d come crashing in, murder on his face. But by the time he had the psycho was gone. My backside was moist—he’d gotten off on the sound of my screaming.
I wobbled near the doors and put my good hand on the wall to steady myself. My pulse pounded in my ears so loud I couldn’t hear the bassline anymore. My throat was dry and my stomach was turning, threatening to spill my guts right there on the floor. I took a deep breath through my nose and shut my eyes, telling myself the same thing I had every time I had to come to the champagne room.
It’s not him. He hasn’t been here in weeks.
A hand on my shoulder made me jump.
“I got you, Tanya,” Daryl said. He was our other bouncer—he and Nick worked opposite shifts unless there was a big crowd, and then they worked together. “If it’s that dickhead again, you scream first thing and I’ll come get you.”
“I know,” I said, putting my hand on his. “Thanks, Daryl.”
Daryl squeezed. “No problem, baby girl.” Then he turned back to the club and I straightened up.
Okay. You got this. Showtime.
I opened up the door and put on my best smile, stepping through. But that smile faded dead away the second I saw who was sitting there.
“Hello, Tanya,” he said.
I opened my mouth to scream.
Chapter 7
Gunner
“Don’t,” I began, holding up my hands as I rose from the crappy, faux-leather couch against the wall. The “champagne room,” they’d called it. All I could smell was jizz and regret, and champagne was the last thing I’d have thought of drinking in this shit hole.
Thankfully, my sister had decided not to scream, at least not just yet. I was a pretty tough guy, but the bouncer I’d seen by the door could probably have broken me in two and I didn’t need that kind of trouble—not tonight.
“What’re you doing here, Gunner?!” Tanya hissed, glancing over her shoulder before shutting the door after herself. She looked livid, but I couldn’t begin to keep my eyes on her expression, not with the way she looked in that thong and bra.
“You need to come home,” I said, setting my jaw as I forced my eyes back up to meet her own. “And when we get there, I’m going to find you a real job—not working in some fucking strip joint. I mean, Jesus, what would Mom—”
“You shut your fucking mouth,” Tanya snapped, stepping forward without warning and pushing me square in my chest with her good hand. �
��I’m not going anywhere. And if you’re not going to pay for your goddamn lap dance, then I’ve got plenty of other men who’d gladly be where you are right now.”
“Tanya,” I began, but as she turned I sighed and dug my wallet out of my pocket. “Here.”
I pulled out a crisp twenty and tossed it at her, sitting myself back down on the couch, much to the complaint of the artificial leather.
My stepsister turned back around, her eyes narrowed into slits of the purest dislike I’d ever seen. She bent down, picked the twenty up and slipped it into the band of her G-string. The way she stared at me made it clear that instead of a lap dance, I might just be able to get castrated.
“Fine,” she said, blowing air through her nose as she went over to the beat-up-looking sound system next to the door and started playing a slow, bass-heavy porn-groove.
She turned to face me, her eyes narrowed, a smoldering rage burning behind her eyes as she started walking toward me. It was a slow, determined walk that gave me the impression that she knew exactly what to do to me. I couldn’t decide if that was an utterly frightening or arousing thought—that my baby stepsister had just the thing in mind to turn her older brother on.
“No touching.”
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“I don’t do charity. I earn my way in life.”
“Whatever,” I muttered, leaning against the back of the couch as she pressed her knee just short of my crotch I looked up into her eyes, her body barely an in away from mine as she pushed herself up with her full weight on the couch. I watched as her breasts came up in front of my face, her back arching before she leaned back. The way she moved her body, working her core like she was come kind of Arabian belly dancer.
“When the hell did you become a stripper? I bet Jim must have been super proud when he heard that,” I said, trying my best not to focus on the way her hips moved as she started to grind against my abs.
“I don’t give a fuck about what your dad thinks, Gun,” she said, turning herself around to set her ass right against my lap. “Jim hasn’t been a part of my life since I moved out. But you probably know how that is, right? Just packing up and leaving at the first chance? Never looking back or calling? Telling us you weren’t dead in a ditch somewhere?”
“Tanya, listen, I_._._._” The feeling of her tight ass against my groin stole the words right out of me. I closed my eyes as I tried to deny to myself how good it felt having her body pressing against mine. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“What the hell do you know?” she asked, looking over her shoulder at me before turning herself around again. She straddled my waist, grinding on my crotch again, just a thin piece of fabric between her womanhood and my jeans. “Are you going to pay my bills? My rent?”
“That’s not—” I started to say, but stopped in a desperate attempt not to make a much more compromising sound. I couldn’t let her know how good this felt—how much of an effect it was having on me. “You can do better than this.”
Tanya fluttered her lashes and opened her eyes wide. “Gosh, I’d never thought of that. It really never occurred to me to just do something else besides shake my ass for total strangers. Thanks for the advice, Gun,” she said, sarcasm dripping from every syllable. “Maybe I should have tried a few other things before I resorted to the pole—oh, wait! I did.”
I couldn’t speak as I listening to her, the way her body undulated against mine had taken all the words from my lips, threatening to replace them with soft grunts and groans of enjoyment—I couldn’t give her that satisfaction, and keeping myself from getting an erection was taking all of my conscious effort.
“Fast food places. Waitressing in a fucking diner. Spinning a fucking sign, for God’s sakes. I even lost my apartment before I had to start stripping. Do you have any idea what that’s like, Gunner? Living on the street?”
She held onto the back of the couch to brace herself, her hips gyrating against me. I looked up into her face, her lips parted, brow furrowed in the effort it took to move with the kind of coordination this dance of hers required. I couldn’t deny that despite how I felt about her being a stripper, my little step-sister was damn good at her job—which only made me hate it even more.
“Tanya—”
“Shut up! I’m not done!” she growled, arching her back so that her tits were pressed right against my face. It was more than enough to break my concentration for a moment—more than enough to wake up my sleeping cock from between my thighs.
“I didn’t know how I was going to fucking eat or where I was going to sleep at night. It was hell, Gunner. And you didn’t even bother trying to find me.”
I closed my eyes, tight, trying once again to regain control of my thoughts, to once again bring myself back under control, but it was too late. My shaft began to swell inside of my pants, stiffening until it strained against the fabric of my jeans. I needed this to stop.
I couldn’t help myself, thinking about how easy it would be to slip her G-string to the side and unzip my pants, to take her right in the back room of the place she worked. It’d happened here before, the stench of it still clung all around me and that only seemed to make it more exciting, fucking my own step-sister in the dirty back room of a strip-club. But it was too much, and I knew that if she didn’t stop I’d never be able to resist my own urges.
“Tanya, enough,” I snapped. I grabbed her hips, pushing her away from me as I tried to stand. But before I could try to move she slapped my hands away and pushed me back against the couch.
“No touching,” she snarled back, grinding herself right against my throbbing erection. I let out a groan, my eyes shutting as she worked herself right against my shaft. “We’re not done yet.”
The way she spoke, I could almost swear that she was enjoying this, loving all the torment that this was putting me through. I looked up at her, snarling as I tried my best to deny her the satisfaction of seeing me enjoy the way she used her “skills” against me—literally.
My heart was pounding, my brain wondering just how good it would feel to take out all of the frustration that she was putting me through out on her in all the most satisfying ways. But this was my step-sister, the girl I’d grown up with in my own damn house as a kid. How could I be thinking about her like this?
I’d had enough. I couldn’t do this anymore.
“Get off of me!” I said, pushing her off of me and standing up. I watches her stumble back off the couch, catching herself on an armchair nearby. She winced as she braced herself with her hand—the wrong hand. Shit. That looked like it hurt.
“What the fuck!”
“Get your stuff. Now,” I hissed at her, my muscles tense. Fuck, I could feel every one of them, even the ones I’d never known I had. That was how worked up she had me. How angry. How frustrated. Mostly with myself.
But damn if I didn’t want to shove my dick straight into her smart mouth.
I didn’t, though. Couldn’t. My stepsister didn’t deserve that. Didn’t deserve some prick like me. I took a deep breath, sobered by her pain, and said, “You’re coming home.”
“Fuck you!” Tanya shot back, heading for the door. Before she could turn the handle, I blocked her way.
“You’re coming with me.”
“Get out of my way, Gunner.”
“Say it.”
“Fine! I’m going home with you, okay? Shit.” She glared at me through her bangs. It was so fucking hot. “Can I get my stuff?”
I moved out of the way, my heart still racing and my erection still throbbing in my jeans. I watched after her as she walked out of the room, giving myself some time to get my body back under control.
I couldn’t even begin to believe what had just happened, much less my reaction to it. The way body craved my own stepsister almost made me hate myself. I felt like a pervert, some creep who sits outside girl’s doors and jacks off while they get out of the shower.
I rubbed my hand over my face in frustration and made my way toward th
e front door of the club and out toward the parking lot to wait for Tanya. It was safer for her—and for me—when there was some distance between us.
Chapter 8
Tanya
Nothing was turning out the way I’d planned. A few days ago, my biggest concern was paying my rent and making sure some dick weasel didn’t get too friendly with me in the club. Now I was worried about a million other, shittier things.
Like the burn on my hand. The fact that my apartment had burned down, taking my whole life with it. And my stepbrother showing back up to not only save me from the flames, but from myself.
That last part I wanted to dismiss as utter bullshit. Nobody had held a gun to my head and told me to strip. But nobody had thought to stop me, either. Nobody had ever offered me any alternatives.
