“Yeah, come on, Daddy.” Sylvie’s sexy voice makes my chest twitch.
I take Lulu’s hand, and we’re linked together.
Me and Lulu, Lulu and Sylvie, Sylvie and Reese.
Sylvie is angelic in her white top. Lulu and Reese are the cutest kids in the park. Then you have me. I’m not bragging, but women do pay to see my abs. As a unit, we’re pretty dope. Call the Gap, because we could rock the shit out of their next ad campaign.
“What are you thinking about?” Sylvie pulls me from my fantasy. “You have a weird look on your face.”
“Weird how?”
She shrugs and pushes the button for the light. “I don’t know; you look, oddly happy.”
Oddly happy is exactly how I feel.
My MMA routine is starting to become a house favorite. Crappy cell phone videos of my performances are circulating the internet. Video and pictures aren’t allowed, but a few slip past every now and then. It’s good for business.
Rico wants me to start a Facebook fan page for my alter ego. He says it’s a good way to promote and gain followers. The more followers I have, the more likely I am to land some sponsorships for booze or products. I’ve already had some photographers about modeling for them. When I began working at Trance, I had no idea it would lead to other opportunities. Rico says I’m a commodity now and fuck me; I like it.
Even though I’ve had some success at the club, I haven’t booked a side gig yet. I try not to take it personally, but it’s a huge blow to my ego. Giovanni suggested we set up a fake booking. Invite Sylvie and some of her friends so they can leave reviews on Rico’s website. Women like a sure thing; right now, I’m a huge question mark.
I walk through the back entrance of the club and say hey to the cooks. They look up and nod to me now out of respect.
“Hey, Theo,” Manny waves. “Did you eat?”
“Not before a show.” I pat my flat stomach. “Maybe after.”
Manny gives me a thumbs-up. I walk into the hall and smell Jimmy’s cigar. He comes around the corner and nearly bumps into me. “Good, you’re here,” he grumbles. “Come with me.”
I follow him to his office. He closes the door and sits behind his desk dangling the cigar between his fingers.
“Rico and Giovanni are no-shows tonight. Some fucking fashion show bullshit. I should fire both of them!” Jimmy’s face has achieved a new shade of red. “I’m giving Percy your spot, and Damon will fill in for Gio.”
I’ve watched Percy’s routine a few times; the guy can dance, and he makes pretty decent tips. If Percy is moving up to my spot and Damon is taking Giovanni’s, where does that leave me? This is Rico’s week to close. I realize what Jim is saying.
“Seriously?”
“What, you don’t want close?” Jim flicks his cigar into a crystal ashtray. “I can move Dain back to—”
“No!” I spring from the chair. “No, I’m fucking ready!” I hold out my hand because Jim isn’t a hugger.
He shakes my hand. “You’re gonna kill it tonight, kid.”
“Thanks for the chance, Jim.”
“Just one more thing. You’re gonna have to do a private.”
Before he launches into a tirade about me being a pussy, I concede.
“Alright, I’ll do it.”
Jim leans back in his chair with a sleazy grin. “I knew you’d come around.”
I leave the office high on the idea of closing the show. Thor whistles when I walk in the dressing room, and the others clap.
I drop my bag at my locker. “How did you guys know?”
“Process of elimination,” Thor explains. “Dain closed all last month. I hate to close, and those two jackasses aren’t closing shit.” He nods to Percy and Damon.
When you close, there’s less time to mingle in the main room. Mingling is Thor’s favorite thing. That and blow jobs in the storage room.
“So, I was the last resort.” I take off my t-shirt and look at Damon. Him moving up to the main stage isn’t going to bode well with the guys. Damon likes to put on side shows during our routines. He dances to our music down on the floor; drawing attention from the stage. Not only is it disrespectful, but it's also against the rules.
“If you weren’t such a little bitch about doing privates, you might have closed sooner.” Thor towel-whips my leg, and it stings like a bitch.
“Fuck!” I jump back while the other guys laugh.
I drop my pants and look at the back of my leg. “You’re lucky that didn’t leave a mark.”
“Or what?” Thor flinches at me, and I jump back.
The door opens, and Jimmy walks in.
“Come on Thor, quit flirting with pretty boy.”
“Fuck you, Jim.” Thor backs off and sits in his chair.
“We need Sway in tip-top condition tonight. I just booked his first private.” Jim tosses me an iPod. “The song list for the velvet room is on that thing. Listen to it, then let Andre know what to play.”
I’ve never even practiced for the private room. I have no fucking clue what I’m going to do in there.
“Who is it? Who booked me?” I ask as Jim turns to leave.
“Does it matter?”
Yeah, it matters. It totally fucking matters.
“No, guess not.” I place the iPod in my locker and search my bag for headphones.
Jim walks out, and Dain walks in. He goes straight to his locker and undresses. I notice a new tattoo on his shoulder. It’s an anchor and skull with a date underneath 4-17-2012.
I check my phone; today is April seventeenth.
Dain picks up his towel, grabs a bottle of shaving cream, and heads to the bathroom.
Percy walks to my locker. “His brother died five years ago today,” he whispers. “I’m surprised he came in tonight. Last year he was a no-show.”
“That was last year,” Thor snarls. “Don’t go reminding him about nothing.”
The fresh ink on his back tells me he doesn’t need reminding.
“Tonight is all about you, Sway. Make that shit count.” Thor holds his fist to me, and I pound it.
I put Dain out of my mind and the fact that I have no clue what I’m going to do in the private room. Tonight I’m the headliner. The star.
“I got this,” I say confidently.
Fuck me if I don’t feel like I really am in control.
***
My solo didn’t go so well. The woman Jimmy plucked from the audience was repulsed by everything I did. My smell, my charm—nothing worked. When I tried to get her friends involved, they just sat at the end of the stage, scowling like I was defacing the Virgin Mary.
I walk into the dressing room after that train wreck is over and find Jimmy giving Damon a pill. The kid already went on; I don’t know why he needs a Dramamine now.
“Jim, what the fuck happened?” I toss my towel in the dirty bin and stalk to my locker.
“They were a big ticket table,” Jim insists. “The birthday girl was ordering your drink all night. I thought she was into you.”
“Ordering my drink and getting a lap dance are entirely different things.” I wrap a clean towel around my waist and pull off my shorts.
“She didn’t put up a fight when I told her you asked for her specifically.” Jim leans against Giovanni’s locker. “Sorry, Sway.”
“Whatever, it’s over now. I gotta jump in the shower.” I have a private dance in ten minutes, and my ego is completely deflated.
“Don’t rub one out in there,” Jim yells. “You need to look at least like you want to fuck her.”
My ego and my dick are on the same frequency. There is no possible way I’m getting a hard-on right now. Rico is a die-hard pump fan. Giovanni swears by the tie off. He can only do it once or twice a night but says it’s well worth it; especially when the woman isn’t his type. Which is a joke. The only time Gio has an issue getting hard is when the lights are on. In the dark, every woman is a super model.
I shower and change into a pair of jeans and a
light blue button-down shirt.
“Hey Dain, what should I do about shoes?” I hold up my Jordan’s. “I only have these.”
“Nobody gives a fuck about your shoes.” He walks over to inspect my outfit. “Skip the socks as long as you don’t have a foot odor problem like Thor.”
It’s safe to take a dig at Thor since he’s in the main room with the other guys. Dain is usually out there, but he’s dressed like he’s going home.
“This shirt is good; you can play with unbuttoning it for at least half a song. Don’t rush it. You don’t want to be in your G-string for more than a minute.” He motions to his crotch. “Any longer than that, and one of you will be dying to take it out.” He laughs when my face goes white. “I’m fucking with you. Kind of.”
I adjust my balls in the G-string and bounce up and down to make sure everything is tight and secure.
“You’re gonna do fine,” Dain assures me. “Just do the dance and get out of there. Don’t let her buy you a drink. And no matter what happens, don’t leave the club with her.”
“I know.”
Going home with someone gives the wrong impression about the club, who we are. That’s the official rule. Actually, we don’t get involved because we’re easily accessible to clingers and jealous boyfriends. Both are bad for business. This is why Trance doesn’t promote groupie behavior. Jimmy doesn’t sell T-shirts or calendars. Women are possessive by nature. If you’ve ever been to a One Direction concert, you know what I mean. Once a woman stakes a claim on a guy; she’s ready to murder anyone that stands between them. Same goes for dancers. Even my fans scare me on occasion. There’s one, Tina—I’ve seen her throw a few elbows to make sure she is front and center for my show.
Before I go to the staging area, that’s what we call the little hall outside the private rooms; I head to the DJ booth to talk to Andre. Her Mohawk is blue tonight, and she’s wearing a t-shirt that says I fucked the DJ.
“What up, Sway.” Her tattooed fingers fly skillfully over the buttons on her deck. The bass drop makes the main room go nuts. “You got the song list?” She turns around and takes a pull on her Corona.
“Yeah.” I hand her the iPod. “Number seven.”
“That’s it, just number seven?” Andre glances at the stage to make sure she hasn’t missed any cues.
“I’m only in there for fifteen minutes,” I explain. “I figure we’ll talk for a few before I dance.”
“I know how it works, bro.” She places her beer in a cup holder and turns back to the laptop on the table. “You need a back-up in case shit goes over.”
I’m sure the other guys don’t mind extending time, but I’m not there yet. It’s bad enough I have to go into a semi-dark room with a woman I don’t know, wearing twelve inches of fabric around my cock.
“I’m good. Just number seven.”
Andre breaks into one of her signature giggle-laughs.
“You’re so fucked, bro.” She sips her beer then flips on the mic as one of the duds exits the stage.
She’s right. I am fucked.
A woman paid a couple hundred bills for me to dance semi-naked in front of her. I know the basics. My hand cannot touch any place that would be covered with a bikini. That’s Giovanni’s standard rule. He says if I follow that, everything will be okay. Me touching her isn’t what gives me the shits. It’s her touching me.
Gio has a lot of incredible stories about private dances gone wild. He also has some fucking horror stories, like the time a woman stuck her thumb up his ass. Not cool. Giovanni is a pro, he just removed her digit from his asshole and kept on dancing. I would probably scream like a little girl and run out yelling rape.
Jimmy meets me at the staging area with a bottle of champagne. “She ordered this.” He hands me the bottle.
“Am I supposed to sit down and have a drink with her before I dance, or is this for after? Am I just serving her?”
“Have a quick glass while you get your groove on,” Jimmy says. He makes it sound even worse than my imagination. “You’re not gonna puke, are you?” He examines my face. “If you do, I’m not refunding her money” He pushes me towards the room then walks away.
I open the frosted sliding door and step inside.
The woman seated is on a purple chaise in the middle of the room. Her brown hair is styled to the side and flows over her left shoulder. She’s sitting so perfectly still, one leg crossed over the other. Her red lips parted into a smile. If it wasn’t for the smell of her perfume; she could be a hologram. A digital image set into this cheesy purple room.
I pick up two glasses from the table near the door and hand her one. “How you doing? I’m Sway.” I fill her glass with overpriced champagne.
“Rachel.” Her red lips kiss the edge of the glass.
Rachel looks sophisticated, like she stepped out of a Chanel ad, and smells just as classy.
“Your solo was…” she trails off, looking for the right word to capture that clusterfuck of performance.
“Horrible,” I answer. I down my glass and pour another then realize this is her bottle, not mine. I hold it out and offer to top her off.
She tilts her glass towards me then leans against the headrest of the chaise and crosses her legs. A leopard print stiletto dangles from her foot. A tight, red pencil skirt hugs her thighs. Even sitting, I can tell she’s slender, yet womanly with curves in all the right places.
“Shall we start?” She looks at the button on the wall. This is not her first time in this room. I don’t want her to know it’s mine.
“Yeah, sure.”
I take her glass and place them on the table next to the door. I’m feeling a little relaxed after guzzling two glasses of champagne on an empty stomach.
I move to the button on the wall and press it twice. This buzzes Andre in the booth, so she knows to start my song.
My one song.
I turn back to Rachel; she’s in the same position on the chaise. I look at her low-cut blouse—it’s unbuttoned way past decent. She rests on her elbow bouncing her high hell. She’s nervous. That sexy fucking shoe balancing on the end of her foot, that’s her tell.
The music cuts on, and her foot stops moving. She sits up as I walk towards her. Her eyes lift to my chest, where I’m slowly unbuttoning my shirt. Her legs uncross, and she places her feet on the floor. I make a couple of hip moves and continue to unbutton my shirt, stopping in front of her. She reaches for my shirt and untucks it from my pants. I realize I never prepped my package for his debut. She smiles up at me, and blood rushes to my dick.
Fuck the pump; her eyes, that mouth—they’re all I need.
Her hands work my buttons until she reaches the last one, then she moves to my belt. She unbuckles it then lets it hang loose. My jeans are button fly; it’s safer than a zipper. She pops one button, then the next. By the fourth, my cock is pressed against my jeans. I back up, so it doesn’t spring out in her face. I spin around and take my shirt off. My jeans are practically falling off my hips, so I let them fall, just as my song ends.
Fuck. Just fuck.
Rachel stands and straightens her skirt as I pull up my pants. She opens the little purse beside her and pulls out two bills.
“That was fun.” She places the money on the chaise and starts to the door.
“Wait,” I yell as I struggle to wrangle my hard-on and button my jeans. “Don’t go yet.”
She pauses slightly with an embarrassed grin.
“Is there a problem, Sway?” She looks back at the money.
Her subtle glance at the two hundred dollars on the chaise is a reminder that this is a business transaction, not a date. If I want her to stay longer, she has to pay. I feel all kinds of ways at this moment.
“Are we good?” she inquires with her hand on the sliding door.
“Yes.” I focus on buttoning my shirt. I want to say something else. Thank you or I’m sorry. Something. I felt like we had a connection beyond the dance. I know I’m breaking a rule by asking this, b
ut fuck it.
“I know an after hours place if you want to get a drink later.” I look up to see if she’s into it. She’s gone.
I put the two bills in my pocket and slip on my shoes. I walk back to the dressing room to get my bag and leave when I bump into Jimmy.
“How’d it go?”
“Good.” I move past him, and he follows me. “Is it cool if I go home now?”
“Sure, kid. But next week you’re here all night, and I’m booking privates back to back.” He hands me an envelope with the words thank you stamped in gold foil on the front. “You got an extra tip from that solo. I told you it was a money table.”
Thank-you envelopes are at every table, in the bathroom, at the exits. It’s like a church donation envelope. They give women an opportunity to give a dancer something extra without a lot of attention. Whenever Gio gets one, he’ll seek out the table or the donor to personally thank them. Dain sends a round of drinks. Rico doesn’t give a shit. Then again, he rarely gets an envelope.
“Are they still here?”
“Yep, same table,” Jimmy says and walks away.
I check the envelope and find four hundred dollar bills. I unbutton my shirt and walk to the main room.
The woman from the chair, Heather, sees me approach and giggles to her friends.
“Hello, ladies.” I lean on the table. My shirt swings open. “I just wanted to come over and see if there was anything else you needed tonight.”
Heather points at the woman to my right. “She wants a private dance.” The woman looks young and mortified.
“I’m Sway.” I hold out my hand.
“Alee,” she says. “My co-worker’s a bitch.” She stands up and walks away from the table, flipping off her friends. I assume she’s running away until she stops and looks back at me. “Are you coming?”
I take her to the staging area and tell her to wait. I run to the DJ booth and find the two people I’m looking for. Jimmy and Andre.
“I just got another private.”
“Sweet,” Andre says. “Lucky number seven?”
“Yes, play it on a loop.”
She laughs in an I-told-you-so kind of way. I ignore her.
Got Mine (Men of Trance Book 1) Page 5
