by Lory Wendy
“I didn’t say yes.”
“But you want to. Trust me. One night working for me could easily get you out of… this.” He nods toward Imperial.
Without another word, he strolls back over to the other side of the parking lot. As he reaches his car, shadows move in the back seat. Someone’s staring at me. I can feel it. But the tinted windows are too dark for me to see who. A full minute passes before they speed off. As soon as they do, I let out a small squeal.
My decision’s already made.
Even if Rocky turns out to be full of shit, any chance of getting out of this hell with Stretch is worth the shot.
Chapter Two
“Feel free to jump in.” I lift a couch cushion. The same one I’ve looked under three times now. Still nothing. “Damnit!” I hate looking for shit and losing shit around the house. And knowing Blaire has something to do with it irritates me to no end. “Either you help me, or I take your car. Your choice.”
“Why are you even going in today? I thought you had a few days off or something?”
“Yeah, at Imperial, but today I’m helping your boyfriend out.”
She sits up, and God bless her, she does a good job of feigning surprise. “Rocky asked you to work for him?”
“Don't act like you don't know he came to my job asking me to cover some event.”
“He went to Imperial?”
“No, to my other non-existent job.”
She’s expressionless. It’s the first time I consider the idea she didn't send him.
“So you don't know he came to my job all cryptic-like and gave me this?” I hand her the gold card.
She snatches it out of my hand and stares at it with wide eyes. “You’re working at Golden Lotus?”
“Is that what that is?” I laugh, wanting to say “duh” to myself. It’s a lotus flower. “What's it like?” I ask. “Blaire!” I snap my fingers in her face.
“Umm.” She clears her throat and hands me back the card. “It's okay. Nicer than Imperial. You're going, right? You should go.”
I side-eye her sudden persistence. “You okay?”
“Yeah. No. Rocky had mentioned it before, but I forgot. You’re going, right?”
“What’s it to you?”
“Please, sis?”
“Calm down.” Grabbing her purse, I add, “I’m headed there now. But I'm five minutes away from being ten minutes late. My keys. Where are they?”
There’s a pause. A standoff. Then she lifts her hips up and pulls out my keys she was, in fact, sitting on.
“You’re so annoying!”
She laughs, eyes sparkling, unfazed and not at all offended.
“Don’t forget about tomorrow night,” she reminds me for the tenth time, and it takes all the strength I have not to spaz out.
“Yeah, yeah,” I say. “Got to go. See ya.”
“Love you!” she calls out as I’m closing the door.
Over my shoulder, I flip her off without responding.
I never say it back.
And I doubt she ever expects me to.
With a name like “Golden Lotus,” I don't know what I expected, but an obscure brick building on a main road wouldn’t have been it. The directions Rocky gave me put me right on a path I’ve traveled a million times but never remembered seeing a club there.
Unimpressed, I pull into the first empty parking spot I find and give myself a few minutes of an internal pep talk.
First rule of life or I guess one of my basic rules, is to school your expectations. If you prepare for the worst, there’s no room for disappointment. Otherwise, I would have been pissed on sight.
With a quick glance in the rearview mirror, I tighten up my high bun one last time, climb out of my car, and mosey toward the building.
Locked double doors stop me from walking right in. A keypad to my right stares me down. On the glass, small but precise monogrammed letters adorn both doors. I swipe my fingers over the golden decaled TGLC—letters for “The Golden Lotus Club.” Clever.
“You came.”
I whip around, doing a half lurch forward as Rocky appears out of nowhere.
“How long have you been here?”
“Not long.” I suck in a breath. “How do people get in this place, anyway?”
“Every member has their own pin number.” He points to the keypad. “But staff has their own door through the back.”
“Fancy.”
“Anyway.” He takes a step toward me. “Your sister called. She seemed pissed.”
I take a step back, confused. I’m not sure what he’s fishing for, but I file that little nugget of info away for later, seeing as how ‘pissed’ is the exact opposite way she’d reacted when I told her.
“That’s between you two.”
“Right.” He cocks his head to the side and then shakes it. “Anyway. Ready?”
Through the door, I gag as an awful stench hits us and burns inside my nose. “What’s that smell?”
“The cleaning crew must have overdone it,” he answers with a laugh. The joke is lost on me, so I say nothing in response.
Still unimpressed, I continue down a long, narrow hallway. My shoes clacking against the tiled floors are the only source of noise. I guess I expected more of… something. People milling around? Music? Anything.
“It’s quiet,” I say.
“Back there is the staff entrance,” Rocky replies, totally ignoring me.
Whatever.
“Lockers are that way.” He points to another set of doors as we walk up a short flight of stairs.
“Oh, I don't have anything on me. Just my cell and my keys.”
“All right.” He stops, giving me a once-over, one I don’t appreciate one fucking bit.
“What?”
“Nothing. Never mind.” He looks away then turns the knob. “One of the girls should be training you, but it’s whatever. Follow me and pay attention because I won’t be repeating myself.”
Leading me inside, he starts, “This is what you need to know.” As his “rules” fade into the background, I smash my lips together, swallowing my words.
The inside of the club is everything I would have expected but at the same time the complete opposite of Imperial. There are plush couches instead of plastic folding chairs, three bars instead of one, and the stage, located in the center of the room, is as large as Imperial’s main floor is as a whole. Two dancers pass me in silk golden kimonos instead of half-naked with cheap pasties. The dark marble floors shine, and the music is subdued. A few men in suits are scattered around, but for now, there’s a balance to the normal skeezy strip club mayhem that, for some reason, makes me smile.
“Did you get all of that?” Rocky asks.
I snap my attention back to him, nodding. “Of course.”
He nods to someone behind me then lifts one finger. “That table over there needs drinks. If you have any questions, ask one of the girls.” Without saying another word, he walks away.
I’m more than shocked by his attitude. Quite frankly, he’s being a dick, but today he’s not my sister’s boyfriend. He’s my boss. So, with a smile on my face, I glide over to the table. “What can I get you, honey?”
“How's it going?” Rocky asks as he approaches me later in the night.
Hours have already passed by, but it hasn’t dragged like a normal night would have. Everything is different here. It was easy to figure out which girls to ask questions, and which ones to avoid like the plagues they were. The clientele is still needy, but they’re mellower in the way they state their demands. And instead of a musky, cheap aftershave blend like at Imperial, the air is a mix of expensive colognes and freshness. Idly, I wonder if they pump oxygen in here like they supposedly do in casinos in Vegas.
My smile is wide and genuine, as I answer, “Good so far. Except for the whole name thing.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that.”
I’m thankful for the pass. Apparently, pet names aren’t a thing around these parts, and
one rule is you address the men as ‘sir’ until you get their names. It gives them a better experience and whatnot. And I guess I should have listened better, but oh well.
“Take a break,” Rocky says.
“I’m good.”
“It’s not a suggestion.” He grabs the tray from me. “You’ve been on your feet for at least three hours now. An hour longer than we’re comfortable with around here. Take a fifteen.”
A break? At a club? Well, that’s new. “You don’t have to tell me twice.”
“And when you’re done, someone’s asking for you upstairs.”
“Upstairs?”
Rocky nods and pinches my chin to bring my gaze toward the ceiling. “You see those dark windows?”
I can't see through the tinted windows, despite trying to squint. “And they asked for me, or just for a waitress?”
“You.”
“But why? It’s only my first night.” And the part of Rocky’s lecture I did listen to, made it clear upstairs was VIP only—a section I shouldn’t be anywhere near during a “trial run.”
“They asked for you. Period. Now, go chill for a moment first and find me when your break is over.”
Ten minutes later, I’m walking silently behind him and back toward the same hallway he led me through earlier.
“Okay, here.” We stop in front of another set of doors, and this time I have to say something. It’s like a damn funhouse of mirrors.
“How many doors are in this place?”
“A few. Now go.”
“How many do you consider a few?”
“Really?” His eyes narrow. “What’s wrong with you? Are you stalling or something?”
Maybe. I still don’t get why me, as the new girl, is being asked to handle VIP. It doesn’t seem fishy, just off. “Of course I’m not stalling,” I lie. “Who’s in there anyway?”
“A special client.”
Yikes. The way he says it… my heart drops, and I take a step back. “And what is this so-called special client asking for?”
“A waitress.”
“To do what?” I force the words out behind clenched teeth. Un-fucking-believable. This is exactly what I was afraid of. I’ve been through this shit enough with Stretch. I didn’t need to come here to deal with it, too. I would sooner burn this whole place down before going out like that again.
It takes a few moments before comprehension dawns on Rocky’s face. “Would you stop?” He shakes his head, eyes narrowed. “That’s not what this is. He needs someone to bring him a drink. Nothing more. Nothing else.”
He opens the door and nods for me to go in. “Now go. Remember, bottle service is handled from the main floor stock.”
Through the door, another short set of stairs await me, and… another door. “Okay, seriously?” I turn to ask Rocky just as he lets the door slam with a loud thud. I jump. There’s hesitation in my steps, and I don’t know why. I’m not trapped, obviously, and somewhere in the back of my mind I know the door can still open, but I’m almost scared to try.
I blow out a breath and shake my head at myself. I watch too many movies. Nothing’s going to happen. I take each step slowly, looking over my shoulder a few more times. The back door doesn’t open, and I have no idea if Rocky is still standing there.
At the top of the stairs, I brace myself and take a few deep breaths. After opening the second door, I hover for a second to take in the room.
I’m greeted by a different scene than what’s downstairs.
Softer music flows through the speakers while panoramic windows face into the main floor of the club. Two strategically placed flat screens pan in on what’s happening on stage. I walk in farther, gliding my fingers on the dark leather couches pushed up against red walls.
Looking around, I attempt to make eye contact with the few men sitting at the various wooden tables scattered around the room. Which one of them called me up here?
Neither of them.
They’re all more immersed with the card game going on between them than anything else in the room to even notice me. Behind them, there’s an empty bar in the corner. And the room is blanketed by a thin layer of cigar smoke. The whole scene screams urban sophistication—a complete oxymoron in being attached to a strip club. Is this the event Rocky asked me to work for him? When in the night had I passed the test and moved on to phase two?
No one looks up when I walk farther in the room. But someone’s staring at me. I felt it as soon as I stepped on the last stair.
And when I lock eyes with a man sitting in the corner, my whole body freezes.
He’s leaning on his elbows with his hands clasped low in front of him. His face is a shadow from a distance, but sometimes you know and can taste someone’s aura in the air.
The air tells me he’s hot.
“Hi.” I try acting unfazed, even though I’m about to have a heart attack.
He leans back in the chair but doesn't respond. The action immediately frazzles me, making me forget what I’d planned to say. His eyes, his lips, his stance, the smirk all make it clear he knows the effect he has on women. And from the way his eyes run the length of my body, it’s clear he’s trying to assess what effect he might be having on me.
Ugh.
I sober up quick, no longer awed. Cockiness ranks high on my pet peeve list, right behind people who eat with their mouths open or talk loudly on the phone in public.
“What can I do for you, honey?” I cringe at breaking the pet name rule again.
Bending his elbows on the arms of the chair, he tents his hands and rubs them together with a quick lick of his lips.
“I mean to drink.” I place a hand on my hip. “Are you the one who called me up here?”
“I am,” he says, the two words coming out low and deep.
I inhale through my nose and grit my teeth when he doesn't elaborate. “And what would you like to drink tonight?”
Eyes scrutinizing, he looks around the room and back to me before telling me to bring him a bottle of Rosé.
“Got it. Be right back.”
His hand on my wrist pulls me back. His hold is tight, though not uncomfortable, but still very unwelcome.
“Excuse you!” I twist around, feet wide in my ‘you’re about to get kicked in the face’ stance. I falter for a second at the sight of his cocky smirk now turned full-out grin.
He winks. “And something for you, if you want.”
“Right,” I whisper, shaking his hand off of me. I rush back out to the main floor and take a long, deep inhale of the possibly manufactured Vegas air, feeling as if I'd been holding my breath the entire time I was up there. Holy shit. Just breathe, I coach myself, careful not to drop my tray on the way back upstairs. He hasn’t tried me yet—hasn’t disrespected me in any other way than the one wrist grab, but I still don’t want to be anywhere near him again. All I need to do is get him his drinks, hopefully get a good tip in the process, and get out of there.
Back upstairs, I find Mr. Special Client standing by the window with a full glass of champagne in his hands.
“How'd you already get a drink?” I ask.
He shrugs without looking back. “You should pay more attention to your surroundings. I had it before.” Glancing around, I notice the cups sitting on the short table I hadn’t seen before. Damn. “Who trained you?”
“I'm sorry?”
“You're new,” he says, turning to face me. He takes a sip of his drink and leans back against the window railing. “Who trained you?”
“No one.”
“I can see that.”
“Excuse you!” Jesus Christ, what a jackass. “Is that your way of saying I suck at my job?”
“Not at all. You're just not very smart at it.” He gestures to the bottle and the bucket of ice in my hand.
Shit, I forgot the glasses.
“Do you ever dance?”
“No.”
“Shame.” He brings the rim of his glass to his mouth, all sexy and arrogant like.
<
br /> The bucket fumbles out of my hand, dropping to the table with a thud. Thankfully nothing breaks, but my nerves are shot. I need to get out of here.
“Anything else I can do for you?” I fix my table set up with a strained smile. I do not like him.
“Yes. Have a drink with me.”
As if! “No, thank you.”
“I insist.” He pushes himself off the railing, taking a step closer to me.
“I’d rather not.”
“Very well then.” His smile is part smug, part… coy? How he manages to pull the combo off is insane. But he does. It almost makes me want to take the seat, but fuck no. Never give up and never surrender to assholes.
“If that’s all then?”
He nods, turning back to the window. “For now.”
Chapter Three
“What’s this guy’s name again?” I ask.
Just like I’ve pretended to be naïve about this whole night out, Blaire pretends she doesn’t hear my question and continues ruffling through her racks of clothes. So far today, she’s taken me to get my hair and nails done, and now she’s knee-deep in the back of her closet looking for the “perfect” thing to wear.
Yet, her claim is tonight’s going to be another normal night out with her and Rocky.
I’m not buying it.
“What do you think of this?” She pulls out a basic little black dress.
“Stop trying to distract me. It looks fine, and you’ll look fine in it. The guy. His name. What is it?”
“Selena, I already told you, there’s no guy.”
“And I don’t believe you.” Why would I? Every time she’s invited me out with her and Rocky for the past few months, there’s been an unknown guy at the other end of the table. I’ve never been one of those broads who flail and wail when her friends try to set her up. Therefore, I always go with a smile on my face. So her charade of denial irks the shit out of me. “Just tell me. Unless…” Several thoughts cross my mind, none of which make him appealing. “Does he have clubbed feet? One eye? Missing teeth? Is he a ghost?”
“He is none of those things, because there isn’t a guy.”
