AVERY (The Corbin Brothers Book 2)

by Lexie Ray

  I opened the package, which contained a chocolate-colored lingerie set that dripped with crystals.

  “This is gorgeous!” I exclaimed, letting the light play off of all the rhinestones. “I don’t think I’m selling my body. I’m just selling my dancing skills.”

  I wriggled my hips and pushed my ass against Casey’s hip. She laughed, shoving me away.

  “You’re going to give a girl ideas if you keep that kind of behavior up,” she said. “Well, are you excited for your first night, then?”

  A twinge of nervousness blossomed in my stomach. I was more than used to performing in bed, but this was going to require a much more visible form of acting. Casey had been teaching me some basic footwork and other moves, but I’d still had yet to touch a pole.

  “Of course I’m excited,” I said, hoping I didn’t sound like I was trying to convince myself. “I just wish I had time to practice on an actual stage.”

  Casey waved her hand. “You’ll be great,” she said. “Just don’t try to do anything stupid like flips and shit on the pole and you’ll be swimming in singles. Now, let’s get out of here so we have plenty of time to get our makeup on.”

  The strip club was closer to Casey’s house than the nursing school, which said a little bit about the neighborhood. We were some of the first girls who arrived. They all seemed jovial, almost a sisterhood. It made me pine a little bit for Mama’s girls, but I hoped I could start to fit in here, instead.

  “Pleased to meet ya, Cocoa,” a beefy man said, pumping my hand. “I’m Marco.”

  “Of course, Marco,” I said. “Casey told me about you. Thanks for giving me the opportunity to be here.”

  “She’s got a tongue of honey, this one,” Marco said, looking at me with a pleased expression on his face. “Maybe you can take some notes, Casey.”

  “Fuck off,” she said.

  Marco explained — though Casey had told me what to expect beforehand — that every girl had to “buy in” at the beginning of each night. That meant that if you wanted to work, you needed to pay fifty bucks for the privilege to do so. You didn’t have to come in every day, he said, just the days when you wanted to try to make a little money. In essence, you had to work to earn your fifty bucks back — and then try to rake in profits.

  Patrons usually paid a dollar for the favor of my attention when I was working the pole. They could, of course, pay whatever they wanted, but they could never, under any circumstances, touch me while I was up there. Doing so would get them kicked out of the club.

  Touching, however, did take place in an area partitioned from the rest of the club by a heavy, velvet curtain. If patrons liked you well enough while you were strutting your stuff up on stage, they’d ask for a lap dance. A lot of them were a little grabby back there, but there was a bouncer to ensure that nothing out of line took place.

  There were many ways to make money besides that, Marco said. If you got a patron to buy you drinks, you’d get a small percentage. They could also pay to dance with you on a dance floor adjacent to the main stage. Table dances were less intimate, more affordable options and took place right in the middle of the club.

  Of course, Casey told me privately, agreeing to go to a patron’s home or hotel room or car after the club was closed and doing even more intimate acts would get you the big money, but I’d resolved to never do that again.

  Things were going to be different, now.

  Casey brought us little combination locks to secure our street clothes in the lockers. We changed in the middle of the room, unabashed. Everyone was there to get paid to take off their clothes. It wasn’t a big deal for any girl.

  I caught a couple of them eyeing me, but Casey just laughed and pulled me over to the mirror.

  “They’re just trying to take in the competition,” she said, pulling out a makeup bag that rivaled her well-stocked first aid kit.

  “Competition?” I asked. “But we’re all trying to make money, right?”

  “Exactly,” Casey said, handing me a brush. “Who do you think isn’t getting paid when a patron takes you to the back room for a lap dance?”

  “Oh,” I snapped. It hadn’t been like that at Mama’s nightclub. We all worked together to make money for Mama. I guessed that business model didn’t work everywhere.

  I did my makeup just like I’d do for a shift at the nightclub. Red lipstick was always required. I played up my eyes a little more than I’d usually do, sweeping a velvety black over the lids before finishing it off with mascara.

  “How do I look?” I asked, turning to Casey.

  She looked over and I gasped. One of her eyes was covered by what looked to be a peacock feather. Upon closer examination, I realized it was artfully done in shades of eye shadows.

  “More,” she said, smiling and turning back to the mirror to complete work on her other eye.

  I blinked down at the squares of eye shadow in the bag. This was more for me. I wasn’t sure what else I could do.

  “Fill in your brow line and extend it,” Casey said without looking on me, concentrating on her peacock feather. “Remember that you’re going to be on stage. You need stage makeup. You want patrons to notice you once you get up there and remember you after you’ve left.”

  I seized a pencil and did what she told me to do, coloring my brows out almost to my hairline. I was surprised by the drama of the look. I looked like a vaudeville actress.

  “Glitter,” Casey advised, pinning an actual feather into her hair, which had been dyed blue just yesterday. “You can never go wrong with glitter, and you can never have too much of it.”

  I dusted some in a dark gold color up to my newly extended eyebrows, dazzled by how it changed my face.

  “Good choice,” she said, peering at my reflection. “It goes with your costume.”

  My lingerie set matched my skin tone almost perfectly. It looked like my bare body was encrusted with gems — Casey said it was going to make the patrons go wild.

  A ripple of excitement went through the dressing room. I cocked my head and realized that the club was already buzzing with voices and bumping with music.

  My first night as a stripper was about to begin.

  “They’ll call us up on stage by name,” Casey reminded me as she shimmied into an iridescent mini skirt that matched her bra. “Until then, your job is to be seen by the patrons. Be friendly. Be courteous. Ask how their night’s going. Ask them to buy you a drink.”

  “Got it,” I said, teetering a little in sky-high stilettos.

  “Try not to break that ankle,” she said, steadying me with her hands. Casey handled herself just fine in five-inch heels, I noticed. “My instructor would be super pissed after our stellar diagnosis and treatment plan.”

  “Whatever,” I teased. “You’re probably dying for me to break it just so you can analyze another X-ray.”

  “Guilty,” Casey admitted before hooking her arm in mine. “Now let’s go show the patrons what they’ve been missing out on.”

  The crowd was still filtering in, a mix of subdued and rowdy. Some looked like they were just getting out of work, loosening their ties and draping their suit jackets on the backs of the chairs. A table of about ten guys looked to be celebrating a bachelor party, balloons and bags likely filled with gag gifts crowding the drink-laden table.

  I greeted people, smiling, until one man offered me a drink. He was handsome, blond hair, and a million dollar smile. His tie was knotted around his neck and the blues woven into it brought out his eyes. The shadow of a beard covered his cheeks, upper lip, and chin, but it made him look rakish. I couldn’t help thinking that I’d seen him before somewhere. Surely I hadn’t served him at Mama’s nightclub. The possibility made me squirm. All I wanted was a clean break — no more reminders about what I’d been forced to leave.

  “Don’t think too hard about it,” he said, his face bemused.

  I gasped and blushed, realizing that I’d been spacing out, thinking about my silly past. I put it behind the door
in my heart and slammed it shut.

  “A pineapple juice,” I said, pleased that I’d gotten the ball rolling at last.

  “Really?” the man asked, wrinkling his nose. “Not a tequila shot? What about a beer? Or we could put some rum or something in that pineapple juice.”

  “No, sir,” I said, batting my eyes at him. “I want to make sure I don’t fall on my fanny when I’m up on that stage, dancing for you.”

  “Touché,” he said, laughing. “Good thing I’m not going to be dancing tonight.”

  He swept his hand out to indicate his table, where three shot glasses already stood empty.

  I shook my head and clucked at him. “You’re partying pretty hard tonight, aren’t you?”

  He sighed. “I don’t know if I’d call it a party.”

  A waitress brought my juice and I sipped on it.

  I didn’t get a chance to respond to what the man had said about not partying. “Cocoa, Cocoa to the stage, please, Cocoa to the stage,” the announcer said on the loudspeaker, my name punctuating the air.

  I jumped, my hands shaking. “That’s me,” I said, looking at the guy.

  “Nice to meet you, Cocoa,” he said, holding out his hand. Shaking it was nice. His grip was firm but tender, stopping my trembling. “Don’t tell me you’re nervous.”

  “I’ll let you in on a secret if you promise not to tell anyone,” I said, bending down to whisper in his ear. “It’s my first time.”

  His laughter followed me up to the stage.

  The music started and I smiled. Casey had picked the song, promising me that it was a crowd pleaser. She was right — several patrons began hooting and slapping the tables.

  I walked out into the spotlight in time with the throbbing beat. It was easy to forget how nervous I was when I was just concentrating on not tripping and falling on my face. Reaching the pole, I grabbed it. Casey had told me that I could use the pole to my advantage — especially when trying to maintain my balance.

  Still holding the cold metal, I did a couple of squats, giving tables nearest the stage a nice view of my ass. At the end of one squat, I got down on all fours, crawling to the other side of the stage. I licked my lips before grinning, flipping my hair and doing a complicated little scissor kick that scooted me back to the pole. I had Casey to thank for that little number.

  I hauled myself up using the pole and walked around it, gyrating my hips. Two men were standing up at the edge of the stage. When this happened, Casey had told me, I was expected to sashay over there and treat them to a more personal view of myself. This included — but was not limited to — whispering sweet nothings into their ears, rubbing my boobs in their faces, and bending over right in front of them. I’d burst out laughing when Casey said that, but she’d told me she was serious.

  “You have no idea what gets some of these guys off,” she’d said.

  That much I understood. I’d gotten all types at the nightclub.

  With the first guy, the butterflies in my stomach almost consumed me. I hoped he took my shy smile as flirting. I knelt down and smoothed my hands over his shoulders before lifting off his hat, perching it on top of my head for a few beats. His hands stayed planted on the edge of the stage. That was a rule, too, Casey had said. No touching unless they wanted to be kicked out.

  I shook my goods in his face, trying to stifle an anxious giggle as he inhaled. It was the audience that plagued me the most — it wasn’t as if I’d never done anything similar. My displays were always confined to a bedroom, not a stage.

  “Count to sixty, then hold out the side of your thong,” Casey had said. “Then it’s time to move on — unless they hold out another dollar.”

  Hoping I’d reached the magic mark, I held out the string of my glittering thong.

  The man slipped his dollar beneath the strap, the dry rasp of the bill making me shiver a bit. I jammed his hat back down on his head and moved on to the next one.

  That wasn't so bad, I decided, rubbing my boobs in the next guy's face. He whooped exuberantly, making me laugh. The table hosting the bachelor party was cheering him on. Was I dancing for a husband to be? Part of me hoped his fiancée was out doing the same thing, only with a male stripper's cock in her face.

  When I finished and made it back to the pole, there were three more guys on the other side of the stage. Part of me felt relieved. The more guys I paid attention to, the less actual dancing I had to do. Plus, there was more money involved, of course.

  "If they approach you during the first song, that's how you know they're interested," Casey had advised. "During the first song, you still have your bra on. The second song is the most lucrative because then they'll get to ogle your titties."

  Ogle titties as a business plan. Got it.

  As the song wound down, I was able to get a few turns in around the pole. It wasn't that hard, once you understood the center of gravity it required.

  When the next song started, the patrons started cheering. They knew the formula just as well as the next stripper. Casey had also done me loads of favors with the two songs she'd selected. They were contemporary and fresh and easy to dance to.

  I reached around behind myself, wiggling my hips and preparing to flick open the clasp of my bra. Casey had to practice this with me many a time before I mastered it. With a crook of my finger, I released it, sending the straps slipping down my arms. The bra fell to the floor amid catcalls and whistles. I'd been nervous about the size of my boobs and the lingering bite mark, courtesy of Mike.

  "The bite mark we can handle," Casey had said in the dressing room, dabbing a little bronzer over it. "You'd be surprised — or maybe you wouldn't — at the marks some of these girls have to conceal. Now, not much we can do for boob size except for plastic surgery, but think of it this way: only the career strippers have fake tits."

  I'd guffawed, covering my face as two such girls gave Casey the stink eye as they passed by and overheard what she'd said. Casey flipped them both the bird.

  Raising my hands, I did a couple of twirls around the pole before looking to the sides of the stage to see if anyone was going to bite. Casey was standing front and center, grinning and waving a dollar bill. I dropped to my knees and crawled over to her.

  "This better not be out of pity," I joked, spreading my legs in front of her and moving them in the air like she'd shown me.

  "Hell, no," she said. "I'm sitting with a patron who paid me to go up here after I told him you're my roommate and we bathe together on a regular basis."

  "That's not true," I spluttered, shifting out of my position.

  "You can't blame me for stretching the truth for a few extra bucks," Casey said, shrugging. "But really, you look great up here. You look like you're having fun, and guys eat that up. There are so many bitches here who just have this bored, vacant expression while they're up here."

  She slipped the dollar in my thong, which had started to sprout quite a few bills.

  "Thanks," I said, standing back up and teetering back to the pole.

  "Don't break a leg," Casey called, melting back into the crowd.

  I turned and smiled. The man who'd bought me the pineapple juice was standing at the stage, a crisp bill poking out of his shirt pocket. I sashayed over, rubbing my bare breasts with my hands to much applause.

  "I sure am glad I got you that pineapple juice!" he said, shouting to be heard over the music. "You're doing good!"

  "It was a boost from the fruit juice, I swear it was," I said, running my fingers through his hair. Strippers could touch all they wanted, couldn't they? Why not have a little taste of this fine specimen in front of me. He leaned into my touch, his hands gripping the edge of the stage.

  "I don't believe you, you know," he said, "that it's your first time up there. You're too good to be an amateur."

  "You're flattering me," I laughed, gripping his head while I rubbed my bare breasts over his face. “Flattery won’t get you any extra favors, you know.”

  “That won’t stop me from t
rying,” he said, taking the dollar and trailing it down my torso before slipping it into my thong. Something about the gesture turned me on, and I moved on to the next patron reluctantly. I noticed the man walking away, weaving a little bit. Well, he had been drinking. That was to be expected.

  I was able to get to everyone who’d come up on stage by the time my second song was over. Gathering any stray dollars and my bra, I waved and dashed off stage. After dancing, Casey had told me, I had to go back to the dressing room, stash my loot, and shower. Smelling like sweat would earn me no admiration from the patrons.

  This part felt so much Mama’s nightclub that I had to shake my head in wonder. Girls queued up for the showers, bouncing impatiently for their turn. I folded my dollars into my purse, stowing them in my locker, and rinsed off. After I was clean and dry, I got back into my costume, touched up my deodorant, and was back out in the club. There were plenty of requests for table dances, lap dances, company, and more. Some of the bawdier requests made me laugh out loud.