by K. L. Jessop
The smell of leather, male sweat and feminine fragrances is potent as I enter the club. Cream transparent drapes with silver sequins cover the doorway on the opposite side of the black doors that lead down a red hue corridor. A combination of different music rumbles all around me while men in all shape and sizes give me the once-over before heading to their destination of choice for the night. To the naked eye, it’s just like you would imagine a strip club to be: places like these always are. I’ve not had much experience in working in them, but it’s been enough to know that being here doesn’t make me feel any less cheap. One thing that always fucks me off is how you instantly get branded with a name and a reputation. You say ‘strip club’ and they automatically think ‘gentlemen’s club’. If they’d only done the research—even though both clubs are similar in the sense that the dancing is the same—there is a difference in what we deliver. A gentlemen’s club offers sexual liaisons and escort services. A strip club offers nothing more than leaving the occupant sexually frustrated and dying to know what sexual services you can actually offer. That being said, I don’t doubt that there are girls in this club who sway towards the escort lifestyle—but that’s not me. However, in many ways, both lines of work are nothing more than a dirty version of an Alice in Wonderland story because once you fall there’s no going back, which is why I’m here because I need work and I know nothing else.
“Do you have a membership card or are you paying for the night?” a stocky guy in a dress shirt and black trousers asks as he checks me over. I’m not dressed for the occasion in the slightest, along with my ripped skinny jeans the only thing acceptable are the heels that crucify my feet and the low-cut top that shows just the right amount of cleavage to entice a man. Up until an hour ago, I hadn’t even planned on coming here.
“Neither, I’m here to see Wes.”
The guy holds the earpiece with his finger and says something into the thick black strap that’s around his wrist. As men enter the club, there are numerous comments thrown in my direction along with cat-calls. It’s been years since I’ve done this, and I’m all too familiar with the indignity I’m about to face, but I have to stand tall and use the confidence I know I have.
“Wes is in his office. That way.” He nods in the direction of the main lounge.
As I walk through, my eyes are everywhere. The windows from the private rooms above overlook the main room lounge. Not all the curtains are closed and some light up the dancers as they put on a show. Drake’s ‘One Dance’ blasts out around the purple-lit room I’m walking through, while men and a few women congregate at small tables drinking cocktails and beers. White fairy lights are sunk into the walls while the ceiling is lined with white and purple circles. Small round staging areas are placed around the room with shiny, thick poles as topless dancers in thin pieces of lace and heels rotate, bend, twist and slide in every way you can imagine around their podium—some with their hair up, others with it down; some with cash in their knickers, while some throw it in the air like they’ve won the fucking lotto. Most of the strippers dance alone, but in the centre of the room on the larger stage are two blondes. One has her hands pinned to the pole above her head while the other presses up against her. Both girls grin before the one on top sticks her tongue down the other's throat and places her hands between her legs. Men roar and cheer as if it’s Christmas while I push through the bodies that mingle.
“What can I get you?” The bartender shouts over the music.
“I’m looking for Wes’s office.”
He points to the door at the side of the bar and I head down to the end of the hall where I come to a security guard that looks like a white version of the incredible hulk. I smile, knock on the door and wait.
“Enter.” I hear a deep voice say. A cloud of cigarette smoke hits my face as I walk in; an older, thin guy with light hair sits behind an oak desk that dominates the large office. Photos of pinup girls and women in g-strings on stage plaster the wall.
“Are you Wes?”
“Depends who is asking.” His tone is chirpy, but his face is harsh and unfriendly.
“Tori Foster, we spoke on the phone earlier.”
“Tori, of course. Yes.” He stands up to round the desk but instead of offering a handshake he cuts right to the chase. “So, you think you have what it takes to be a member of my club?”
“I’m no hard professional dancer but I know what moves a woman needs to make to get a guy grabbing his dick and yearning for more.”
He smirks with a nod. “So, you’ve worked in this industry before?”
“Not in the last three years, but I was in and out of clubs for about five or six years before that.”
There is only so much a woman can change about herself. My working life in clubs is a part of who I am. Just because I’m a mother doesn’t mean I now have to work a nine to five job wearing pencil skirts and blouses.
I take off my jacket and throw it on the chair at the side of me, giving him more of an idea of my figure. He tilts his head to the side and looks at my body. Deep concentration lines form on his forehead as though he’s picturing me naked. “Are you wearing underwear?”
“Yes.”
“Can you strip down to it please?” He blows out with a puff of smoke from his cigarette. I follow his command, slipping out of my heels and begin removing my clothes. Some girls in previous clubs always found this part a little intimidating; I never understood why. When you walk through the doors you’re walking into a den that’s every man’s fantasy. You come here to do the exact thing he’s asking. Next, I’ll likely have to audition for him.
Wes raises a brow when I stand before him in nothing but my matching black underwear and heels I’ve put back on. My black hair falls thick over my shoulders while the wolf tattoo on my sternum, the large anchor on my right thigh and the long star tattoo up my left calf decorate my body. They are just three of the five I have. The others are script wording on my arm and a dream catcher the full length of my back. None of them have colour, just black and shading like I prefer.
“Turn for me.” I turn full circle, lifting my hair from my back to show him all of me. “You have a great figure, Tori. Lots of… character.”
“Thank you.”
“Do you have a dance of choice?”
“Lap.”
He raises a brow, taking another drag of his cigarette. He looks a little overdressed for a place like this. A full black suit and tie. It looks expensive, and by the way the shoulders are neatly cut I’d say it’s been tailored.
“Would you like me to perform for you?”
He shakes his head, still examining my body with his eyes. “I don’t let my girls use me as their trial piece.”
“So how do you know if we’re any good?”
He leans against the desk, stubs out the cancer stick in the ashtray and studies me for what feels like forever. It was over three years ago I last did this, a time when I was functioning on little food and drugs to get me through before stripping down to nothing but a thin piece of material. Then, I’d walk the night, my bloodstream high from cocaine before I crashed out in the back of the abandoned car I called home at the time. I’m not proud of who I was back then, nor am I proud to be standing here in this club, but I’m desperate to support my son and I know no other way.
“I take chances, and I watch from a distance when you’re not looking. If I like what I see, you stay; if not, you’re out the fucking door. It’s that simple. Now, am I likely to have some meathead come in here and cause shit because of what you’re doing?”
“No. But judging by the security in this place he wouldn’t make it very far even if I had.”
“Are you local?”
I swallow. “No.”
He’s silent for a moment, looking at me with seriousness. “Alright, I’m willing to give you a shot. You’ll get a private booth, but like the other girls, at the start of each shift, I want you on the floor, showing the guys what you’ve got and gaining a clientele, u
nderstood?”
“Absolutely.”
“You charge the minimum of twenty-five pounds per dance but if they require a longer session a discount fee is given so they are not paying over the odds. It’s down to you to decide the discount but just remember a club fee needs to be paid at the end of the night. Any questions?”
“Who is Scarlett?”
“Why the interest?” He smiles as though it’s not the first time he’s been asked.
I shrug. “You asked if I had any questions. I’m just intrigued to know; the club is named that after all. I’m curious if it’s a wife, a daughter maybe.”
“The significance behind the name of The Scarlett Lounge is nothing that concerns you. The girls that work for me, Tori, are paid to dance not to ask questions.” He smiles. “Now do you have any requirements?”
Absofuckinlutely.
“That I work three nights a week. I don’t go topless and I have no other female interaction of any kind when performing: I work alone.”
This is where he should laugh in my face and tell me to get the fuck out. Men in these sorts of places like all or nothing. A woman offering to get her tits out is like gold coins being placed in their pocket. “Why not topless?” he asks curiously.
“I’m a mother. I deserve some respect at least.”
His low laugh pisses me off. “Sweetheart, I think all self-respect was long gone when you walked through the door.”
He’s not wrong, my self-respect was removed from me long ago, but that doesn’t stop the ball of anger that hits my stomach. “And I can easily earn it back by walking out.”
“Get dressed.” I do as I’m ordered as he pours himself a vodka rocks from the mini bar in the far corner and studies the liquid as if to weigh up his options. “You wear small and skimpy, and work four nights or not at all. Do that and I’ll overrule the topless and give you a pass on the one-on-one female sessions.”
“When shall I start?”
“Thursday. Be here at 9:30 pm to start at ten. I’ll give you thirty minutes to meet the other girls.”
“Okay. I’ll make sure I’ll look good.” I smile.
“I don’t want you to look good, Tori, I need you looking so hot men want to push you to the wall and fuck you from behind. Understand?”
“Loud and clear.” I head for the door with both excitement and disgrace hitting my stomach—pleased I have a job but loathing the fact it’s in a place like this.
Lucy is going to freak when she finds out.
Chapter Six
Lucas.
“LUCAS!” Her piercing scream vibrates through every bone in my body as I charge towards her. My chest burns with rage, fear, and determination. My legs pound the solid ground of the courtyard, but I don’t seem to be moving fast enough. Another scream comes from her, deep and more painful to hear. The sound and smell of burning rubber screeches across the ground followed with the penetrating sounds of gunfire blown from the weapon that’s gripped in my hand.
“SELENA!” I roar. Everything begins to spin but all I can see is her eyes.
Blood. It’s everywhere…
I bolt from the mattress, finding myself searching the area of my bedroom for someone that’s not there. Sweat runs down my temples, my chest unbearably tight. My breathing is harsh, erratic, as I try to comprehend that this was just another dream and no reality all over again. “Fuck,” I hiss, rubbing my hand over my face. I should be used to this by now: the nightmares, the terrors, the fuck up I’ve turned into since that very night. But I don’t think I’ll ever be used to it. This is my punishment and I deserve every damn second. Pushing back the covers, I walk my naked frame to the bathroom, turning on the tap to splash cool water over my face as I try to get my breathing under control. I look like shit. I feel like shit.
Pulling on some jeans, I walk into the living room and pour myself a whiskey, throwing it back so the richness can ease the ache in my chest before re-filling with another. My eyes fix on the cabinet that contains my firearm and for the first time in months, I find myself walking towards it. Taking the key from the back of the picture frame on the wall, I unlock the black box with a deep breath. The black Glock 17 pistol rests in its hold along with the calibres and a photo of Selena. The last time I used this, it changed everything, and I swore I’d never use it again because of the result it caused. There was once a time in my career that using a weapon or hearing gunfire coming from my pistol never bothered me; it was my job. But the thought of ever having to use it again makes me feel sick. Being in possession of such a dangerous weapon should make a man feel powerful, not me. Not anymore. Closing the box, I refill my glass and exit the living room, heading out to the balcony where the sky is filled with a combination of deep purple and lilac as sunrise is an hour or two away. It’s my favourite time of the day. The cool air and the light rumble of the ocean is the perfect remedy to relieve the apprehension that’s racing through my body. You can see everything from here: the lights from the town, the lights from vessels out at sea and the stars that light up the sky. By day, the view is fucking fantastic, full of rich colours and creativity. It’s like looking down on your very own oil painting. I take another gulp of my whiskey as my mind drifts back to the girl from my slumber—the girl that had my trust but who I took it from; the one I was paid to protect and failed in my mission. Selena had quickly become more of a friend than a job. She’d had a sassy attitude, which often caused her to get into trouble because she had no fucking filter, but she brought so much colour into my life. The playful teasing over my British accent when she’d tell me to speak LA lingo because ‘the English sounds too posh’ was just one of her charms. I can just picture her now, sitting on the end of my bed, legs crossed, wavy blonde hair with pink and blue extensions with her hand in the air to stop me mid-sentence. She’d correct me with ‘sidewalk’ if I’d said pavement, ‘gas’ if I mentioned petrol, ‘vacation’ with my holiday. She’d truly been a wild child and today would have been her eighteenth birthday. She always wanted to come to England and I’d promised I’d bring her once her father agreed he was happy with my protection towards her. Roman was a hard man to please and one who was in denial over his daughter’s capability and her head full of knowledge. He’d thought Selena was too young to know the real reason for my protection. Little did he realise that his daughter was a lot smarter than he thought. She’d known Daddy had a business and she knew it was far from clean.
With a heavy sigh and a thick ball of emotion lodged in my throat, I raise my glass to the air and look up at the sky before finishing my drink. “Happy Birthday, kiddo. I’m so sorry.”
I decide to go for a run to try and clear my head and shift the trepidation. It’s one of the hardest parts of a recovery. It’s fucking horrendous, and all I want to do when it hits is try to run it out of my system.
Rounding the corner, I head along the promenade, past Rock Waves diner and on towards Rubies. There’s hardly anyone out at this hour, most of the clubs have all kicked out and the only people around are the night workers that keep the streets clean. I hadn’t worked that night. Instead, I spent the evening with Andrew and Megan, so my sister could cook for me because she’s convinced I’m incapable. Cold pizza, fast food or anything with chocolate spread is my go-to food when I can’t be bothered to cook. It’s not that I can’t—I used to cook all the time for Selena when her dad was away—but with my nights working at the club, I don’t see the point in buying fresh ingredients only for them to go to waste.
I stop dead in my tracks, trying to catch my breath, when I notice the vision up ahead. The same little beauty I had the pleasure of meeting the other night. I’ve not been able to stop thinking about her and what intrigues me is why she’s so different from all the rest. But what’s stopped me this time is the fact she’s standing in the exact same spot I found her originally, and because yet again she’s clearly been out roaming the fucking night on her own. I walk towards her slowly and it’s like déjà vu all over again. Each step
I take, her presence is enough to knock me on the arse. I don't just want to sexually connect with this woman: I want to know every damn thing there is to know about her.
She looks sexier than ever, and my dick twitches like a bitch. Her hair falls down her back in long glossy waves. I want to run my fingers through it before wrapping the locks around my fist. Her black biker jacket hugs her thin frame while her short black skirt exposes her toned legs as they fit perfectly in black heels. I focus on tattoo number two: a cluster of stars that bind around her ankle, leading up her calf.
I don’t know why, but once again, I’m grinning like the bloody Cheshire cat.
Holy shit, she’s mesmerising, and I’m completely fucking screwed.
As if she’s felt my presence, she turns in my direction, giving me an eye roll.
“Well if it isn’t my Jane Doe. What are you? Nocturnal or something?”
“No, but you’re like a bad rash I can’t get rid of.”
I press my hand against my heart acting dramatic. “Ouch, my feelings have been crushed.”
“Oh, so you have feelings? I’m surprised. Anyway, don’t you have an energy drink that needs your attention or something?”
“Shit. The punchlines just keep on coming. You really need to stop before I keel over.”
She puts her hands in her jacket pockets and looks me up and down. “You know this ‘let’s creep up on her’ game is getting boring already. I think it’s time to find a new one because I’m not in the least bit scared.”
“Is that right?” She’s wearing makeup tonight; the thick black liner and her long black lashes make her eyes pop and those soft pink lips make her even harder to resist. “Like I said the other night, you can never be too careful. You don’t know who’s about this time of night.”
“Well, it’s a good job I have a six-inch heel that makes an excellent weapon and a conscience that’s not afraid to use it. So, I’d tread very carefully if I were you.”
