by Liza James
“Fuck no, not her.” Bethie’s voice bites out in frustration next to me and suddenly long, slim fingers slip across the back on my neck in a confident touch. I turn around quickly, only to have my gaze crash against the piercing blue in front of me. My breath catches, my heart rate hammers wildly in my chest, and I’m thrown into a moment I can’t escape. The dancer’s head tilts to the side as she watches me, confusion clouding her eyes for just a moment before they clear and settle back into that darker demeanor she holds.
“Why is that?” she asks, her voice a low, sultry sound that envelopes me in waves of caution. She’s speaking to Bethie, but her eyes are focused on me and her grip tightens against the back of my neck.
“Because she can’t handle someone like you,” Bethie argues, and a quick burst of anger flashes across my chest. How dare she say something like that? She has no idea of what I can and can’t handle. Not that I want to handle this. I don’t. Of course not.
The dancer smiles, and leans even closer to me as she replies to Bethie, “Why don’t you let your friend decide what she can and can’t handle? If she wants me to stop, she can fucking tell me herself.”
I can’t even focus on Bethie right now, but I vaguely hear some sort of sigh and clash as she sits back next to me. Instead, my eyes are focused on everything in front of me. On the feel of her breath against my skin, the pressure of her fingers across the nape of my neck. My dark hair is pulled up into a ponytail, so I can feel the heat of her skin against my own as she uses her grip to turn my head to side.
“Your friend is a little desperate, don’t you think?” she whispers against my ear and my eyes fall shut for a moment while I focus on steadying my breaths. Everything feels thick, heavy with seduction, but for these moments, my mind is far too occupied to worry about anything else. All I can focus on is her.
“Why don’t you do this to her? She’s the one who paid you.” I force the words out of my mouth even though I don’t know how I want her to respond. Do I want her to stop? To leave me alone? Do I want her to focus on Bethie and give her the attention she’s asking for?
I’m afraid to look at that question too closely.
She laughs against my ear as she pulls back, and instinctually I end up leaning forward, refusing to end it this quickly. Because I feel something, a connection, a tether, a magnetic draw that’s clouding my mind and replacing my guilty thoughts for just a moment.
I need it.
The breath. She’s the clean air my mind is craving. It’s in her energy, in the space around us and between us and I can’t explain it in the way that it deserves.
She sits back on her knees and pulls me up from my seat so that I’m standing in front of her. Her hands slide around my waist, under the hem of my light blue knitted sweater before she grips it to drag me against her. Our chests are flush against each other’s, her fingers are pressed tightly around my stomach in a grip that’s rough and demanding attention.
Her eyes meet mine in a heady gaze of power and intimidation. “First of all, she didn’t pay me, that guy who I’m assuming is your boyfriend did, and believe me, he’s enjoying this far more than if I had paid attention to him.”
I feel Bethie shift beside me, and notice her hand lifting towards mine as if she wants to pull me back down, but the woman in front of me is quicker and she drops her hold on my waist to reach my hand first, grasping it and quickly pulling it up above my head. She pins my hand there, keeping me in place so that I can’t move, and then brings her gaze back to meet mine again.
“Secondly, I’m not doing this with her because I’m not vibing with her, or the other two dumbasses at your sides, am I?” she whispers as she pulls me even tighter against her strong figure and begins dancing again. Her slender body rolls against mine as her lips shift to my jaw, not touching me, not barely, but simply grazing up and towards my ear before she continues speaking. “Because this? This is dangerous. I can feel it.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say quietly, and my eyes drop to watch her as she moves. I don’t fucking get it, I don’t understand what I’m feeling, but I like what’s happening. Whatever this is, whatever she’s doing and saying, I’m captivated by. Besides, this is a one-off moment, it won’t happen again. I won’t ever see her again, this is harmless.
“Liar,” she says darkly, just before her teeth bite down on my ear and she pulls. I jump in surprise and quickly lift my free hand to her waist in order to push away, but that was a mistake. Because now I have her skin under my touch, I’m holding her against me while she continues moving, dancing, grinding against my body and now I want more. I flex my fingers, gripping her even tighter when my back arches involuntarily and I press myself harder against her.
My hand travels higher, sliding up her back to graze my fingers across her wing before falling to her shoulder. She pulls back to watch my touch, and I can’t help but keep my eyes on the strange attraction I have to this odd theme tonight. It fits her, somehow. For reasons I don’t understand, she seems like a butterfly.
Free.
Mentally, I slip into a place that only houses this moment between us, somewhere I can ignore the people around us, the sound of the music, the memories of my past, the preconditioned ideas I’ve had forced down my throat. And I explore her, trailing my hand across her collar bone, letting my fingers brush along her skin until I near her neck. Her eyes lift to mine as my grip wraps loosely around the base of her jaw, and I tilt my head in confusion at my own actions.
She watches me, and I can see her own sense of turmoil flash across her eyes, as if she doesn’t understand why I don’t understand myself. Is it possible to know anything like that about each other? When we’ve exchanged very few words and moments in this short time?
“Tell me your name,” I say quietly, holding her still in front of me while we watch each other.
“Ruby,” she replies, her voice low and dark in the space between us.
I pinch my eyes, feeling like the name suits her, but as if I’m missing something else vital to the information. “Is that your—”
“Stripper name?” she asks on a laugh, and her hand reaches up to grip my wrist before she pulls it away from her. “Maybe.”
“Give me your name. Your name. I want it.” I urge her as everything begins unraveling inside of me. I can feel the distance, the step back within herself, the confusion and uncertainty within my own mind.
She smiles in a way that chills my bones and marks my skin, leaving me wanting more but putting a clear boundary in place. “Ah, not tonight, Vibe Girl. You’re going to have work for that one.” Her hand lifts briefly, as she drags her thumb across my lower lip, before letting go and sitting back.
She stands and turns away from us, but before she walks off the stage, she reaches up and grips the back of her shirt in one hand and her wings in the other. She pulls both over her head one after the other and drops them to the floor behind her. She doesn’t turn around, simply walks away without her top or her wings, without the money that was tossed her way, and leaving me without a single clue as to who she really is outside of this moment.
I’m trying to catch my breath, but it won’t come. I can’t inhale to the extent that I need in order to calm the fire that’s licking underneath my skin. Fuck, I haven’t felt anything like that before. Not in my entire life have I experienced a connection like that.
I don’t know who that girl was, but I know she’s lost. She’s confused, and she was afraid of whatever was sparking between us. I sense it without a doubt, like she couldn’t fathom the energy coursing in the space that surrounded us.
But I felt it. She can deny it all she wants. If that’s what she needs to do to get back into bed with her boyfriend, have at it. But I know that shit wasn’t normal. Not in the way I literally felt her eyes on me while I danced, not in the way her chest rose and fell in shallow breaths when I spoke to her. She was watching me, even when she knew she shouldn’t. Her eyes were trained on me.
I fucking wanted it. To tease and draw all of these clearly taboo and erratic emotions out of her? Give them to me. I fucking live for that shit. I can guarantee I won’t ever see her again, no way. She doesn’t belong in places like this—the dark, the filthy, the messy. She’s a little too prim and proper. Too innocent for anything I’d be able to give her. And you can believe I’d fucking give it. I’d destroy her with every poisonous word and dark touch I created.
I quickly step off the stage and through the heavy black curtain that leads to the hallway housing several of our dressing rooms. The fluorescent lights are flickering above me, lighting up the cracks and stains in the cement flooring as I quicken my pace until I reach the room I share with six other women. I round the corner and step up to my personal vanity table. It showcases a big, brightly lit mirror that’s cracked down the center. The club makes pretty good money, but most of it goes right into the pockets of Sal, the owner. He doesn’t do upgrades until it’s necessary. My mirror has been cracked for three months now, after an unfortunate night when a customer somehow made it past the fucking security and broke into our space. He may or may not have thrown one of the girls’ heels against the mirror before his ass was hauled out.
What did I do? I kept the heel, of course. Shoved that shit in my bag and took it home to add to my collection of douche-bag mementos. Every time some guy or girl is a raging cunt, I steal something that represents what they did. Tuck it away and then display it in my tiny apartment in order to remind myself that it’s only me out here. I take care of myself, against the dicks, against the catty women, against the people who think they fucking own you.
No one owns me. I’m a free spirit, and I intend on keeping it that way.
I dig my hand through my brown leather bag that sits on the counter in front of me. It holds a change of clothes, so I immediately throw on the baggy black T-shirt I had in there. One of the bartenders will grab my shirt and wings left on the stage and drop it back off at my vanity.
Calypso is seated a few spaces down from me and smoking a joint, but she quickly notices my strange reaction at the moment and offers me a hit. After what I just felt with that girl out there? My heart is hammering uncontrollably, my mind is racing with memories of my past and the connection I felt vibrating between us. It’s too much, especially for someone I’m never going to fucking see again. So, I accept it, and inhale the heated smoke before releasing it completely. I pass it back to her and nod in appreciation, and hope this shit unwinds me sooner rather than later.
Looking up at the mirror, I focus on myself. I close my eyes for a moment, breathing in the waves of relaxation, the coursing strands that mentally slow me down while I try to regain control of my thoughts and spiraling emotions. Opening my eyes, I meet my own deep blue gaze.
Hard. Controlled. Shielded.
I’ve got this. I’m okay, I just needed a moment to collect myself.
Fuck, and she wanted my name. I don’t give that out. Ever. I like to keep my private life, just that—private. I don’t mix the two. She met me here, so she gets me here. She sees Ruby, no one else. I never give all of me to any one person.
“Ruby,” the deep voice of one of our bouncers, Chris, breaks out from behind me and I shift my eyes to meet his in the mirror. He’s resting against the door, his thick arms crossed tightly over his chest. He looks relaxed, but I know he isn’t, and his eyes drop to my ass as I bite the inside of my cheek in annoyance. “You have a client.”
“Man or woman?” I ask, because there’s a part of me—the tiniest part of me—that hopes it’s miss prim and proper out looking. Even though I know it isn’t, in my gut, I know she’s with her boyfriend.
“Same guy it is every fuckin’ night, Rubes.” He chuckles to himself as he straightens up and saunters towards me. My head drops down for a second, frustration spiking through my blood at both him coming closer, and the idea of the man waiting for me in one of the private rooms.
“Touch me and I’ll cut your fucking dick off, Chris. You know the fucking rules,” I snap my gaze up to meet his, just as he steps up behind me, his hard chest coming flush against my back. His hand slides to my hip, his fingers dipping under the band of my fishnets, and as I glance down, I realize he’s sliding a twenty-dollar bill against me. No one even glances our way, we’re used to this by now. The sick and twisted claims of the bouncers on our bodies. We’ve learned to fight back. They don’t hold as much power as others.
“Yeah, and what if I pay for it? What are the rules then?” His other hand grips my hip as he drags my ass even tighter against him. He’s already hard, grinding his cock against me while his lips dip down to graze against my ear.
Nausea rolls through my stomach, threatening to throw up every ounce of food I’d eaten earlier. Not that it’s much, I was only able to grab a couple granola bars and eat those on the way here tonight. Chris is disgusting, and not in a looks kind of way. He’s actually decently attractive. Short, buzzed blond hair, hazel eyes, a strong body. But it’s in his energy, he’s sick and twisted, and I’ve already got enough toxicity running through my veins. I don’t want anything from him.
I lift a hand and gently drag my fingers against his, trailing up higher as I turn around in his hold. My back is pressed against the vanity now and I let a small smirk pull at my lips while my fingers continue drifting up his bicep and towards his shoulder.
I lean forward, holding on to him with both of my hands while he shifts to grip my ass. I whisper into his ear, slipping my tongue out and against his skin for only a second before speaking. “The rules are always the same for you, Chris. I don’t give a fuck if you’re throwing hundred-dollar bills in my face. Fuck someone else on your own dime.” I quickly lift my knee and nail him right between his legs. He doubles over and begins coughing, muttering under his breath about how I’m a bitch as I step around him. I pull out the folded up twenty and throw it on the ground in front of his face as I turn to address him further.
“Tell Dom I’m not coming. I’m taking tonight off.” I turn to leave and step out the door, just as Chris shouts after me. He’s still on the ground, but he’s slowly struggling to stand up and regain his footing.
“You know what will happen if you don’t show up, Ruby. He’ll fight back.”
I pause and meet his gaze with my own, feigning consideration of his implied threat. I clasp my hands in front of my waist, entangling my fingers in a way that resembles something sweet and innocent. “Please deliver these exact words to Dominique. ‘Suck. My. Dick. Daddy.’”
I quickly turn and pick up my pace as I hurry down the dim hallway leading out to the back of the club. The only unfortunate issue I’ll come across is the fact that I’ll have to pass through the small hall that houses the private client rooms. More specifically, I’ll pass Dom’s room where he’s currently waiting for me.
Dom. He’s a possessive, rich douche bag who has been a part of my life far longer than I’d like to admit. He found me dancing on the stage one night after I had run away and decided to lay claim on me every night since. He comes from drug money, the highest power working over the city at night. He’s always offering me a fix at the end of our time together, as if I’ll ever take it. He knows too much about my past, about the life I grew up in, and it’s practically a joke to watch him wave his authority over my head like that.
In the beginning—when I was younger—I fell for his ruse a little bit. He’s older, but attractive, incredibly so. He tempted me with promises of money and sex, and I fell for it—briefly. Before I got my head on straight and ran away from him and my family for good.
Then he showed back up and his tanned, golden skin glistened under the dark red lights that flash through the room we’re always in together. Always room number five. He’s big, both tall and incredibly strong. His muscles would shift and stretch as he’d come towards me, seducing me with only his eyes before taking me with his body.
I should have expected it hones
tly. He’s been a friend of my family’s since I was young, and once he found me after I had disappeared, I tried to believe that maybe he was here for a reason. Maybe he was here to tell me that my family was looking for me.
But that wasn’t the case and once he saw me one night with a woman on the stage, he completely changed into something even darker than before.
Don’t get me wrong, I love rough sex. I even love being the one who leans towards the more dominant side—especially with women. Because I enjoy both men and women, alone or together. Gender doesn’t register on my radar anymore because as I’ve gotten older, the more I’ve realized how important the connection actually is. Even if it’s a one-night stand, or a quick hook-up, I intentionally feel out the energy coursing between myself and whoever I’m with before I really let go.
Which is why that girl out in the club hit me so fucking hard. Her energy, whatever that was between us? It was stronger, more potent than anything I’ve experienced before.
But Dom’s energy. His is toxic. He craves something darker than the simple act of domination. No, he enjoys the pain. The struggle. He likes watching them cry, or begging for mercy. I know because I’ve seen it. He’s forced me to sit in the back of the room while he fucks someone else. Sometimes, that might turn me on. But with him? Not at all, because the other woman isn’t enjoying it either. We’re both stuck in a place of being violated, usually one right after the other. He fucks me, forces himself on me, does what he can in order to make me cry and beg but it doesn’t work. Fuck no, that’s the one thing I can hold back from him. The one thing he can’t fucking take from me.
But then he gets angry, so fucking mad that he takes it out on someone else while I’m forced to watch. It’s a vicious fucking cycle, and after he leaves, I’m the one who makes sure the other woman is okay. I’m the one who is there, caring for and cleaning up, and trying to figure out how to get out of this fucking mess.
That’s the real problem though, the idea that we don’t have a way out. Because we’re strippers. We take off our clothes for money, sometimes we do other things for money as well. And because of that simple fact, we have to be asking for it. No one takes the side of a woman, let alone a fucking stripper.
