Every time I get out of my car and walk into the back of Russo’s I have to remember not to hate everything I’m doing. The moment I walk through these doors I leave everything about Selena Jacobsen behind. I’m no longer she. I transform into something else, or if I’m more specific, someone else.
Star.
By day, I work at Sabrina’s school, answering the phones, chatting with the soccer moms. I mediate between the PTA and teachers, I keep the peace in the ridiculous politics that run through her school, and right now? All I can think of is the judgement that I’d get for working here. I drive the forty-five minutes west until I’m just outside of Atlanta, at my second job, the job that helps me barely scrape by and keep my family together.
Russo’s isn’t anything special. It’s a tiny club on the corner of town that you’ve either known about because of its reputation or because you’ve been a member here for ages. When I say reputation, I don’t mean anything good.
I open the back door, the hinges screech as I pull the door open. I shake my head, knowing that I’ve told Frankie about this at least five times. Anyone who wanted to could break down that door, sneak back in, take our cash, or even hurt one of the girls. I’m saying this because it’s happened before, and it’ll happen again if there aren’t any changes made. That pisses me off. We expose ourselves to hundreds of people a night, maybe even more. Some of the women here do a lot more than just expose themselves, they invite these men and women into their bodies for a price. I’ve never crossed that line, and I will never; I promised myself a long time ago that I wouldn’t use my body as a bargaining chip.
Russo’s is a dingy strip club. I use the term dingy lightly. It’s nowhere near being the best of the best, it’s certainly not the worst, but it’s not high off the bottom of the list either.
I walk down the narrow hallway that will take me to the group dressing room. In total there are about thirty of us that work here as strippers. We rotate shifts, so no one is being favored. Tonight’s Friday, which means it’s the night we’ll make most of our cash. Over the past few weeks, I’ve been getting a lot of shit from the other girls here. I’ve worked every Friday for nine weeks. I’m not complaining, this is helping me pay my bills, but to say that I haven’t been treated badly by the others isn’t accurate. There are nasty looks, smart ass remarks, and a couple of the girls have even gone as far as sabotaging my ensembles.
“Ah! There is my STAR!” Frankie’s voice booms, and I hear her next to me within a moment. I swear, her calling me her “star” is half the reason I’m being treated so poorly, to begin with.
“Hey Frank,” I murmur, offering her a small smile. All I want to do in this moment is pull the attention off of me. If the girls around us think that I don’t see their nasty glares, they’re sadly mistaken. Of course, they probably want me to see the hatred, or maybe jealously that they have for me. I bet they hope that I’ll feel too uncomfortable and eventually leave. I laugh at that. I’ve worked here for two years. I’ve seen girls come and go, and I’ve worked my damn ass off to get where I am. The thing is, none of these bitches would dare say anything to my face. It’s good that they don’t, I know they’re backstabbing bitches anyways, and the moment that one of them confront me it wouldn’t end up too well for them.
“Are you ready for tonight, babygirl?” I nod at her question as she wraps an arm around me and tugs me further down the hall until we’re outside of the only dressing room that locks in this joint. “I was thinking, I’m tired of having you out with the other girls. We both know that there have been uh, “problems” with your outfits, so this way you’ll have a key, and none of the others can touch any of your things. I’ve already had Vail bring all your stuff in here and put it away.” Frankie slides a key in the door, turns it, and it pops open. I’ve seen this dressing room before in passing, but never have I had a moment to step inside. It’s a decent size. The furniture is a tad bit more luxurious than I was expecting, the paint isn’t chipping whatsoever. The only thing that I’m noticing is that there is another door on the other end of the room. I look to Frankie, and before I can even ask she’s speaking. “Don’t worry about that, it’s a private entrance and exit. Usually when my girls move up the pole.” She laughs at her own joke before she continues, “There are others who get jealous, so it’s not in your best interests to leave out the main way. Got it?”
I nod. I’ve never trusted Frankie as a person per say, although, I do trust her judgement and respect the way that she runs her business. She’s owned Russo’s since the old perv croaked a few years back. Before I even interviewed here, I did my fair share of research. I investigated the history of the club, read reports of the stabbings and shootings in the area that were somehow associated with the club. Most of them didn’t even check out.
The thing was if I was going to start stripping, I needed to find a club that was close enough to home, but far enough away that the likelihood of me running into anyone I knew personally was minimal. I also needed to ensure that I would be doing well. Because if I wasn’t making enough cash, what was the point in stripping, to begin with?
When it comes to the danger of the job, I’m not dumb. I know that there is a constant element of danger working here, and even in this profession, but I will continue to do whatever that is necessary for me to keep my family together. At the end of the day, that’s the only thing that truly matters to me. I will flash, grind, and sweet talk anyone if it means being able to provide for them. We’ve all suffered enough, I’ll be damned if I’ll be selfish and break my family apart.
“I’ll be back to get you in an hour, then it’s showtime, baby!”
I take my time getting ready, peeling out of my stuffy work clothes and slipping into something that most would blush about. I plug in my wand, allowing it to heat up so I can press soft, bouncy curls into my hair, that I know the gents love. As the iron warms, I go over to the closet, opening it to reveal an abundance of attire. There are more clothes than expected in here. Definitely more than I knew I had purchased myself. Some of these I wouldn’t even have chosen to wear.
I take a glance, knowing I should probably stick to something I’ve worn before, but I don’t. I’m greedy when I see a beautiful red lace getup. I slip on the push up bra and slide on the panties that tie at both sides, securing them in a beautiful knot.
I grab my phone, opening my Spotify app and start playing Lips on You by Maroon 5; the new song that I’ll be dancing tonight. I have no problem dancing like a whore or being sensual as all hell. Tonight, I’ve chosen sensual, I am Star after all.
I find a lipstick in my makeup drawer that matches the dark crimson red of my ensemble. As I look at myself in the mirror in front of me I am pleased with how I look. It’s intimidating – to be in here alone, to not have to keep my poker face on in case the other girls are staring. In this room, I don’t have to hide what I’m feeling because there isn’t anyone to watch or to judge me. I don’t know whether this is a good or a bad thing. I just have to remind myself that one day I won’t have to do this anymore. In reality, I shouldn’t want to do this, and I don’t want to, but I won’t lie and say that when I strip I don’t feel powerful.
I know that when I dance, every single set of eyes are on me, watching every perfectly choreographed move that I make. There’s a lot that I can’t control in my life, but when I’m here at Russo’s, taking my role as Star. I know that I can control everything that happens to me. Maybe that’s why I like doing this so much. It’s the freedom, the power, the euphoric feeling in knowing that this is my stage, and every move I make is something that I’ve decided – something that no one can take away from me.
If I knew any better, I’d say Frankie bought this for me as repayment for everything that’s happened to my pieces. It’s a welcome surprise, and I’ll take it. The next twenty minutes fly by as I meticulously curl every strand of my hair, letting it bounce in a way that I know the customers will die for. I hear Frankie’s voice echoing through the club; she’s ril
ing the crowd up, preparing them for the main event.
Me.
No matter how many times I’ve done this, it will always feel like the first time. There’s this deep feeling inside of me, my stomach coils with nervousness as I hear the shouting, the whistles, the catcalling. In theory, this should make me feel confident, but it doesn’t. I am terrified, always have been and always will be. But the moment I step foot on that stage it dissipates into thin air. Selena may be nervous, but Star will perform.
She will own that stage and leave every man in that room spilling with need and desire.
At the end of the day, she has to, because if she doesn’t, everything could fall apart.
CHAPTER 4
Christian
Jordan told me to meet him at the penthouse. He said 8 p.m. sharp. The bastard sent me a text with an address to a rundown strip club on the edge of town. I’d never be caught dead in a place like this if he didn’t blindside me with the last-minute change in our plans. All I can think is that one of our shitty clients is in this club and that I’ll be handling some Steele family business tonight.
I wait in my car until I see Jordan’s jet-black Maserati peel into the parking lot. He slides right up next to me, casually exiting the vehicle after he parks it. “Get out of the damn car, you pussy.”
As brothers, Jordan and Logan have always known the best ways to get me to act out. I think that in every family siblings are good for pressing buttons. It’s an instinctual trait that has to be acted out, otherwise – are you even family? Challenging me or calling me a pussy is my trigger. He’s lucky we are blood. If we weren’t, I’d already have him on the ground with a broken jaw and nose.
Everyone outside of our family views me as this billionaire party boy, and I am, to an extent. Whenever you’re in the public eye you will do whatever is necessary to keep up appearances. For yourself, for your family. In a way, I do that by being seen by the paparazzi. They’ve always loved me, the youngest Steele, the one who doesn’t look like he’s related to Logan or Jordan. I can recall a time as a child, that they even questioned my paternity because of the vast difference in appearances between my father, brothers, and I. I’m the blonde sheep of the family, so to speak. Everyone else may view me as this spoiled rich party boy, but my brothers know exactly what I am.
A calculated monster.
A weapon at their disposal.
Brooklyn doesn’t even know what I really do for Steele Enterprises, and if you asked anyone, you’d find out that I own a few clubs, and maybe they’d add in that I have a say in certain business decisions. I do own a few clubs, but I’ve hired capable managers to handle them for me. You only see me at the clubs to keep up my party boy status.
It’s funny, many of the men we do business with think I’m weak because of my public image. They have no clue until it’s too late, that I’m the one who is sent to collect payment. After all these years, word has travelled around that I’m the bloodhound of our family. I had hoped it would instill fear – that we wouldn’t have so many problems with payments. We’ve had enough with trying to keep the feds off of our backs. Luckily, we’ve been able to succeed at that with Logan’s leadership. I was out of the game for a while after my accident, and I use that term loosely. I was in no accident; the brake lines were cut to my car and I crashed – barely leaving that accident alive. I knew who was behind it, the only problem was proving that Rafael Ramirez had anything to do with it. That fucker is going to pay.
“Did you hear me?” Jordan snaps, I’m pulled out of my daze by the ferociousness in his voice.
“No, I didn’t. What were you saying?”
“Shit, Christian. You need to pay attention. I didn’t just bring you here for the fucking surprise I’ve got planned, we’ve got business to do.” He glares at me, tucking his hands into the pockets of his pants as he leans against his car. “Matteo is requiring our services. He hasn’t been in town for quite a while due to his…partnership falling apart.” Matteo Varca, an errand boy for the Italians. We’d heard recently that his marriage to Arielle had fallen apart. I’m not surprised by this. She is a woman who would take you by the balls and make you squeal. Matteo is a man who, well, is scum.
My brothers and I do business with the mobs, bratva, cartel, and mafias. It’s how we stay in business, we certainly couldn’t pick and choose who to do business with, and when it came to North America – neither could they. We run this continent. We handle every gun that is transported, and if it wasn’t us, it was the boy at the corner store at the end of your street, and I can guarantee they were caught. It doesn’t bother us, though; the small fish who try to do what we do end up keeping the cops and the feds busy. It keeps the heat off of our back, and we’re all supportive of that.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see a red Porsche pull into the parking lot. I make no mistake, this is Matteo. He always has been a flashy fucker. A small smile slips past my lips, knowing that him being back in town will stir up a bit of trouble, especially given that Jordan just confirmed his separation with Arielle. She may be his wife, but I am no fool – Arielle is the one with the power here.
It’s interesting to understand how each mafia rules. The Romanians view the women as obsolete, giving them practically nothing. They just want their women there to fuck or as breeders for whenever they want more children. The Italians are almost the same; only they want the women present to show them off as their shiny little toys. I have met Arielle a few times and knew from the moment I met her that she wasn’t like the other Italian wives – first, she isn’t Italian whatsoever. She married into Varca’s family, which tells me that she will be stirring up a lot of trouble.
Matteo slips out of his Porsche, walking towards Jordan and me. “I believe we should go inside gentleman, where things are more…quaint.” I almost chuckle; the old Italian is worried that his wife has put a hit on him. Knowing Arielle, she very well might have.
Jordan and I follow the old man into the strip club called Russo’s. From the outside, it looks like a complete dive, but as you walk through those doors, it gets a tad better with each step. I’m pleasantly surprised when I see the entire space before my eyes. To the left, there is a DJ booth, next to that is a full-service bar, and booths line the vast space. My eyes automatically drift around the entire space; it’s habit now. I’m always looking for a way out in case shit goes south. You never know what will happen, or when it will happen, so it’s best to be prepared in any given circumstance or situation.
“Have you been here before?” Jordan asks Matteo. The old man turns to both of us and smiles slyly.
“Of course, I have. Russo was an old friend of mine. Who do you think helped him build this place?” He chuckles as he snaps his fingers and a woman with bleach blonde hair in stilettos comes running up. “Frankie, darling, give us the VIP treatment tonight. I want to be secluded and see the whole show.”
“Of course, Mr. Varca, shall I get you anything else while you’re here tonight?” She looks to the old man, and he smiles and nods. “Yes. Three whiskeys on the rocks and bring me your best girl for a lap dance later. I don’t want any of these girls who look like newborn fawns. I want your best girl. You know the deal, she dances, she gets a tip.” Frankie nods before she takes us over to a booth that is exactly what Matteo asked for. It gives us the element of intimacy while we can still see the entire show. As we get acquainted I see a couple girls around the joint. There are three separate stages, two are off to both sides with a few chairs around both of them, and then there is one in the middle. Neon lights flash throughout the club to the beat of the music, the girls sway their bodies seductively to the tune.
“Let’s talk business, shall we gentleman?” Jordan beams, smiling as he leans back into his seat.
Matteo nods slightly, raising his hand up in the air. I wonder what he’s doing when I see Frankie come walking over with our whiskey. She sets each glass carefully in front of Matteo, Jordan, and then myself. “Do you need anything else, Sir
?”
“Not yet. I shall let you know when I require your…services.” Matteo licks his lips and smiles as Frankie blushes, nodding at him as she walks away. I follow her with my eyes and see her disappear behind the stages.
“You haven’t required our services for quite some time, Matteo. This intrigues me, is this for you personally or is Gabriele requiring our assistance?” Gabriele DiGiovanni is the head of the Italian Mafia. His men are everywhere, his power unquestionable, and yet, the man barely leaves Italy. We’ve worked for him in the past, but not for quite a while.
“Gabriele is. It has been quite a while, he hasn’t foreseen any need to have more arms moved across the states, however, due to unforeseen… developments, we require your assistance yet again.”
“What do you need?” Jordan asks, sipping at his whiskey.
“We need you to move a shipment of guns that we already have in the States. They are hidden in an old warehouse just outside of New York City. If we send any of our men near it, it’s bound to be tied to Gabriele, which we cannot allow to happen. They have eyes on our men, the feds do not have eyes on you. You boys are the best at what you do, I don’t know how you’ve outsmarted them for this long, or how your father did it…the old bastard never did share his secrets with me.”
“It’s what’s kept us in business,” Jordan laughs, and I nod to his assessment. We wouldn’t be giving anyone advice on how to move arms, it’s what made us a necessity. If we weren’t a necessity, we would be discarded. People say that you need to stay relevant in any business. In our world, on the other side of the grass so to speak, if you don’t stay relevant – you get yourself killed.
“That it has. Gabriele needs this moved within the next three weeks. He needs it to go to Los Angeles. There have been troubles with his sister, so his men need to be prepared. I will send you an address to ship them to, given that you can meet our deadline.”
“Of course, we can meet the deadline. Although, given the short time frame you will have to pay our expedited rate,” Jordan says coolly to Matteo, who nods in agreement. He’s just agreed to pay us over two hundred thousand in extra funds on top of our normal rate.
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