Jemma's POV
The music beats through my body, and the flashing lights lull me into the zone where I can disappear even as men look at me with their hungry eyes. It's the second time I've been on stage tonight, and already I know that none of the onlookers will ask for a lap dance at the end of my set.
I can always tell, based on what they're wearing, how much they're drinking, and the way they interact with the people around them.
The men who come here wearing nice suits, expensive watches, and real leather shoes—they eagerly pay for lap dances, and generally tip well, too.
I like the quiet ones, even if their eyes seem vacant as they take in my body. I'm nothing but a form of passing entertainment for them, only here to fill their head with enough fantasies to tide them over for another few days so they can go back to their thankless job and go home to fuck their indifferent wife in their loveless marriage.
Then there are the guys who think they're hot shit, drowning in cheap body spray, their big poofy jackets pushed off their shoulders as they throw dollar bills at the stage like money's going out of style. The flashiest ones always want lap dances, and their eyes burn hot with the fire of intoxication.
They're the loud, grabby drunks, the ones who think I get as much out of the lap dances as they do. Like I should be thanking them for the privilege of turning them on. That without them, my body means nothing.
I loathe the nights when the club is filled with that type of customer.
Thankfully, tonight is quieter.
A group of friends in their early twenties has come in, teasing and jousting with each other. They're probably about my age, but they still have their full potential inside them. One of them is wearing a college alumni shirt, and while it isn't Ivy League, I know it's a good college. It's one that I considered applying to in a brief moment of hope.
They're the kind of audience that wants to drink a few beers and have me shake my ass in their face so they can feel like they did something fun and risqué. They'll go home later, jack off in the shower, and crash into a deep slumber, full of youthful pride for having lived like there's no tomorrow.
They can never have one of us, but that isn't what they really want.
They only want the idea of us.
That's all I am to these broke college students. A fantasy that they'll forget by the time they wake up.
When my song ends, I sweep up two handfuls of ones and fives before hurrying off the stage. None of the guys call out to me, asking me to take them somewhere private, offering to slip me a twenty for five minutes of false intimacy.
I make my way into the back and sit down at my makeup booth to count the money. Thirty dollars from this round of dancing, plus twenty-seven from my first set. I stare at the short stack of crinkled bills. At this rate, I'm going to need to pull an extra shift to make sure our rent is paid.
There are better clubs to work at, but Bryan won't let me leave this place. This club is another link in the chain he has around my neck.
My phone buzzes, and I see a text from Bryan. Biting my lip, I debate whether I should open the message. If he's in a bad mood, it'll throw me off for the rest of the night. And then I'll dance like shit and won't make the money I need.
I tap to open it, deciding to treat it like a Band-Aid and rip it off.
Nice performance. When do you go on again?
Tension rolls through me. My guts turn to ice before flaring up in a massive wave of heated irritation.
Bryan is here.
He's not a bouncer anymore, and he knows the girls aren't supposed to let their boyfriends come around. But Mack, the owner, lets him in and doesn't give him too much shit. Bryan doesn't drink more than a beer or two when he's here, at least. And he stays in the back, away from the valuable audience space right next to the stage.
But I hate the nights he's here the most.
When Bryan's in the club, it really does feel as if he owns me. Like he's watching to see how his investment performs, his eyes evaluating my every move, sizing me up to determine if I'm meeting expectations.
It's a Tuesday night, so there are only two other girls, which means we'll rotate through our turns on the stage quickly. My thumb hovers over the keyboard before I tap out a fast reply.
Probably 15 minutes. Do you want me to come out?
I ask out of habit, not because I'm hoping he'll yes.
No, I'm here on business. Be a good girl and make sure your next dance
is damn sexy.
Fuck. I set my phone down hard enough to make Chrissy jump at the
vanity next to me.
"Hey, can you cool it?" She lifts up her eyeliner and shoots me a glare
before leaning toward the mirror. "I don't want to fuck up my makeup."
"Yeah, sorry," I say, but she's already ignoring me again.
I shove the wrinkled money into the velvet pouch that I keep my tips in while I'm working—the bills will get straightened and counted again by
Bryan once I'm home. I'll slip a few dollars out before then to add to my squirrel fund. Just a little, not enough to make him suspicious. He's terrible at finances, yet somehow he has an eerie accuracy when it comes to
knowing how much I should make on any given night.
Bryan wants me to dance for him during my next set, which is nothing new—he's always showing me off to the latest acquaintance he's buddied up to, as though I'm his personal puppet. But he's never brought any of his shady business deals into the club before, and that makes me nervous.
The music pumps through the walls, the beat of the bass sending my nerves higher. Chrissy leaves the dressing room, and I know that I need to get ready. She'll be done in less than ten minutes. Then it will be my turn again.
My locker is against the opposite wall of the small dressing room, and my hands shake as I pick out which outfit to wear. My well-worn sketchbook rests between a pair of heels on the top shelf. I brought it to
work with me today for some reason, even though I haven't been able to bring myself to look at the drawings I did last night.
I wish I could pull it out, flip to a blank page, and sketch something, anything to settle my nerves. I don't have time for that though.
I curl my hands around the sheer black chemise hanging on the right side of my locker. Black contrasts nicely against my pale skin. Customers always say it makes me look like a porcelain doll. I guess that's supposed to be a compliment, even though they're comparing me to an inanimate object made for the sole purpose of sitting in some collector's display case.
Draping the chemise over my arm, I reach through my usual outfits to the shelf at the back and pull out the lacy black bra and its matching thong.
It'll pair well with the see-through fabric of the little slip dress. I bought the set last year, planning to surprise Bryan for our anniversary, but the tags are
still on it. Instead of celebrating, we got into an awful fight that day, so I hid the outfit in my locker at work, yet another unpleasant memory I wanted to bury.
But now, I'll wear the lace like armor.
The pounding rock music of Chrissy's set list grows quieter, signaling that I'm up next. I check my heels, rubbing the soles along the floor to make sure they're clean, and run my fingers through my hair to give it a sultry volume. Guys like it when your hair looks like you've just been fucked.
The DJ announces my club name, Prudence Sweet, and I step out on stage. The lights hit my eyes, but I don't look towards the back, where I know Bryan's lurking. Instead, I give my sugary come-hither smile to the crowd in front of me, scanning for the ones that look full of promise.
One of the regulars has shown up—an aging alcoholic with a paunchy middle and sallow skin—but I don't pay him any attention. He'll drop a couple dollars on the stage eventually, and I'll stick my breasts in his face before the end of my set. Then he'll slide a five over to me, make a couple lewd comments, and order another drink while he waits for the next girl to come out. Same as always.
A few of the college guys have moved to the bar, no doubt trying to hit on Scarlett, the bartender. Newcomers have the mistaken impression that she's an easy target. They think she must be desperate for a little attention since everyone else's eyes are fixed on the stage. But Scarlett has more experience than any of us. If they hang around over there long enough, she'll talk them into buying ridiculously overpriced bottles of champagne and milk them for every dollar they have.
A middle-aged couple, a man and a woman who look excited but also a little nervous have taken the vacated seats. They're likely here to rev up their bedroom time with this voyeuristic foreplay. They're adorable, the way they keep checking in with one another, reassuring each other that they're having fun. I'll give them a good show.
Letting my gaze skim across the room, my eyes land on a person entering the club—a man with broad shoulders and devastatingly good looks, the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome. I only have a few seconds to drink him in, to observe his quiet, commanding presence, before my music starts. Still, my fingers itch with the need to record his face in my sketchbook.
I close my eyes and reach for the pole behind me. Showtime.
As I begin dancing, I let the club fall away.
The noise and movement of the dozens of bodies packed into the room disappear as I focus on the handsome stranger. It's easier this way sometimes—to pretend you're dancing for someone you care about.
Someone you desire. It adds chemistry to your moves, and the audience rewards you for it.
My eyes are glued to him as he moves through the room with ease, the crowd parting for him. The chorus of the song kicks in and I start my routine, climbing the pole, swinging around it on the way down. With every turn, I look for him again—and spot him settling in at a dimly lit booth at the very back. He's the reason my head swims and my heart races, not the fast spins I perform on the pole.
He looks around, calmly taking it all in as if he owns everything and everyone in sight. Even the way he sits projects a relaxed but calculated confidence—one arm draped casually along the back of the booth, the other resting on the table. He oozes power. Dominance. Control.
He looks at me once, watching for a brief moment as I slowly pull off the chemise. Then he dismisses me and turns away, engaging in a conversation with someone hidden in the shadows.
It pisses me off—being ignored. Who comes to a place like this and doesn't watch the show?
My anger makes me try harder. I'm determined to get his attention. I'll make him forget about whoever he's talking to, and focus those savage, dark eyes only on me.
Dancing almost never turns me on anymore. It fed my exhibitionist fantasies the first few times, but the novelty quickly wore off. This time, I feel myself getting hot. I think about his eyes on me during a private lap dance, his hands ghosting over my thighs, barely controlling himself to obey the club's no touching policy. I want to make him break the rules.
Spinning around, I let my bra slip off in a teasing way, coyly hiding my breasts behind my arms. I glance across the room, hoping he's watching.
When my eyes meet his, my heart stops.
My efforts have been successful. He's looking at me with such an intense focus that I almost forget to keep dancing. I expected to feel triumphant when I finally captured his attention, but instead, a spike of terror stabs through me.
This man is more than powerful.
I know he's dangerous the same way a rabbit instinctively knows a wolf is dangerous.
But it's not only fear coursing through me. The dread his gaze inflicts upon me sends a cold chill down my spine, but at the same time it heats me up from my core, turning my blood to fire.
He's a predator, and I'm his prey. But here, like this, he can't touch me.
He's aimed at me like a gun, loaded and dangerous—but the safety's on, and the trigger can't be pulled no matter how hard he squeezes, not here at the club. No matter how much I want him to explode.
The song winds to a close and I scoop up the money from the stage, knowing it's much more than thirty dollars this time. Bryan wanted my best performance and he certainly got it. I got the crowd stirred up and needy.
If I go back out to work the floor, I bet even a few of the college kids might cough up the money for a private dance, something they rarely do.
And I know that couple is waiting for me to come out, too. After doing this for so long, I can always tell. The wife wants to ask me for a lap dance so her husband can watch me grind on her, and later they'll both think of me as
they kiss and touch.
When I sit back down at my dressing table, a text from Bryan is waiting for me.
Good girl.
There's no thank you for the show, no I'll see you at home, no sweet sentiments of love. Just detached praise for his dancing monkey.
I really hope his short words of approval mean that if his business doesn't work out, he won't blame me. I did exactly what he asked of me, yet again.
Pushing thoughts of Bryan out of my mind, I retrieve my sketchbook. I need to draw the mysterious man's face, to create a tangible image of him to go with the swirl of emotions he's inspired. All I have is a shitty ballpoint
pen, but it'll have to do. Harsh lines of black ink bleed into the thin paper, his face half covered in shadow.
It only takes a few minutes before I'm done, and his visage is staring at me. Somehow, I've captured his presence accurately enough to make me uneasy.
I rip the page out of my sketchbook and fold it in half over and over until it's a small square, as though each hard crease has the power to cut through the fear he's provoked. The gesture does nothing to stop my hands from trembling, but I can't bring myself to throw it away.
I consider going out to work the main room for a while and letting the middle-aged couple shyly approach me. I could take them by the hand and lead them to the private room where they'd hand over their credit card. I could spend an hour dancing for them while earning good money for it. The
two of them would get so worked up watching me that they'd be desperate for each other. They'd leave hand-in-hand, happy and full of heated excitement, their marriage saved for another week or two.
Instead, I get dressed in my regular clothes and gather my things. I tuck the sketch into my pocket, and quietly slip out the rear exit, texting Mack that I'm done for the night. I know if I go back out there, I'll be entering dangerous territory.
It's his domain tonight—the beast sitting at the back of the room. If I let myself get within reach, there would be no sanctuary. His fierce grip would close around my neck like a savage craving the taste of my flesh. He'd pull me into his darkness, and wouldn't let go until he'd had his fill.
That's exactly why I need to leave—because of how much I want him to do exactly that.