Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 98909 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98909 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 495(@200wpm)___ 396(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
And just as I was drifting off, his girlfriend came over and spent a good hour bitching about one of her sorority sisters. The two of them didn’t even have the decency to have sex. Listening to them fuck would’ve been way more interesting than hearing about how a chick named Lindy told Annika her highlights didn’t look “natural.” Lindy is clearly a goddamn monster.
Needless to say, I’m cranky tonight. And hungry. I salivate at the mere thought of all the tips I’ll be getting tonight. I’ll be able to feed myself, finally.
“You’re late,” my manager informs me.
I stride into the dressing area. “No, I’m not.” I furrow my brow. “Am I?” There’s no clock in the room, so I can’t be sure. But I’m usually reliably punctual.
“Only by a minute,” Heather says, breaking out in a grin. “I’ve just been waiting ages to chastise you for being late. It’s such a drag what a good boy you are.”
I grin back. “Well. That’s the first time anyone’s ever called me a good boy. Typically I’m told how bad I am.” I wink at the older brunette, who rolls her eyes.
Heather runs one of two twin clubs—Jack’s and Jill’s. I’ve been working at Jill’s for almost a year, but already Heather and I are great friends. She’s a former stripper who married the owner of her previous club, and now the two of them run side-by-side locations.
Oh, did I mention I’m a stripper?
Some dudes prefer “male entertainer” or “exotic dancer,” but I call a spade a spade. I spend two nights a week shaking my crotch in happy women’s faces and stripping down to a G-string. Ergo, I’m a stripper.
“Well, you’re on soon, bad boy, so you’d better get into costume.” Heather pats my butt over my jeans and nudges me toward the long metal rack across the room.
“Hey, Heather?” I stop her before she turns away. “Is there any chance I can pick up a couple bartending shifts at Jack’s this week? I’m short on cash.”
“Well, sure, sugar!” She gives me a happy smile. “I’ll put a note on the board and see if anybody needs a night off. But is everything okay?”
“Yeah, totally. There’s a party I have to throw, if you can believe it.” It’s deeply ironic that the fraternity election calls this thing a “Dance-off.” Because if I could become president by actually dancing, I’d win in a heartbeat. No contest.
But no. I have to dazzle my brothers with a good time. It’s okay, though, because I have a plan.
“Glad to hear it,” she says. “Now off you go to get pretty.”
I roll my eyes and head for my cubby in the middle of the row.
“Bailey!” calls George, one of my “colleagues.” He’s sprawled on the comfy couch in the dressing room, bare-chested and wearing a stars-and-stripes spandex thong. He waves a handful of bills at me. “Guess how much bank I just made.”
My gaze rests briefly on his lower body. “Hmmm. The Good American routine… Imma guess…a buck-fifty?”
America-themed acts are immensely popular. I guess patriotism makes chicks horny. And I’m not excluding gay or bi dudes on purpose here—Jill’s doesn’t draw a male crowd. Maybe it’s the name. On a busy weekend, we might get two guys, maaaybe three. Most of them prefer the gay clubs, though.
Can’t say I blame them. Jill’s is campy. It’s like the Disney version of stripping. We cater to girls’-night-out and bridal parties. The place is only open on the weekends, though, except for private parties. That’s why I need to pick up extra shifts tending bar next door, which doesn’t pay nearly as well.
“I made two-twenty!” George crows.
I raise my eyebrows. “Sweet.” And from the first act of the night? This bodes well for me.
Contrary to what people believe, stripping is not easy money. Not for a male dancer, anyway. Women can start working and make a fortune on night one. Four, five hundred a night, easy. Men have a tougher time. We’re contractors, which means we don’t get an hourly wage (or a salary…cue my laughter at the notion of receiving a salary). We get paid in tips. Period. Nothing more.
I won’t lie—that scared me when Heather and Louis first hired me. Quitting my two bartending jobs to roll the dice on possibly making bank as a dancer? Fucking terrifying. So instead, what I did was take two weekends off from my other jobs and give the dancing thing a trial run.
I made seven hundred the first weekend. Twelve hundred the second. I already knew I was a terrific dancer. Give me a hot, sultry beat and I’m good to go. But it turns out I’m even better naked.
So I gave my other bosses notice the day after, and now here we are.
“You’re my new hero, G,” I tell the big, beefy Italian.