Page 3 of Chase
Mia shrugs her shoulders, then slips the white silk robe covering them off before marching to the dressing room to collect her attire for the evening. I glance in her direction, but she’s lost interest in our conversation about my current romantic predicament. Her position is clear—I’m playing two men whether I want to admit it or not. In all honesty, any romance that enters my life always ends up in a mess, so the circumstances should come as no surprise.
After my last long-term partner decided to drag me off stage at the club where I work, I implemented the no-boyfriend rule. For the past twelve months, it’s worked well. That was until I met Connor Chase. I allowed myself to be romanced by a man who isn’t husband material and lives a life I should stay far away from.
A few weeks ago, a lonely brunette stumbled into the clothes shop I work in to help pay rent. She looked lost, confused, and on her own in the big city. I remembered that feeling well, and my instinct was to help. Little did I know that my small gesture of kindness toward Violet Chase would turn my life upside down by throwing me into a world of dangerous families and domineering men. Sure, working at the strip club has prepared me well, but here we’re protected, most of the time. But the world Violet and her brothers live in is a terrifying one, and no one can ever be fully trusted. Not even your closest family.
Guilty Pleasures Gentlemen’s Club is one of a select few discreet, members-only establishments in London. From the outside, a passerby wouldn’t know it was here. The entrance is a single blue door nestled between a fast food joint and a dry cleaner. There are no signs or prominent details; it looks like a normal entrance to an apartment above the stores on the ground level. But when you push the door open, you’re met with a security guard in a tuxedo who only allows you past if you hold the shiny, gold members’ card. Those allowed admission must scale a narrow staircase via yet another simple blue door before entering the club.
Inside, a circular stage sits at the center of the room with a pole that extends to the ceiling. Leather armchairs are placed around its edge in pairs, with small glass tables between them. A long, well-stocked bar sits to one side of the room. The whole place screams opulence and wealth, everything trimmed in gold or wrapped in dark velvet. Private booths are scattered around the venue. What happens within these walls stays here. Those who attend are never named, even though we all know who they are.
The men who hold memberships to this club include the most influential and affluent in London. They come here for business and pleasure, and the utmost discretion is guaranteed. When we signed our contract to work, we also signed a non-disclosure agreement. We promised never to discuss who we entertain or what we do for them; information such as that can be dangerous for the patrons if it falls into the wrong hands.
The club itself is owned by a powerful family, the Parkers of Glasgow. Joel Parker, head of the Glasgow mafia, runs a tight ship. He looks after both his staff and clients. We girls are never forced to do something we don’t want, but the facilities are here if we choose to provide additional services. Security is tight, and unwanted wandering hands are banned. The no-touch policy is concrete unless an agreement is made in advance, and Joel Parker ensures that rule is enforced with no exceptions.
Last week, a member became overzealous with one of the girls on stage. As she approached the edge, he lunged forward to grab her ankle. Two security guards escorted him from the premises within minutes and his membership was suspended. No discussion, no second chances. If you touch the product without paying, then it’s theft, and you are removed, no refunds.
My role within the club changes from day to day. Sometimes I work in the club, usually on the pole, and other times I recruit girls from around London to work here. Our clients attend regularly, and fresh entertainment is always appreciated.
I love my nights performing. The freedom of being on stage and able to express myself is something I’ve always craved. When I originally moved to the big city, my hopes were immense and unrealistic. In my mind, my feet would be dancing on a Westend stage within days. In reality, it’s been six years and, at the age of twenty-seven, I’m running out of time. Perhaps the world of show business isn’t for me and I need to consider a career change. I have a niggling craving to work in nursing, but with no qualifications or funds to train, my chances of succeeding are zero, so I may need to accept that my body will have to pay my wages for years to come.
The bright red leotard cuts high over my legs but low across my breasts, which swell within the fabric. My blonde locks are long and straight, stopping halfway down my back. I slip my feet into sky-high black heels, their platform encrusted with diamantes. The music changes outside, and I know there are only a few minutes until I am expected on stage, so I make my way to the club, ready to strut into the center with all eyes on me.
My colleague finishes her set, dismounting from the pole before waving and blowing kisses to the crowd. Men holler like schoolboys, and she beams at them. I roll my eyes. As much as I love performing, I hate the sleazeballs who gawk. Their eyes on my body make my skin crawl—most of them, anyway. There are a few whose attention I enjoy. No one touches me, though. Those days have passed, and I won’t be giving anyone a private performance for cash.
The familiar beat fills the air, and I take my cue to step out of the shadows. The whistles begin as they do every night after I climb onto the stage and cross the sleek, black-tiled floor. My hands rise above my head, and I spin three hundred and sixty degrees, keeping my chin up and focusing on the mirrors covering the walls behind the men.
My fingers wrap around the stainless steel, followed by my leg. I spin again, then launch into the routine I know so well. Lost in the music, the watchers become irrelevant. The stares fade into the shadows, no more than a hum in the air.
My body vibrates to the beat as my skin slides over the slick metal. Every movement is on point, my heels hitting the floor before rising immediately to fly again. I pull myself higher into the air, wrapping a leg firmly around the bar, then allowing my body to fall backward, leaving me upside down and spinning slowly. I extend my arms and free leg dramatically, and my hair touches the floor with gravity pulling at the tips.
The final beats of the tune sound, and I know it’s time for my dismount. Clutching the pole, I release my leg. I stretch lengthways, every muscle tensing to maintain the shape, then raise my ankles high to resemble an L-shape. I slowly walk through the air before lowering myself inch by inch to rest on the floor. With a flick of my hair, the music changes to the recognizable transition piece between dancers, and I stand to enjoy the audience's appreciation.
I walk to the front of the stage to take my bow. As I bend, crossing my legs and opening my arms wide, I’m momentarily frozen to the spot as my eyes lock with the man in front of me.
Russell Chase sits in the middle chair, as he has every time I’ve performed since the first time he appeared weeks ago. He’s dark-haired, handsome, and an absolute asshole, but hell I find him attractive. He’s bigger than his brother, Connor, and the opposite of him in personality. But put them side by side, and there’s no doubt they’re related. Both are gorgeous, wealthy, masculine, and oh so fucking dangerous. They are the light, and I am the moth. There’s no doubt in my mind I’ll get burned—or worse, incinerated—if the current situation continues: dating one brother while being stalked by the other. The solution is to walk away; the temptation is to sample both delicacies if the offer arises.
Dark eyes watch me retreat from the stage as he sits, wide-legged, sipping an amber drink. His hand drops to his crotch as his gaze holds mine, and he blatantly readjusts his cock, then smirks. A gasp catches in my throat, but I will my features to remain impassive. He can’t know he affects me. I won’t have a man like that think I want him. His ego doesn’t need any nurturing; I’m sure there’s a never-ending queue of featherbrained women willing to make him feel good.
When I reach the door to the dressing rooms, I turn to have a final glance at the crowd. Russell is gone, which is no surprise. I know exactly where he’ll be; this won’t be the last time I see him this evening. His presence will surround me until I enter the safety of my apartment, and up until then, he’ll watch.
My journey home isn’t long, at least not for now. A short walk to the tube station, two stops, then five minutes through the dark streets on the other side and I’ll be there. I pull my black winter jacket around me as I step out through the rear entrance of the club onto the old, iron staircase. My heavy boots cause the metal to trill as I descend. It’s cold, and a thin sheet of ice covers the ground. My sole slips, and as I grab the freezing handrail, the structure wobbles with the movement. For all the money spent inside the club, the outside needs extreme maintenance, but part of me believes that omission is deliberate ? a way to keep prying eyes off of what’s inside.
His familiar shadowed figure stands in the same betting shop doorway as it has every time I have walked home recently. He should make me nervous, and the first time he was here, he did. But I know this man isn’t like any of the other men I’ve met. He gives me a sense of peace with his presence. His bizarre obsession with me feels right.
I stroll past him, less than three feet between us, but keep my eyes focused in front, refusing to give him any attention. He steps out behind me, his dull footsteps echoing in the silent night. I keep walking, each stride deliberate and steady.
I skip down the steps at the tube station when the announcer advises the next train is approaching the platform. My toes land on the solid yellow line, the station quiet with only a handful of people milling around. I glance to my left, and Russell steps up to the line at the next door along. He doesn’t look at me, but I see a dark smile on his lips. He enjoys this, him following and me knowing damn fine he’s there.
We both step onto the train in synchronization, the doors opening and closing with equal precision. I stand in the center of the train and hold the red pole. He mirrors my movement, walking toward me and grabbing the same pole, his hand a fraction above mine. We don’t look at each other, but I can hear his breathing, measured and throaty. I inhale deep to steady my nerves, and the strong aroma of cinnamon and male fills my nostrils. Fuck, he smells as good as he looks.
My stop approaches; he recedes, then steps out the next door in time with me once more. We’ve played the same game for days. The first night he followed me I was nervous but not terrified, then as each night passed it became perversely normal for him to be here. A naughty pleasure I craved.
The final part of my journey is short, only a few minutes walk to my apartment. After exiting the tube station, I turn down a small alleyway, reducing the time further. Russell is still behind me, possibly a hundred feet away. The sound of him is clear, but the scent of him sadly absent.
I’m passing a rear entrance to an office block when I become aware that we’re not alone in the alleyway. Two men step out to block my path. Both are tall, with long beards and shaved heads. The clothes they wear are dirty and covered in rips and stains. It’s hard to put an age on them, with it being dark and them unkempt, but I would guess they are in their fifties.
“All right, sweetheart?” the one on the right says. “Aren’t you a pretty little thing? Got any cash?”
“No, move out my fucking way, arsehole.” I reply, then step to the side before trying to walk around him. His hand flies out to connect with the wall to stop me from passing.