Page 6 of Rebels & Rejects
“Evening, Kenny.”
“Red.” The bouncer by the staff entrance nods his head, opening the door for me to enter. The pounding of the club’s music—Closerby Nine Inch Nails—thuds through the walls as I make my way along the narrow hallway, passing the manager’s office and staff toilets before reaching the changing rooms.
“Hey, girl!” Bee greets as I walk in.
“Hey, Bee.” I smile as I pass by her, not really paying attention as she pushes her tits into a bikini that barely has enough material to cover her nipples before plonking my bag down at my own dressing table and lifting up the outfit that’s been laid out for me—a black g-string with matching lace suspenders and thigh-high stockings, a bra that doesn’t appear to have much more material than Bee’s does, and a pair of clear-colored platform heels.
“You’re up in five, Red,” a gruff voice barks through the door while I’m in the process of changing, belonging to Drew, the floor manager here at Strip Tease.
Sighing, I quickly slather my face in excessive makeup and my body in glitter, then stuff my bag in a locker and head out of the dressing room, ready to put on a show for the horny-ass men of this town.
I slip through the staff entrance door into the front area of the club as the dancer before me on the main stage finishes up. The club is dimly lit, with spotlights directed at the three stages, where different dancers are performing. I can just make out enough outlines of men in the audience to know we have a full house tonight.
The tables around the stages are all occupied, and most of the booths are full, too, by the looks of things. Scantily clad waitresses skirt around tables and crowds of people on their way to deliver drinks, and I can just about make out a few men receiving lap dances or being escorted to private stalls for some moreintimateattention.
The song comes to an end, and the dancer—a relatively new girl I haven’t had the chance to get to know yet—steps down from the stage, giving me a soft smile before she moves toward the bar, ready to work the floor.
I run my hands over my outfit, flattening the lace strap of my g-string before I climb the steps onto the stage. The music switches, the fast-paced beat ofI Get Offby Halestorm starting up as I wrap my hand around the pole. The overhead spotlight flashes down on me, blinding my view of the rest of the darkened room as I shift my weight and swing my body around the pole in time to the music. I’ve been perfecting these moves for over five years now. I can work the pole like a goddamn pro. It helps that I’ve got an ass that men seem to enjoy digging their fingers into and hips they can picture themselves grabbing ahold of. Not to mention my long auburn-colored hair that they all want to wrap around their fists and tug on.
The next thirty minutes pass in a blur of swaying hips, shaking my tits, and grinding my ass, so when the last song in my set comes to an end, Drew meets me at the side of the stage.
“You’re on the floor the rest of the night.”
Nodding, I stride past him to the bar. Drew’s all business. He keeps it professional, never allowing his eyes to stray or linger where they shouldn’t. The same can’t be said for some of the other staff here.
“Damn, Sugar, you’re looking hot tonight,” Mike, one of the bartenders, greets as he pours a shot of something—vodka, maybe—into a glass and slides it across the counter to a customer. Mike is in his mid-twenties, probably only a year or two older than me, and he’s an absolute flirt. The thing is, he knows he’s hot shit. The other girls here drool all over him, only boosting his ego further, and I’ve seen more than a few of them leave with him at the end of a shift. But he’s a one-time-only kinda guy, and I’m sure a couple of the girls have been left with broken hearts after spending the night with him.
I’m all for a good time, and I’ve no doubt he would have some pretty decent bedroom skills, but I don’t mix business with pleasure. And honestly, overinflated egos aren’t really my thing. Sure, I like a guy with confidence, but Mike is just too much. That cocky, flirty personality just doesn't do it for me, even if his good looks are on point—and with his muscular biceps, high cheekbones, and the dark dusting on his chin, his looks aredefinitelyon point.
Giving him a flirtatious wink, which has become our usual banter—I think by now he’s figured out I’m not interested in him, not that that stops him from trying—I grab a tray already loaded with drinks and move to distribute them around the lively room.
Without the bright lights blinding my view, I scan my eyes over tonight’s crowd—which seems to consist of the usual mixture of rowdy drunkards—as I sashay around the room, dropping off drinks and taking orders while ignoring the occasional hand brushing along the side of my breast or over my ass.
The largest throng of people are gathered around the stages, wanting an up-close and personal view of the dancers. Still, plenty of others are sitting at the small circular tables, with some of the wealthier out-of-towners occupying the velvet booths that line the walls. You can tell they don’t live in Black Creek. It’s obvious—from their crisp white shirts, fitted black pants, and polished shoes to their expensive haircuts and the way they cast their eyes over the rowdy Black Creekians with a look of casual disgust. They think they’re so much better than us, yet here they are, in our town, in our club, with their hard-ons and sleazy leers, so how much better can they actually be?
As much as most of us want to escape the daily grind, violence, and bloodshed that occurs here, the appeal of it also draws men like them to our chaotic neck of the woods. Men with money who come to Black Creek to revel in debauchery and bathe in sin. This city is a far cry from their daily lives. It’s a place they can come to escape their boring marriages, relieve the stress of their busy workday, and avoid whatever other nonsense privileged, rich people have to endure.
For the most part, customers who live in Black Creek are pretty easy to handle. They’re mostly here for the stage show and maybe a lap dance, but if they do wantextras, they’re usually pretty good when I say no. However, men with money... they’re not so easy to turn down—hence why we have bouncers on the doors and security dotted along the perimeter of the room.
As I work my way across the floor, my gaze swivels to the biggest threat in the room. A crowd even more relentless than the wealthy assholes in their cushy booths. Satan’s Advocates.
Satan’s Advocates is the street gang that currently occupies this part of the city. They usually stop by a couple of nights a week to cause havoc and remind us all of their dominion over this area. They’re easy to spot, all of them wearing their Satan’s insignia like a badge of honor, either sewn onto their leather jackets or tattooed onto their skin. The atmosphere in the room changes the instant they walk in, and one by one, people get up and move away from their large group, not wanting to inadvertently gain their attention or incur their wrath. Those who are brave enough to remain nearby frequently flick their gaze in their direction, watching them warily and ready to make a run for it if shit hits the fan.
“Hey, baby, give us a lap dance,” one of them calls out as I pass by.
Plastering a fake, coy expression on my face, I turn to look at him. “Sure thing, handsome. Let me just offload this round of drinks, and I’ll be over, yeah?”
I hate this part of my job, especially when it’s with an arrogant, self-entitled shitstain like this idiot appears to be, but it’s a job requirement if you’re working the floor, and even if it wasn’t, I can’t say no to a Satan. None of us can.
He gives me a cocky smirk, biting on his lower lip as his gaze roams over every inch of my exposed skin. I’m more than used to it, so I don’t feel any of the revulsion or sudden need to cover up that most people would probably experience. It’s just part of the job, and I’ve been doing it for long enough. The nervousness that comes with strutting around half-naked and on display for everyone to see quickly dissipates in this line of work. Within a month, I learned to walk with my head held high, confidence brimming with every step. Not only does it help with the tips, but I quickly realized I have nothing to be ashamed of. So I use my body to make money? Everyone in this fucking town does that. Men use their bodies to intimidate other gangsters, to threaten and coerce whoever they need to. Just because they do it with their clothes on, that somehow makes it better?
“Yeah, okay,” he pouts. “But I might need more than just a lap dance if you keep me waiting too long.”
I smile tightly at him, ducking my head and moving on through the crowd to disperse the last of my drinks. Being up on stage is one thing. It’s actually something I enjoy. With the bright lights beaming down on the stage, it’s next to impossible to pick anyone out of the crowd. It makes it easy to pretend no one is watching, and I can just fall into the music and escape into my own world. Lap dances, not so much. It’s impossible to forget what you are to the men in this room when they’re trying to shove their face in your tits and grab a handful of your ass.
The great thing about Strip Tease is thatextrasare at the discretion of the girls. If we don’t want to partake, then that’s fine. I personally choose not to. I’ve made a point of ensuring I earn enough money from various sources to no longer have to. I wasn’t always so fortunate, though I have come a long way from the teenage girl struggling to survive from one day to the next.
The only challenge comes when it’s a Satan’s Advocate asking for thatextra.The club pays its protection tithe, but we can’t afford to have them pull that protection, or worse, decide to get rid of us altogether just because we piss them off. It sounds crazy, but businesses have been destroyed over less. The gangs here run our lives. We live and breathe on their say so. Last week, the pawnshop on 8th and Hudson was set on fire because the owner fucked some girl the leader of the Black Spiders had apparently claimed. The Spiders didn’t even own that territory, but they got their hands on it, and next thing, a Molotov cocktail was being thrown through the shop owner’s front window—with the owner still inside.