“Hey, Marco! Can I get a pitcher of Miller Lite for table fifteen, please?” I yell over the throbbing bass of the music in the club . . . and get ignored again. “MARCO!”
He looks over and gives me a half-understanding nod before grabbing one of the plastic pitchers and filling it with . . . well, fudge it, it’s beer at least. I roll my eyes, frustrated that I have to drag the bartender’s eyes away from the stage. He’s been here for years, and you’d think he’d be immune to this after seeing dancers for hours five nights a week.
But he isn’t. Obviously, as evidenced by the way he’s staring at the stage. He moves a hand, and I think he’s going to adjust his crotch, but instead, his hand lifts to his head and he slicks his already meticulously coifed hair into place. In my head, I nag him. Adjust whatever you need to, your crotch or your hair or your suave designer clothes. Just do your dang job so I can do mine. Not too much to ask, is it?
“Here you go, Meghan,” he says, sliding the pitcher the last few inches to me. I notice that he doesn’t apologize that he’s ignored the order I placed on the bar five minutes ago, nor that the delay will likely affect my tip, not his. His eyes still haven’t left the show onstage either. Such a butt-nugget.
With a sigh, I turn to see what’s got Marco so blasted distracted at the moment. I know from the music that it’s Allie’s turn on stage. Besides being one of the people I can call a friend around here, she’s an amazing dancer, definitely too good to be stripping in a place like this. I watch as she spins around the pole, her legs splayed wide in the splits for several rotations as she flips her head around, making eyes at a guy in the front row.
In a flash, she pulls her legs in smoothly, locking them around the pole and lying back in a death-defying backbend move that puts her eye-level with her prey, although she’s upside-down and his eyes are locked on her boobs, not her face. I see her smirk and then kick her legs over, rising to stand tall in her high-heeled red stilettos. It’s impressive, even from just an athletic point of view, although I’m sure most of Allie’s fans aren’t really interested in how much she’s had to train and work for her unworldly strength, balance, and flexibility.
The guy picks up a green bill from the stack in front of him, and Allie slithers down to take it, blowing the guy a kiss with her plump, heavily lipsticked lips, knowing she’ll have the whole pile before her time onstage is up.
I clap loudly, cheering her on, knowing that the cash will help her out with her debt situation. She’s a nice girl, my best friend in this club, and still way too good for this joint.
Still clapping, I don’t hear Marco approach. “She’s something else, isn’t she? Even you can’t keep your eyes off her. Can you blame me? Unless . . . that’s your thing?”
I laugh, glancing over at him to see a questioning look in his dark eyes. He seems more excited about the idea than I would’ve expected because he knows me better than that. I shake my head. “You know I don’t swing that way, but I can appreciate talent and hard work. Especially in my friends.”
“Calm down, Little Miss Goody-Two-Shoes. You know I’m not going near that chick with a ten-foot pole. I like my dick where it is, thank you very much.”
I narrow my eyes at him, attempting to appear threatening, but we both know it’s not the threat of my tiny little librarian-looking self that has him shaking in his Italian loafers. It’s that our boss has taken a rather obvious interest in Allie lately. And no one dares go against Dominick if he’s even considering marking some of that territory for himself.
“If you’re still interested, your Miller Lite is getting piss-warm and table fifteen is looking mighty thirsty,” he says, smirking. “I guess they’re not into Allie. They seem to be paying more attention to their beers and their MIA waitress.”
Shishkabob! My tip is definitely going to take a hit on this table if I can’t turn it around with a little extra sugar. Hoping that maybe they like nerdy girl-next-door types instead of out of this world exotic beauties like Allie, I fluff my girls up in the black bustier that serves as the top half of my uniform and grab the pitcher to walk it over.
“Here you go, fellas. Didn’t want to interrupt your view of Allie’s special talents,” I say, going heavy with the flirty innuendo as I lean over, confident that while my full cleavage is on display, they’re locked solidly in the cups and won’t spill out for an unintended nip slip.
Not that anyone would mind. Except me, of course. Petals from Heaven may be the sort of club where the female persuasion exposes their body parts to the spotlights, and my uniform is decidedly sexier than I would choose myself, but I’ve never felt like I was expected to do more than deliver drinks. Unless I wanted to, which I definitely don’t.
The guys’ eyes all lock to my chest, same as always, and their eyebrows lift. Gotcha, boys. So Allie isn’t their cup of tea, but I am. Well, it takes all types, and it’s sort of encouraging to know that a girl like me can be compared to a goddess like Allie and sometimes get the nod. Maybe my tip won’t be so bad, after all.
I take a moment to pour each of the four guys a mug, feigning a lack of skill that makes the suds at the top spill over the lip and down my hand, the white foam looking decidedly like something more seductive than beer. I might be kinda innocent, but I’m not as schoolgirl innocent as I look, and I know how to tease.
I give the last guy his drink and then casually lick the bubbles from my fingers, letting my pink tongue curl out before sucking a tip into my mouth. All four guys’ jaws drop at my innocent display before the one closest to me grabs my hand.
His blue eyes flick up to me as he holds my hand in a near-crushing grip, grinning drunkenly. “Let me help you with that.”
Before I can say yes or no, he moves forward, his blond hair falling into his face as he quickly swipes his tongue against my finger and sucks it into his mouth. Fudge! Danger, Will Robinson. Need to back this play up without causing a scene. One of the hallmark rules of working in a club—don’t cause a scene unless you really, really need help.
Instead of freaking out, I give my best girly giggle, jerking my hand back and squealing. “Ooh, that tickles!” I laugh as I shake my hand loose. “You shouldn’t be so naughty!”
“Honey,” Blondie says, half getting up, “if you want to see naughty—”
Out of nowhere, Shane appears behind me. He’s part of Petals’ security team and the star of too many of my midnight fantasies to admit. I can’t see him, but I can feel his presence like a physical force pressing against my body. It’s comforting, a little scary, and also frustrating. I can’t help it, Shane’s just . . . well, he’s as sexy as chocolate cake, and probably just as dangerous for my health.
Shane growls, his voice low and dangerous. There’s no weakness, no compromising with that voice. Fact is, Shane’s not afraid of anyone or anything. He might be the only person in the club not afraid of Dominick. “No touching. Or I’ll be the one touching you.”
The threat is apparent, and the guy’s face shows his fear that Shane will kick his ass. Shane’s words have the opposite effect on me, though, and my mind is filled with an image of him touching me, his strong, thick fingers tracing lines along my private silky areas, teasing and tantalizing me before taking me roughly.
Back in reality, finger-sucking guy has his hands up wide, backing down immediately. “No problem, man. Sorry, won’t happen again.”
Shane lets out one more growl before stalking off. I never even made eye contact with him, but under the slip of dark denim they call my miniskirt, my panties are soaked from being that close to him, having his voice wash over me, and that flash of fantasy.