Needing to save the tip, though, I smile at the forward guy, and he does at least offer an apology to me, a rarity in this place. “No problem, honey. Security is just really protective of us. I’m sure you understand.”
“I can certainly understand why,” he says as his eyes float down my body, taking an extra moment on my chest, my crotch, and the length of my legs sticking out of the skirt before tracing back up again. Despite my petite height, this slip of a skirt combined with my heels make my legs look a mile long, and it feels like it takes him forever to uncomfortably peruse every inch. “We’re good for now, but keep the pitchers coming all night.”
He says the last part in a filthy little cadence, emphasizing every word, and I can hear the obvious double-entendre. I nod and giggle, reverting to my innocent girl shtick as I promise to keep them coming.
I walk away, smiling as I hear the guys start loudly talking to each other. Two can play that game, and we’re both hoping to get lucky, just not in the same way. Tip me, tip the stage girls, and get out so I can get some fresh meat at my table with another full wallet.
It sounds crass, even to myself, but it’s the reality. No one is coming to Petals from Heaven strip club to find love, and really, no one is coming to find sex. Well, I guess some of the guys do come in with the fantasy of having an amazing night with a woman who ticks all their mental boxes, but the odds of that are worse than winning the Powerball.
I don’t really get it. Guys crowd in with their other guy friends, pay fart-tons of money for cover, drinks, and tips, then go home to flog their bishop? Why the game? Just watch some porn or something and take care of business.
Unless the guy is paying for a private show, where they’re not supposed to whip it out, but according to my dancer friends, they pretty much know they’ve got a fifty-fifty chance that they’re going to be dancing while the patron gets down to business.
Ew. Just gross.
I make another round of my tables, getting refills, flirting, dropping off checks, flirting, collecting cash . . . and more flirting.
As I work, I keep an eye out for any patrons who might be . . . somebody. That’s my real job, scouting for celebrities, major or minor, politicians, CEO bigwigs, Instagram-famous people, or anyone else who might be interesting and tends to frequent this particular club.
On one hand, they’re usually the best tippers. On the other, they’re why I’m really here, working as Meghan, a cocktail waitress at a strip club, undercover for the tabloid gossip rag I work for. Neither job is my dream come true, but since no one is knocking on my door to write for The New York Times, online trash talking pays my bills.
I got the assignment to get a second job at Petals two months ago, and to my surprise, they hired me right away. Petals is known for being exclusive and VIP-preferred, so I’d been nervous about their hiring plain Jane me. But I’d been hired as a waitress on the spot based on my resume and my other . . . ahem . . . assets. So far, the undercover gig has paid off in a couple of smaller celebrity-sighting stories, but I feel like there’s something bigger here. I just don’t know what it is yet.
But Petals from Heaven is sort of the place to go if you’re a celebrity who wants a taste of the salacious life but you don’t want to get caught out on the town because of your wife, your girlfriend, or just your reputation. There’s a sense of discretion at Petals, and Dominick fosters that, making sure the A-listers get what they want, whether it’s private rooms or flashy top-notch service. Plus, Petals employs some of the most beautiful dancers I’ve ever seen in my life. It’s almost artistic, just nearly naked too. With this combination, something gossip-worthy has to happen eventually, and I want to be here to report on it.
Ironically, this undercover gig is pretty sweet and is paying more than half my bills now anyway. It was an odd realization that the writing and research I love to do and went to school for are actually less financially rewarding than playing airhead and slinging drinks.
Not sure what that says about our society, but it’s not anything complimentary.
I hear the DJ talking loudly over the mic, adding some hype to our last performer of the night and telling everyone in the club to get their last drink and get the fudge out. He doesn’t use those words, of course, but I censor them in my head like I sometimes do.
I drop one last pitcher and the check at Finger-Sucking-Guy’s table and he clears his throat. “Uhm, hey, so I don’t wanna piss off the bouncer or nothing, but what are you doing tonight? Wanna party?”
I forcefully contain my eye roll, choosing to twirl my hair around my finger and kicking my voice up an octave. I deal with this at least once a week. Can’t get the dancer, go for the waitress. “Oh, no. Sorry, honey, I can’t. I’ve got school in the morning, so I’d better be a good girl and get home.”
The reality is, I’ve been out of school for over three years, but they always believe this excuse because I look a lot younger than my twenty-five years. I still get carded when I buy wine.
Luckily, he takes the refusal gracefully, or maybe he’s worried about Shane showing up again. “Mmm. Yes, you should be a good girl. Get right to bed.”
It’s still flirty and slightly sleazy, but at least he’s not arguing with me. I give a wink and turn, flouncing off to close out my other tables.
Once everyone’s gone and the club is cleaned up, I head backstage to change. Pulling on sweats and a long-sleeve T-shirt, I’m thinking of only a few things. Mainly getting home, taking a good long shower to get the leftover smell of the club off me, and then collapsing into bed. After all, I’ve got to be ready for work at ten . . . and my boss hates it if I’m late.
Chapter 2
Shane
Reaching down, I wrap my hand around the handles of each keg, lifting one with each arm. Marco needs the help restocking or else he’s going to be here until sunrise, so I normally help him out by carrying the kegs up from downstairs while he brings up the bottles he needs and sends in our orders for the suppliers.
My arms are a little tired by the time I get the two kegs up the stairs, and it’s with a grunt of relief that I set them down. Marco’s working the register, checking his money against the Point of Sale system. “You have a good night tonight?”
Marco nods, smirking a little. “Yeah, pretty solid. Decent tips, and with the eye candy from Allie’s new routine, I can’t really complain.”
He waggles his eyes at me, like he expects to chatter on about Allie’s tits or something. It feels like a test. I’m just not sure if it’s a bro one or seeing if I’m aware that Dominick has marked her as off-limits.
Doesn’t really matter either way. I’m a fucking professional and I know that I do not get involved with any of the girls here, whether they’ve been tabbed by Dominick or not. So Marco’s going to be disappointed in my answer. “Yeah, she’s good. She’s been working hard and it’s paying off.”
A couple of the girls come into the club from backstage, and I’m thankful for the break from Marco’s slick vibe. Time to do my actual job and not just help out. “Ladies, let me walk you out.”
They murmur their thanks but basically ignore me, especially Tina, who’s already gabbing away on her phone, telling her babysitter that she’s on the way home. I get it. They’ve got men talking to them all fucking night, and ninety-nine percent of it more or less leads to ‘I wanna fuck.’ They just tune it all out. It’s a survival instinct.