Page 9 of Lucky's Trouble

“Are you having a good night?” He steps fully into the room.

Standing at six feet, he’s average height, and most would say Neal’s attractive. Muscled in all the right places with a dimpled smile and bronzed skin, he possesses physical attributes most women look for. To me, though, he’s the ugliest person I’ve ever met.

“I am.” I rub my lips together to even out the gloss, keeping my eyes on my reflection.

“Good.” He rests his hands on my shoulders. “You have some making up to do after last week.”

“I can’t control how many people walk through the door. That’s your job.” I shouldn’t bait the shark, but I’m in a mood, and when I’m in a mood, I have no sense of self-preservation.

His grip tightens painfully. “Watch your tone. Any girl worth her position at my club will pull her weight. And if not, there are other places she might fit better.”

It’s a threat he makes often—not just with me, but all the girls. We all know we’re one mistake away from being forced to sell more than the illusion of sex. When Neal told me he owned places in Vegas, I assumed he meant other clubs, and he never corrected me. It wasn’t until our six-month contract was up that I found out the “places” he owns are escort companies that only exist as a front for his prostitution ring. Anyone who doesn’t kiss Neal’s ass at the club is moved down the ladder, and suddenly you’re spreading your legs for cash.

“I’m your top earner,” I bite out.

“You used to be. But ever since Myla left, your attitude has sucked, and the customers have taken notice.” His thumbs dig in harder, sending shooting pain through my shoulders and no doubt leaving a mark. Just another bruise I’ll have to cover. I’ve gotten good at it over the years since Neal uses brute force rather than words to make a point.

I could care less about the physical pain, though. It’s the mention of my sister that has me faltering, and he knows it. He gets off on reminding me why she’s free of this place and why I’m not. Neal doesn’t let girls go, not if they have value, and Myla is extremely valuable.

But I was the one who got her into this mess, so I made damn sure to be the one who got her out. Even if she had no idea what was going on.

“Let go,” I demand, shaking out of his grip. “It’s time for me to go on stage.”

“Better make it a good one.” His words are a warning I don’t take lightly. “I could replace you with Myla, and no one would ever know.”

I shake his words off as I walk through the back hallway and toward the main stage, trying to get into the character I’ve developed over the years. When I straighten my spine and push my breasts out, I’m no longer Tinleigh, the sheltered, naive girl who moved to Reno only to get fucked over by yet another man. No, I’m Stormy, the sex goddess you pretend to fuck when you go home to your boring wife at the end of the night.

I’m your goddamn fantasy.

Hearing my song, I step onto the stage, starting slow and taking my time as I strut down the catwalk, running my hands up and down my body. It’s not long before the music takes over, and I arch my back, sway my hips, and touch myself sensually. I don’t have to look into the crowd to know all eyes are on me, their hungry gazes fueling my every movement.

I give my performance my all, letting go of my problems and absorbing the sexual energy coming from the crowd. As my song plays, I perform jaw-dropping acrobatics on the pole and use every inch of available floor space, crawling on my knees, rolling onto my back, and spreading my legs wide.

Bills get tucked into my thong and thrown on stage: fives, tens, twenties, and even a couple hundreds from the men I lured in earlier. This isn’t how I make the majority of my money, though; this is just an appetizer. Once the song ends, my night will be full of private dances until it’s my turn on stage again in an hour, and so on and so on.

This is my life six nights a week.

I’m nearing the end of the song when my eyes snag on two men I’ve never seen before. That’s not unusual, but the leather vests they both have on are. In the world of Reno’s strip clubs, the Thirst Trap has only one rival—Royal Treatment. The latter is owned by a local motorcycle club, the Royal Bastards, so it would make sense that’s where all the bikers go.

So why are these guys here?

Both men are attractive, though the one on the right is more my type. I like my men broad and bulky. I might be short, but I have thick thighs and I’m top-heavy, so the idea of having a man who’s big enough to make me look small is appealing.

Not that I can ever have a man. I came to Reno a virgin, and once Neal got his claws in me, I became untouchable to everyone but him. He’s not my boyfriend, not even close, but he’s my something. Employer? Dictator? Owner?

I meet the first biker’s gaze as I drop to my knees, preparing for my next dance move, but hesitate for a split-second when he reaches under his vest, thinking he’s pulling a gun. It wouldn’t be the first time, though I’ve never been on stage when it’s happened before, and there’s nowhere to run and hide if shit goes down.

I’m relieved and confused when all he produces is licorice.

He places the candy in his mouth, letting the majority of the rope hang. His jaw works as he watches me intently and rests his meaty forearms on the stage.

I have an idea.

Crawling over to him, I lean forward and sink my teeth into the free end of the candy. When I give it a tug, he bites down on his end, releasing it. His dark eyes sparkle with humor as he chews. Lifting onto my knees, I grip the licorice between two fingers and make a show of twirling it around my tongue and sucking a good portion into my mouth.

The biker leans back, and though his mustache and beard are unruly and hide his lips, I know he’s grinning by the small wrinkles in the corners of his eyes. Now that I’m closer, I take in the way his black T-shirt clings to his arms and chest, showing off his muscular frame.

Fuck me, this man is hot.

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