Page 3 of Red My Lips

“Ass out,” I call over my shoulder, finishing the mantra of the Inferno bottle girls. Pushing through the door marked Employees Only, I make my way to the bottle girls’ dressing room. Pulling a change of outfit from my locker, I strip out of the black bodysuit and black jeans I wore for my bartending shift.

Luckily, I don’t have to wear one of the usual bottle girl outfits of a black sequin bikini top, high-waisted thong bottoms, and fishnets with thigh-high boots. Those outfits don’t come in a size with double digits, and I have more body than most people know what to do with. The closest I get to wearing a size two is if you add another two in front of it. Hot as I am, I’m a big girl, so I bring my own attire when I’m forced to be a bottle girl.

My black two-piece set consists of a long-sleeved crop top that sits off my shoulders and ties at my breasts, and a little black mini skirt. I have absolutely no issues showing skin, I have a lot to show. But I choose who gets to see my assets and when. I slip on some sexy strappy black heels with red bottoms before walking over to my vanity.

Rifling through my makeup bag, I pull out my lipliner and lipstick combo, both in the Inferno signature blood red. Red lips are part of the bottle girl uniform, along with a headband adorned with glittery red devil horns.

Pulling my dark hair out of the high ponytail, I shake out my waves. Getting this long, 70s-inspired shag haircut was the best decision I’ve made in a long time. I finger brush through my full bangs, fixing how they sit on my forehead and accentuate my eyes. A few spritzes of perfume has me smelling delicious.

Stepping back, I twist to check myself out in the mirror from every angle.

Fuck, I’m sexy.

Time to go drain a couple of men’s bank accounts until it’s raining down on me. The more money I make, the sooner I’m free of this place.

Trinity’s waiting for me at the bottom of the private stairs. She turns to flash me a smile, and it’s genuine—which isn’t something I can say for all of the girls working here.

“Could you possibly be any more beautiful?” I ask.

“You’re a total bombshell,” she says, making me smile. I almost wish I could hate Trinity, with her silky blonde hair, legs that go on for miles, and the type of body lingerie is designed for. But she’s honestly one of the most genuine girls I’ve met in this city, and her beauty matches her brains. She’s gorgeous inside and out. If I have to do bottle service, Trinity’s the one I want to partner with. She loves her job and knows how to have a good time. Not to mention, she rakes in the tips.

“I know,” I say, giving a little shimmy that sends my tits swaying and earning a laugh. “We’re a couple of showstoppers.”

“What did they order?” I ask, looking at the bottles she’s holding. Inferno has a fifteen thousand dollar bottle minimum just to sit in the executive lounge for the night, so I’m not surprised to see over twenty grand worth of champagne and cognac in her arms.

“Two Louis Roederer Cristal and Remy Martin Louis XIII,” she responds, handing off one of the champagne bottles to me. As one of the regular girls, she’ll be taking lead on this group.

“Damn, mo-ney,” I comment.

“Tell me about it,” she laughs.

The sound of our heels clicking echoes through the stairwell under the pulsing music playing from the DJ booth. The stairwell leading up to the Executive lounge is one of my favorites. Arches made of black lights lead up the stairs every four steps, with flickering red lights that climb the matte black walls like red flames on both sides of each stair. It feels like you’re in a tunnel that leads straight to hell, and I like it.

We pause on the landing at the top of the stairs to prepare the sparklers on the champagne. Taking a deep breath, I look at Trinity. “You ready?”

“Let’s get these tips.” Her straight white teeth glow under the black lights as she grins. “Tits up.”

“Ass out,” I reply, pasting on my own smile—it’s the one designed for male customers, specifically the ones with real money. I press the lighter to the sparklers, setting them ablaze as the sparks fly dramatically.

Pressing the button near the door, music pumps through the lounge with a heady beat that sets our pace as we strut into the lounge with the bottles raised over our heads. Pumping our arms to the rhythm, sparks flying, we make our entrance. All eyes are on us.

The Executive lounge is a glass box that overlooks the club above the dancefloor, the privacy glass allowing the VIP guests to see out without being on display themselves. Soundproofing gives the option to sync the speakers up to the house music or select something different. A large, tufted blood-red sofa curves around a circular table that faces the club below, the rest of the space decorated in decadent matte black. A small bar sits in the corner closest to the door, with a fully loaded bar cart situated near the guests.

Five men sit scattered around the sofa. Jonas Firth smirks at me from the end closest to me. Just the sight of his blond curls makes my blood boil. He doesn’t know what’s coming for him, but for now I need to do my job. At least while there are witnesses.

The four other men I haven’t seen before. Sitting next to Jonas is a man with the term ‘hipster’ written all over him—dyed black hair peeking out from under an olive green fisherman beanie, mismatched ginger mustache, and brightly colored new-school tattoos placed like patches on the visible skin of his lanky limbs.

Another man sits in the center of the couch, his black hair cut close to his scalp with expertly trimmed facial hair. Tattoos climb up his bulky biceps like snakes on his rich, dark brown skin. He flashes a smile of dazzling teeth when he spots me and Trinity, his eyes bouncing between us.

The man next to him has a grizzly, overgrown appearance—wavy brown hair curling over his collar, and facial hair that looks several days overdue for a trim. His black button-up shirt gapes open to show symmetrical black patchwork tattoos scattered across his hair-littered chest.

At the end of the sofa, next to the grizzly, is a man who sucks up all the energy around him like a black hole. I’ve felt his eyes on me like a spotlight since I stepped foot into this room. Reclining on the couch, long jean-clad legs outstretched, arms spread across the back of the couch on either side of him, he tracks me with half-lidded eyes that pierce my very soul. He watches like the Grim Reaper, waiting for people to throw their souls at his feet, and I’m sure they do.

Tattoos cover every inch of visible skin, climbing up his neck to his jawline and down the backs of his hands. I have no doubt that the ink continues to cover the rest of his built body beneath his black t-shirt and worn leather jacket. Several silver necklaces hang from his neck, a heavy silver cross catching the flashing club lights. His dark brown hair is buzzed short to his head, a clean stubble covering his strong, angular jaw.

Ripping my eyes away from the man stealing the air from the room, I focus on finishing out the song, the heavy bottles above my head giving my arms a workout. Taking the lead, Trinity steps forward to greet the men.

“Hello, gentlemen. My name’s Trinity, and this is my friend, Jill.” I give them a sultry wink. “You ordered some bottles and a good time, and we’re here to deliver. Let’s get these drinks flowing.” She sets out to open the bottles and starts pouring drinks while I focus on the mixed drinks at the bar.

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