Page 4 of Bullet

I slid a finger through my slit. I wasn’t wet or aroused, but I parted my lips and moaned for more tips. Then I sucked my finger into my mouth, slowly closed my thighs, and more bills piled onto the stage.

The tempo changed, and the stage lights turned red. Strobes flickered. I stood and lunged forward, twisted my leg around the pole, and used momentum to start my final spin. Sweat glistened on my nude flesh, yet the blast of cold air from the air-conditioning vents above me had my nipples hardening like stones.

With a slow gyration, I rolled my abdominals and hips. For my climax, I held onto the pole with my legs and leaned back, letting the straight platinum tresses of my wig drape to the floor.

As the closing beats of the song slowed, I dropped to the floor and, with my ass in the air and a severe arch in my back, crawled on my hands andknees toward the group of men seated at the perimeter of the stage.

I slicked my tongue across my lips, swept my artificial lashes down, then lifted them just enough to give a sultry stare. When the song ended, I sat up with my thighs spread and covered my tits with my hands.

The stage lights dimmed, blackened, and then normal lighting resumed. Whistles pierced the air, and a few guys clapped.

My favorite bouncer, Jack, handed me a short, silky robe. I quickly covered my body, grabbed my money, my discarded clothes, and walked to the edge of the platform. To flirt for better tips, the next dancer would chat with the customers near the stage as she wiped down the pole before she started.

The DJ’s shout boomed through the room, introducing Bristol. We tended to work the same shifts, sometimes dancing together. I’d consider her my best friend. At least I was friends with a girl named Bristol, and she was friends with a lie.

“Good luck,” I said as we passed each other. Not that she’d need it. Bristol was one of those girls that loved what she did, but she never crossed the line in the club. She wasn’t strung out on dope, and I was pretty sure she was dating a biker. A Heller. He’d come to the club, but I kept my distance.

Four months wasn’t long enough to dull the memory of the dead bodies and the gunfire. And I’d never forget the gray eyes of the Crawler who’d spoken to me.

Bristol had gone home on the back of her guy’s Harley a couple of times. I’d once asked her if heminded that she danced nude for men. She’d just laughed.

Before I could go back to the dressing room and clean up, Jude, the club’s house mom, waved me over.

“Good set, Stormy.” Watching her count my money made me uncomfortable. She licked her fingers as she sorted the bills, a lecherous smile curling her lips when she came across a larger denomination. Then she’d smirk as she logged the amount on the ledger and put my cash in the drawer. At the end of the night, I’d have to tip out her, the bouncers, the DJ, and the final rub, I’d have to pay the club for letting me work.

Not that I’d complain. Dancing put cash in my pocket every night. And I hadn’t been asked a lot of questions to get the spot in the lineup. For the first few weeks, I’d worried I’d be recognized. Emerson had connections. But my hair was short now, and I wore wigs whenever I was in the club.

“You have nine shots on the day,” Jude said.

That sucked. No bonus for me. The club paid a dollar bonus per drink after thirty shots. Friday and Saturday nights, I could make enough to cover my ride share back to the piece of shit motel I called home and something besides cheap takeout for dinner. But the motel was better than the domestic violence shelter I’d stayed in for the first month of my emancipation from Emerson.

The shelter had given me two-hundred and fifty dollars for a ticket out of town. I’d used the money to purchase a pair of heels and booty shorts and to rent a room at a motel about two miles from the strip club. Most days, I walked to work, and at night, I ran.

I made my way to the dressing room. A couple girls primped in front of the mirror.

“Did you see the three guys with Trav?” Kit, another one of the dancers prepared for her set. “Hot as fuck. They watched you dance,” she said to me. “I hope they stay for a while.” She ran her fingers through the curtain of braids that hung to her ass.

Maybe that’s what Jude meant when she’d said I had a good set.

I’d heard rumors that Travis Minor was tempted to sell the Landing Strip. My gut took a dive when I thought about unwanted scrutiny. Trav was the perfect boss. He’d taken one glance at me, had me dance, then turned me over to Jude.

After I changed, I returned to the floor. Between sets, I chatted with customers, flirting more than usual, trying to make up the difference of not getting the shots bonus.

Bristol came up beside me. “Trav has a special request.”

I lifted a brow in question and followed her to the dressing room.

“Private dance in the back. No charge to the client and no restrictions.”

“What does that mean? We’re not getting paid?”

Bristol smiled. “It means the cameras are off. Wait until you see these guys. Holy shit, they are so hot. Bullet doesn’t allow me to fuck anyone without his permission, but if you want to fuck one of them, you can.”

I stuttered in my steps, nearly tripping in my heels. “Wait? What?”

“Come on.” She dragged me into the dressing room, then hurried to her locker, grabbed her perfume, and spritzed her skin. “Travis sold the club. The new owners want to celebrate with a bottle and a private dance. They specifically requested you and me.” She slicked gloss across her lips. “So yeah, anything goes.” She wagged her brows. “At least for you.”

“I’m not fucking clients.” I danced. I wasn’t a prostitute.

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