Page 9 of Promiscuous Lies

The corner of his mouth twitches, and I’m not sure if he’s trying not to laugh or if he’s so furious that his face is starting to spasm in weird places.

“I should fire you. I have fired women for far less.”

“Fire me then if that’s what you want to do. But at least get my tips off that fucking stage. I earned that money.” I point in the direction of the stage. His gaze remains on me.

“Are you always this much of a brat?”

The question surprises me but also fills me with a weird amount of pride. “So it seems.”

Wait. Am I getting away with this?

“Stay off the fucking stage for the night,” he orders, and it’s like a bucket of cold water thrown over me.

“I need my tips,” I yell out as he turns and walks away. “I don’t work here for free!”

He’s gone, and I throw my hands up in disbelief. Maybe I wanted to get fired or for that asshole to return to whatever trust fund hobbies he was up to before he decided to make weekly visits to his club.

Huffing, I walk back into the dressing room, remove the shirt, and then head out to the bar area in my lingerie.

I’m a woman who lives off technicalities. He said I should stay off the stage, but that doesn’t mean I can’t make money from working the floor and performing personal dances.

I spot him standing at the bar with Mike, but their conversation comes to an immediate halt when his gaze lands on me. I offer him a small wave before I focus on my job and start walking the room. I feel him tracking me, even when I domy best to ignore him. I sit on the lap of a guy who offers me a hundred-dollar bill, and I stroke his tie as I ask what he’d like to drink.

“You’re really beautiful,” he says, and my nostrils flare at the offensive smell of alcohol on his breath and the wedding ring glinting in the lights from the stage. Disgusting, really. His wife is probably at home, clueless about what’s happening here. And men wonder why women have trust issues. It’s because men act on impulses and always want what they can’t have. I’ve been burned by this personally when I discovered Bentley’s father was cheating on me throughout our relationship. I hate myself because, even at the time, I had my suspicions. It wasn’t until I became pregnant I gathered enough courage to leave.

But I’m here to make money to give my son everything he deserves.

So, unfortunately, I have to ignore my moral compass.

“Well, thank you, handsome.” My hand pauses on his chest. “How about a dance?” He nods eagerly, and I stand, offering him my hand.

“She’s booked,” Dutton says and pulls me to him by my waist.

Fucking hell.

Really?

Is this man hellbent on making me lose all my clients tonight? For what purpose? To teach me who’s in charge?

Fuck that. I’ll just find another job and tell him to shove this one up his prim and proper trust-fund-baby ass.

I don’t say that in front of the customer, but my fists curl as I wait to explode when he escorts me to the back. Except he doesn’t guide me to the back; instead, we step into a private room.

He shuts the door behind us, then turns to look at me.

I cross my arms over my chest. “Do you plan to fuck with me my entire shift?”

“Fuck with you?”

“Yes. I’m here to work and earn money. And you keep on fucking that up,” I say, frustrated.

He scoffs. “You seem to mistake me for a member instead of your boss.”

“I don’t care who you are. I only care about who’s paying.”

“I pay you to work here,” he reminds me.

His harsh blue eyes never leave mine, as if he’s studying me like I’m some sort of oddity. Then he reaches into his pocket and drops a wad of hundred-dollar bills on the table. My eyebrows furrow as he takes a seat and leans back, his arms stretching along the back of the couch as he nods to the money.

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