Page 13 of Ruthless God

“Guess I better drop my song choice with the DJ.”

“Good luck. It’s Nick tonight.”

I groan, because DJ Nick tends to ‘free style’ the music instead of going with the songs the dancers want to use.

After locking my bag in my locker, I head to the door that goes to the DJ Booth. Nick is in it, a joint in his hand.

“Ruby, doll. It’s good to see you.”

“You, too, Nick.” I grab the playlist sheet and write my song down. “Think you’re feeling this tonight?”

He looks at the song. “Sure thing.”

Which means he’s going to pick something else.

Good thing I thrive under pressure. Or, in this case, dance under pressure.

Leaving the booth, I weave through the club, the energy buzzing around me. The bass thrums beneath my boots, bodies moving in a hypnotic rhythm under flashing lights on stages around the room. I head toward the backstage seating area, where a few of the girls are lounging between sets, counting cash, sipping drinks, and trading stories.

Barbie spots me first, her perfectly glossed lips curling into a smirk. She waves a fistful of cash, fanning herself dramatically.

“Have you seen the hottie in the center VIP?” she asks, eyes glittering with mischief.

“Not yet.”

“I’m hoping when I go out to make my rounds that he asks for a private dance or even go to the champagne room.”

I nod, because honestly, what can I even say?

First off, it’s hilarious how everyone is freaking out over a guy whose face is completely covered by a mask. Like, how do they even know he’s hot? What if he’s a troll under there?

Second, if he hasn’t grabbed Jade for a private dance yet, I doubt he’s going to pick anyone. Especially for the champagne room. That alone tells me he’s not just another guy looking to throw money around for attention.

Still, by the time my turn rolls around, I have to admit that I’m curious. The last two girls who went on before me wouldn’t shut up about his big dick energy.

I saunter toward the pole at the center of the stage, pressing my body against the cool metal, waiting for the music to start.

And then much to my surprise… The song I actually picked starts playing through the speakers. Not a generic remix. Not some overplayed club track. My song. A slow smile tugs at my lips as I close my eyes, letting the familiar beat wash over me. The music pulses, the bass sinking into my bones, and I let myself go. And then I dance.

It’s not until the last moments of my set that I finally look out into the audience.

A lone man sits at the center VIP table. His presence is impossible to ignore. He’s watching me with an intensity that sends a shiver down my spine, his hand wrapped around a glass of whisky, fingers white-knuckled against the glass.

I choke down a laugh. God. Listen to me. I sound ridiculous. For all I know, he could be half-asleep, just drunk and zoning out.

But deep down, I know better.

His gaze tracks my every movement, never wavering, never breaking. My body reacts instinctively, heat pooling low in my stomach. I can’t deny it. I’m turned on.

And then the money starts to rain.

Bills flutter through the air, landing at my feet as I finish my set. I’m about to step offstage when the VIP gets up.

I pause, waiting.

What’s he going to do?

He moves toward the stage with slow, deliberate steps, his suit jacket shifting as he reaches inside. For a second, an absurd thought flickers through my head. What if this is some mobster shit?

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