Page 2 of Heart of Sin

Alluring brown eyes and full lips. Smooth dark skin and curves that give a coca cola bottle a run for its money.

She’s just as gorgeous and sexy as I remember. She’s just what I’ve been wanting all these years, too passive to go after it.

I’m done waiting. I’m finally making a move.

TWO

Tasha

PLAYLIST: ? LIKE THAT - DOJA CAT FEATURING GUCCI MANE ?

Nightsat the Dollhouse are all the same. The only thing changing are the girls on the stage and the men in the audience dropping cash on them.

I strut onto the stage to catcalls and applause; my hands on my hip, my waist-length blonde hair swishing with every step I take.

I’m bored and unimpressed, resting bitch face on ten. The hard-to-get vibe men claim they hate but secretly love.

You can’t afford me.

The beat builds, and I go straight into swinging around the pole. I spin a couple times then contort my body midair. Grip on the cool metal pole, I’m flipping myself upside down. I’m spreading my legs open in a split.

The inverted butterfly.

A move men love.

I black out when I perform. The moment blurs into the other fifty-eleven times I’ve taken the stage.

One night of a thousand others just like it.

The dollar bills pile up. My body flows into different tricks. The slow, deep beat becomes darker, sultrier. The sound of sex… or money. My preference the latter.

Pieces of my costume are stripped away. More fistfuls of cash. More leering. More tricks, my body whipping into yet another complicated shape.

My long blonde hair sweeps through the air along with me, like a passenger along for the ride. The only real thing that changes—the wig I wear and the persona I take on.

I squeeze the pole between my knees and ankles and perform my finale. I’m not the best dancer. Other girls like Skye and my bestie, Falynn (who doesn’t work here anymore), were technically better.

But what I lack in talent, I make up for in confidence. Infinesse.

Nobody’s a badder bitch than Vixen. I don’t earn the most on stage for nothing.

The set ends and I’m on solid ground. My hand’s back on my hip and I’m tossing hair over my shoulder, strutting off like the queen I am. Naked, surrounded by dollar bills, the most confident woman in the world, holding the undivided attention of dozens of men.

That’s real power.

I’m the only girl who gets my things collected for me—as soon as I’m done performing, the club manager sends a flunky out to pick up my costume and cash. Both delivered to me as I make it backstage.

I’m also the only girl with my own dressing room. I cost the most in the VIP rooms.

Years of hard work and grinding that’s finally paid off. Sorta. I still haven’t found an out from the major debt that sometimes feels like I’ll never pay off. For all my scheming and dreaming, I still haven’t found a solution for that dilemma yet.

Someday.

“Vixen, you were phenomenal, baby,” croaks our club manager, Randall. He not only resembles a frog with his big eyes and bald head, he sounds like one too. Even his touch is slimy. When he goes to tap my ass, I shoot him a glare, and he holds up his hands. “Don’t mean to intrude. Just wanted to come by and tell you you’ve got a big customer tonight.”

“Don’t tell me it’s the deputy mayor again. Send his ass home before she shows up and tries to beat the brakes off him again.”

He flashes an ugly, gold-toothed smile. “It’s somebody else. Not a regular. He’s bought you for the night. All services.”

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