Page 1 of Infatuate Me

Chapter One

CARRIE

“Come on, Carrie, for fuck’s sake,” my manager, Earl, shouts at me. I’m due on stage in two minutes, plenty of time, but he’s always on our arses, making sure we don’t miss the timings of our slots.

“All right, all right,” I say as I take one last look in the mirror. Long blonde hair in a high ponytail, smoky eyes, red lipstick, and my new lingerie set on underneath my baby doll dress. All red, of course. And all lacy. It’s what they seem to love, and it’s when I get the most money thrown at me whilst I gyrate on that stage, so I try to keep to what works the best. I need the money, after all, especially if I want to save enough to get the hell out of here and make a better life for myself away from the shithole I currently live in. I live with my mum, who has tried her fucking best to make ends meet, but it’s a constant struggle. She tries to shield me from it, even at twenty years old, but I’m not blind, and I’ve known she’s struggled ever since her and my father split up.

My father on the other hand is wealthy. So fucking wealthy that it used to piss me off when he came to visit in his swanky car, rubbing my mum’s nose in it. As soon as I was old enough, I limited my contact with him and met him away from our house, because she didn’t need the reminder that he’s traded her in for a jumped-up tart who saw his money and not a lot else. He hates it when I tell him that, and as much as my words might piss him off, he won’t give up trying to have contact with me, and I guess a part of me respects that he hasn’t given up on his only daughter, even if I don’t respect him for anything else.

My mother deserves a better life, and so do I. So, here I am, working two towns over, to avoid having anyone I may know see me working in a strip club, because the money is fucking amazing, pure and simple. That’s all I’m here for, and while I can earn a decent crust, I will.

“Carrie,” Earl barks, and I know he’s going to blow a gasket if I don’t get my arse out there. I swing my eyes from the mirror to the door and move, knowing that my twenty-minute set is going to be the best performance the punters will see tonight. I mean, the other girls are fantastic, but they don’t put as much effort into their routines as I do—probably because they don’t want the escape as much as me. In fact, I know they don’t. They all seem to be pretty happy here, and until they’re too old to do this anymore, they’ve repeatedly said they won’t be going anywhere. Usually, once you’re too old to strip—and by too old I mean when the big bosses deem you to be unfit to draw in a crowd, because for fuck’s sake, they don’t seem to have any idea that women are sexy regardless of age—you’re offered a job in the admin or on the bar.

“Sorry,” I say as I fling the door open. “I was just making sure I was all pretty.” I bat my eyelashes and pucker my lips, making Earl laugh.

“Okay, okay, now get your arse out there and give them the best twenty-minute show of their lives,” he says, but he knows he doesn’t need to tell me shit. I know what I’m doing.

“As you wish,” I say with a wink before I turn and swing my hips from side to side as I go, Earl chuckling behind me. Earl is like the big brother I never had, and we formed a pretty tight bond within weeks of me working here. He makes me laugh and has all of the girls backs here, and his husband, Jean, works as the bar manager, so between them, we’re well looked after.

Earl knows this is just a means to an end, but when it’s announced I’m stepping on the stage, you better believe that I’m bringing in more custom.

“Please get ready for the one, the only, Miss Krystal Champagne…”

And that’s my cue. It wasn’t very hard for me to pick a name, and I chose mine based on the fact that one day I’ll be sipping the finest champagne, and it’ll be a reminder of the life I left behind in order to live a better one.

The room is dark, save for the dim purple lighting around the edges of the club, with a few tables dotted around having a solitary candle in the middle—battery powered, of course. The thump of the low bass makes the stage vibrate as I step up and walk down to the pole at the end.

I wrap my fingers around the pole, and when the beat kicks in, I start to move slowly, my hips swaying in time with the music. I grind my body around the pole, and then when the bass kicks up a notch, I start to give them the show they’ve all been waiting for, the one where I remove the baby doll dress and show them what’s underneath. The lace was so intricate that even as you could see skin underneath the dress, it didn’t give as much away as you might think, so now they’re seeing the ‘goods’, it should start to increase the tips being chucked my way from the men at the front, the ones who sit at the counter which lines the front of the stage and who pay ridiculous prices to be seated there. Money talks. Always has and probably always will.

I hate that money defines some people. I hate that those who have it look down on people that don’t. But from working this job, I’ve been shown multiple times that money doesn’t mean rich people are nice. It doesn’t mean they are pleasant; it just means they can hide behind their fucking wads of cash and those they associate with won’t care about anything else.

I should know, my dad tries to flaunt his wealth with me, to get me away from where I live, but every time he tries to tempt me with a bundle of cash, I tell him I’m not going anywhere without Mum. I’m not leaving her here when I go. I couldn’t think of life without her around. She’s my best friend as well as my mother, and the only reason I haven’t told her about this gig is because I would hate her to be disappointed in me. I mean, she might not be, but I would rather not burden her with stripping for money. She thinks I work as a waitress in the upscale restaurant on the other side of this town, and I’d like to keep it that way.

I grab the pole seductively and start to swing, my legs wrapping around, my body moving without me even thinking about it. I started doing pole dance classes for fitness two years ago, and also used it as my time for just me, it being the only thing I treated myself to once a week. Now, I still go to my fitness class when I have a night off, but otherwise I practice here, making sure my routines are slick and the music works with my set.

I let my mind go blank as the next song kicks in, and then the next, before I move away from the pole and start to grind on the floor, in front of all the fucking letches who have paid for the top dollar seats. I work along them, making sure to give each of them a teasing look, a sly wink or a smile, feeling them slide money into the sides of my panties and along the front of the stage. I’m not worried about the money going missing on the stage, because after each act the money is gathered appropriately, and it’s given to us backstage. I know the club takes a cut, but what I take home is more than worth it.

I move along to the last guy, who is sat with his head bowed, nursing a glass of scotch, shrouded in darkness being near the corner. But when he looks up and recognition hits, I almost fucking stumble in my routine. He sees my slight hesitation, and he smirks.

Fuck.

It’s the first time someone I know has seen me here.

It’s the first time I’ve ever stumbled in a performance.

And it’s the first time that I’ve ever seen Dominic Chambers here—my dad’s best friend.

Chapter Two

DOMINIC

Never in my life did I expect to see Carrie Anderson on the stage in front of me. The daughter of my best mate. Fuck.

She looks delectable in her lace panties and bra, her body moving sinfully to the music, and my dick twitching in my pants.

What the fuck is she doing working here? A goddamn strip club? I know damn well she doesn’t need to do this, her father having more money than sense, so why is she on this stage, gyrating all over the place for all the old fuckers in here to wank off to when they get home?

I refuse to think of myself as an old fucker. I may be forty-nine years old, but there are guys in here old enough to be her fucking grandfather, for God’s sake.

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