Total pages in book: 36
Estimated words: 33246 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 166(@200wpm)___ 133(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33246 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 166(@200wpm)___ 133(@250wpm)___ 111(@300wpm)
“I’d say about the same except double the amount of people,” Starr says. We all have stage names. None of us know each other’s government names, at least I don’t. I’ve kept my head down and my eye on the prize. Out in the real world, I’m Kennedy Lynn Sinclair, but in The Velvet Lounge, I’m Daisy.
“Great, thanks for the heads-up.” The deejay announces my name. I’ve got one platform-heeled foot on the step up, trying to put my game face in place.
“No problem, stay sharp.” The heavy guitar solo starts, and I lock the fuck in, strutting my ass with a sway to my hips, hands trailing along the outer edges of my body as soon as I make it to the center of the stage. Tonight’s outfit is one I haven’t used in weeks, trying to change things up, and luckily for us girls, the club keeps the dressing room well stocked for us to choose from. Hence, the school girl theme. It makes it a whole lot sexier. My hair is in two braids, makeup to the nines, body highlighted with some glitter sticking in all the right places. Then there’s the outfit: a white button-down shirt, open all the way down and tied up between my breasts. I went without a triangle-type bathing suit top tonight since it would ruin the effect of the see-through fabric. My stomach is bare, skirt hanging low on my hips, Velcro latch at the side for easy disposal, and a bright red thong beneath. The Mary Jane platform shoes complete the outfit.
I’m dancing, slowly undoing the knot between my breasts, when the lyrics guide me to the next part. She wraps those hands around that pole. She licks those lips and off we go. And she takes it off nice and slow.
The music guides me through my routine, and I zone out the crowd, the noise, and every little thing in life that can take me out of this moment. When I drop my shirt, the crowd goes wild, and when my hands grip the pole, making my breast lift and bounce, I do a back hook spin. A move that uses your dominant hand for strength up at the top of the pole. I walk around turning my body in the opposite direction, swinging my now inside leg forward and then backward. It gives the crowd another peek at what I have beneath my skirt. None of them really know that most strippers use an adhesive to keep everything in place so nothing slips out. I use the momentum to spin me around. I’m about to put my outside leg up and bend at the knee when a loud crashing commotion has me pausing.
“Hands in the air! Hands in the fuckin’ air!”
“Get on the ground!”
“On your knees!”
Meanwhile, I’m frozen, hands above my head still on the pole, shirt open, breasts out while the sparkly red heart-shaped nipple pasties are on display. The lights start turning on one by one. There are more cops in here than I’ve ever seen before. One by one, they take down Mitch, Tommy, the guys who came with Tommy last night, a woman who I’ve never seen before, and a few of the dancers. I close my eyes when they land on the one person I’ve been hoping of all hopes would not be a part of what I can only describe as a joint-effort takedown. I fall to the stage, knees to my head, the back of my legs against my thighs, and wrap my arms around my body tightly.
“You fucked up big time, Kenny. Big, huge, massive, of epic proportions,” I mutter into myself. He clocked me. Trent Hawthorne is privy to my little secret, and he’s about to bust it wide open. For now, it’s a waiting game. I bury my head and ignore the outside chaos only to sit and wait. I’m sneaking glances here and there, watching as they walk dancers and patrons out of the backrooms, most of them in some form of undress. While I don’t judge, my nose wrinkles all the same. Mitch tried his hardest to have me go back there last night, but no way would I sell a piece of myself to a man who has zero feelings for me.
“Stand up.” His voice, the tone, it’s stern and sharp, giving me no room to do anything except follow his demand.
“Trent.” I wobble, trying to get my footing beneath me. I’m tempted to reach out and use him as support, except the way he’s looking through me and not at me has me hesitating.
“Hush. Don’t say a fucking word. Not to me, not to anyone, you hear me?” He’s in full tactical gear—helmet, bulletproof vest with his agency name O.C.P.D, gun, and cargo pants.
“Loud and clear.” I’m about to salute him since he’s acting like a drill sergeant. The only thing giving away that he’s not as unaffected as he is trying to portray is his lingering gaze on my mostly bare body. My nipples tighten, and even though they’re technically covered by stickers, there’s no way they can’t be seen.