Wrong then Right (A Love Happens Novel Book 2) (7 page)

Hope laughed as if flattered by his predictable chauvinism even as her skin crawled, more than happy to correct him again. “The only naked fun bags you’re going to see tonight, sir, are on the stage.”

The man seated next to him looked sheepish, his face red as he ordered for them both. “Two whiskey’s. Neat.”

“Coming right up,” Hope said easily and hustled toward the bar, selectively ignoring the disrespectful man’s crude comment about his dick coming right up, too.

If she had a dollar for every time a customer hit on her or assumed she was available for purchase, she’d have a tidy little sum in her tip tally at the end of each shift. Earning them the straight up legit way was her preferred method though, and in the three weeks she’d been waitressing at Club Kitten, she hadn’t done half bad.

“Any trouble goin’ on over there, toots? Looks like ya’ got one comin’ in hot.” Bubba tilted an ivory handled beer tap forward, filling a chilled mug with one hand while the other reached for a long list of tickets printing the next round of drinks. Without looking, he released the tap just as the foam head reached the top of the glass and grabbed another mug.

“Nothing I can’t handle with a wink and a smile. It’s all good in the hood, Bubbalicious.” Standing at the servers station near the end of the bar, she tapped her order onto a flat screen and watched as he expertly poured the liquor, sliding her foot around her ridiculously high heeled shoe and curling her toes in relief. “Except for these damn shoes. Is it asking too much to include flats in the dress code?”

“Suck it up, buttercup.” Bubba’s eyes crinkled, his genuine smile obscured by an unruly, overgrown reddish-blonde beard. “The higher your shoes, the fatter your wad of cash.”

Unfortunately, truer words had never been spoken.

Wincing, she shifted her weight and switched feet, knowing she’d have a new blister by the end of the night. Her double shift ended at eleven, earlier than normal, but still six hours away. Once it did, all Hope wanted was a greasy cheeseburger and a long soak in a bathtub. Saying a silent prayer she could stay at Val’s tonight, she filled her tray with the two whiskeys and a round of dirty martini’s for another table, barely suppressing a groan when her poor feet rebelled. Not that anybody could hear it over the pulsing beat of Lady Gaga blaring through the bar.

“Watch that one,” he said, motioning toward her newest table. “I’m bettin’ he’s gonna play grab ass with ya’.” The strictly enforced no touching rule applied to dancers and servers alike.

Nodding, she navigated her way through the low lit bar, choosing her path wisely so she didn’t block the view of the show. Intentionally making eye contact with her customers, Hope allowed her smiling gaze to linger. According to Bubba, the best way to get a man’s money was to make him think he had a shot with you.

Stroking dick was bad, he preached to the girls in a fatherly manner, but stroking ego was just fine. And Hope wasn’t above doing it.

All eyes were on Bridget though, a woman so insanely beautiful she should be on a runway in Paris. Instead, she worked the main stage, the two smaller stages flanking each side empty since it was still early. And in strip club time, late afternoon was early. The feature show, where all three stages showcased a choreographed trio of topless, gyrating female flesh, didn’t start until later in the evening. A flash of fire engine red glinting off latex knee boots near the lap dance booths caught her attention. Kiki might’ve had her back to her customer, but the stacked redhead was working her ass against his lap—with a two inch degree of separation, of course—with skilled precision. A pinch of unease skittered through Hope at the sight of the woman’s exposed breasts, too perfectly round and high to be anything other than real expensive, but the awkwardness vanished as quickly as it came. It was amazing what a person could get accustomed to, and in the last month, she’d become increasingly relaxed around the naked female form. Kiki grinned when their eyes met, giving Hope their high sign as she winked deliberately, her mascara-heavy eyelashes and red painted lips disguising a slightly hooked nose. Glancing at the gentleman on the receiving end of her practiced moves, Hope shrugged negligently, disagreeing with Kiki’s opinion. The girls all shared non-verbal ques with each other, sometimes the only way to communicate during busy times. An exaggerated wink meant they were actually hot for their current customer, therefore giving them a bit of extra attention. Some chose to continue that attention outside the club after hours. For pleasure rather than money, of course, and completely on the down low since Bubba would have a cow if he knew. Their other sign was the subtle, nearly undetectable finger slash across the throat, which meant they couldn’t wait to get away from whatever douche bag was rubbing his beer belly against them, waving bills like they were zoo animals.

For Hope, walking into the forbidden gentleman’s club for the first time three weeks ago, with her sparse resume tucked neatly into her purse, had been like stepping into an alternate universe.

Desperation had brought her to the club. Determination had her opening the door.

“Ya’ better show me some ID pronto, missy, or you can walk your jailbait ass right on outta’ here.” The strawberry blonde man looked more like a lumberjack than a business owner, his booming voice as intimidating as his barrel chest and thick arms. “An’ I can spot a fake a mile away.”

He stood behind a long, U-shaped bar, topped with frosted glass and sapphire blue granite, backed by a mirrored wall covered with glass shelves. Back lit and glowing in the darkened bar, the wall highlighted dozens of strategically placed liquor bottles. The pungent smell of pine cleaner mixed with artificial vanilla scent assaulted her as her vision adjusted from the bright, late morning sunshine to the dimmed incandescent light of the closed club.

Frozen to the spot, she took the place in with shocked silence. It looked more like the cigar lounge at her father’s members only country club than a strip joint.

Several round tables with deep seated chairs upholstered in cobalt blue velvet filled the bar. Spaced tightly together, they were spread across a sea of gray damask carpeting usually seen in upscale casinos. Larger sections of seating lined the perimeter, featuring comfortable built in sofas covered in blue and black zebra print. The area was elevated, accessible only by the three narrow steps on either end, making it prime, stage viewing height. The VIP section, she guessed, based on the blue velvet ropes blocking it from the main floor. Shadows hid the outer areas of the massive space, but she could see a row of narrow, yet lavishly appointed booths, open to the room but concealed on each side with fabric paneled dividers. Her face flamed when she realized that was where the more intimate, one on one acts took place.

Jesus, it was one thing to give a guy a lap dance in the privacy of your home, but entirely different to do it in front of an audience. Her stomach dipped at the thought and she looked away, only to stare at the focal point of the club.

A large, horseshoe-shaped stage dominated the room, the clear acrylic platform lit brightly from underneath, creating an ethereal glow. An unexpectedly ornate crystal chandelier hung dead center above the platform, just in front of a thick, highly polished silver pole. Two smaller stages anchored each side, a few feet lower than the center stage. No chandeliers hung over them, but the gleaming chrome poles were the same.

The whole place could best be described as vintage Hollywood glamour. Shiny, sophisticated and scrumptious. Add in several pairs of bouncing bare breasts and it was no wonder men from all walks of life were drawn to these places.

“Ain’t what ya’ expected, is it?” The man behind the bar said, looking around the space proudly, as if viewing it for the first time along with her. “Just did a major remodelin’ job last winter. Cost me twice as much as I budgeted thanks to them goddamn Union laborers.”

Not sure how to respond, Hope said the first thing that came to mind. “It’s... nice.”

“I just told ya’ it cost me twice as much as it should’ve, darlin’. Nice ain’t a strong enough word. Now why don’t ya’ show ole’ Bubba that ID of yours?” Impatiently wagging his thick fingers, he motioned her toward the bar. “This here’s Marcia. She’s in charge of the girls when I’m not around. Which ain’t hardly ever, I’ll tell ya’. Got myself three ex-wives and moldy food in my fridge to prove it.”

A rusty female laugh came from the far side of the bar and Hope realized that they, her and this grizzly bear of a man calling himself Bubba, weren’t alone.

A stout woman with a beehive hairdo sprayed to within an inch of its life based on the sheer height of it, tilted her chin down and looked at Hope over purple-rimmed bifocals. “I’m wife number one. I tried to warn number’s two and three that he wasn’t husband material, but they wouldn’t listen.” Flipping back to the glossy fashion magazine in front of her, she absently added, “You try to train them for the next girl, but some men just can’t learn. It’s like teaching a monkey to juggle. Some take to it real easy. Others fight it.”

There wasn’t a cigarette in sight, but her graveled voice attested to a pack a day habit, if not more. And maybe a few too many scotch’s on the rocks.

At a loss, Hope dug through her purse for her driver’s license, glad Marcia wasn’t expecting a response. Bubba scanned the ID with shrewd eyes, holding it up to the light and comparing her face with the picture on the small card carefully, as if she was seeking high-level Military security clearance. Apparently satisfied, he nodded and handed it back to her. Hope hadn’t been so thoroughly scrutinized since her last pap smear.

“Ya’ might be thinkin’ it was Marcia’s mouth here that caused us to split up, but it was actually her cookin’. If ya’ can’t make a decent tater tot casserole after I’ve been workin’ all night, then we’re gonna part ways. Hells bells, woman, it’s just meat, soup and tots.” Fondness flavored his words and Hope released a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding.

Titty bar or not, these were her kind of people.

“Ya’ wantin’ to dance, honey? Or just serve drinks?”

Hope balked at his innocent question. The help wanted ad listed open positions for both, but she was past the point of caring which option he offered her. Sleeping in a car had that effect.

“I can do whatever you need me to do.” Swallowing, she clarified, “but waiting tables would be my preference.”

Feeling Marcia’s eyes on her body, Hope silently pleaded with Bubba, praying he wouldn’t tell her to take a hike. Finally, he spoke. “Ya’ got an old man?”

Not sure if he meant a husband or a father, Hope hesitated before shaking her head. Either way the answer was basically the same.

“No baby Daddy? No jealous ex-boyfriend? No lesbian lover? I don’t need some hotheaded man or crazy bull dyke stompin’ in here and tearin’ up my place when you start attractin’ all kinds a’ unwanted attention.”

“Jesus goddamn Christ, Bub,” Marcia interrupted brusquely. “You can’t go around saying that kinda shit these days. It ain’t politically correct. There’s nothing wrong with being a bean flicker.”

“How the hell’s callin’ em’ bean flicker’s any better?” he scoffed, hands raised in question. “And ya’ know there ain’t no fight messier than a cat fight. All that screechin’ and hair pullin’.”

Hope smiled nervously, wondering if this was the actual interview. “It’s okay. None of the above apply.”

The bizarre argument settled, he crossed his arms and stared at her with kind eyes, tugging on his long, scraggly chin hair. “What’cha think, Marcia?”

Marcia, who’d ambled her way toward Hope, inspected her from head to toe. As if she were a prized pig at the county fair, ready to be auctioned off to the highest bidder before heading to the slaughterhouse.

“A little on the short side but a decent body, otherwise. Awfully young looking, which could make for trouble with some of the older girls.” Reaching out, she used the knuckle of her index finger to tilt Hope’s chin from side to side, talking more to Bubba than her. “Good skin, though. Real nice coloring. She’ll do the trick for those customers tired of the seeing the standard bleach blondes. You Mexican?”

“No,” Hope said, not offended. “My mother was born in Nicaragua.”

Hope got a whiff of strong coffee when Marcia, still invading her personal space, laughed knowingly. “Hooked up with a dirty white boy, did she?”

“Something like that.”

Tapping a long, purple painted fingernail against her mouth, she stepped back. “Show me your teeth.”

Hope opened her mouth automatically. Holy shit. What if they wanted to see her boobs next? She’d worn an ugly ass, white cotton bra, for crying out loud. Why hadn’t she thought to wear a prettier one? Because the trunk of her car was full of dirty laundry, that’s why. Along with all her other worldly possessions. Sexy underwear had been low on her list of priorities lately.

Looking at Bubba, who’d stood motionless the entire time, Marcia shrugged her shoulders and returned to her spot at the bar, not asking to see more skin.

Did that mean she passed the test or not?

“Okay, kid. You’re in. The rules are easy,” he chimed, ticking them off on his sausage-like fingers, “we’re a no touch club. That means customers don’t touch ya’. Anywhere, ever. No matter how much cash they flash ya’, which they’re gonna. Now, ya’ might be enticed to touch them. Don’t do it. We’re a no touch club. But,” he said, with a tilt of his head, “if ya’ do, your hands must remain above their waist or below their thighs. Never in between. And at no point will ya’ ever put your mouth on a customer. Anywhere, ever. Ya’ got me?”

Hope nearly lost her day old bagel breakfast at the thought. “I got you.” Heard and understood.

“And no alcohol before or durin’ your shift. No drugs, ever. No flashin’ your pussy. Them boys get the smell a’ tang in their noses and the next thing ya’ know, I got a riot on my hands and cops swarmin’ the place, lookin’ to shut me down. Ya’ show your pussy, I show ya’ the door. Your first shift starts tonight at six. Ends at two. If ya’ manage to make it ‘til then without cryin’ or runnin’ out the door, then ya’ got bigger balls than I think.”