Revolving Door Page 6

  I gaze at her, feeling envious. She’s bold and so in control of her life. “Why blue?” I blurt, and then I inwardly cringe. I hadn’t mean to voice the question out loud.

  Quinn doesn’t seem to mind, and she touches her hair that’s curling softly around her face today. “I enjoy being different.” She shrugs. “Who wants to be like everyone else? That’s boring. We should all embrace our individuality.”

  “Do people judge you?” I find myself asking.

  “All the time, but I don’t care. I like who I am, and as long as I have no regrets, I figure I must be doing something right.”

  I look at her with a hint of wistfulness. “You make it sound so easy,”

  Her brown eyes hold mine. “It is. Own it, Ash. Who cares what others think. If you’re happy, that’s all that matters. Screw expectations.”

  She’s using the nickname again. No one’s ever shortened my name before, and I like it. I also think upon what she’s saying.

  “You figure out what comes next, and when you have that figured out, I’ve got your back,” Quinn promises in a firm tone.

  “Just like that?”

  She nods. “Yes. Just like that.”

  “There’s so much that you don’t know about me,” I say quietly.

  “You don’t know my history,” she points out. “Do you need to know it to like me?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “There you go,” she says with an easy smile.

  The earlier anxiety I was feeling is beginning to slip away. There’s just something about Quinn that soothes the parts of me that have been hurting for so long. I never want to change the way that she sees me.

  ***

  I’ve been sitting in the crowded parking lot for fifteen minutes. The drive to the club had made me nervous, and now that I’m here… I draw in a deep breath and slowly release it. It does nothing to ease the tight grip I have on the steering wheel. With forced calmness, I mentally give myself a pep talk.

  I’ve done plenty of research, and I know what to expect—mostly. Each club is different in their own way, but at least this one has a good reputation. Yes, it’s full nudity—but only on stage and in the private rooms. Lap dances are given while wearing scanty costumes. At least that’s what the clientele had said in their reviews. I’d read every review out there about the club, and this place has a reputation for being professional. All the reviewers claimed one thing, the women were hot and worth the money. Out of curiosity, I’d researched the competition, and there are two other clubs in the area. Neither are full nudity, but reviews hint that the dancers are willing to do more than dance for money. Thankfully, there wasn’t any insinuation of that going on in the private rooms here.

  I can’t believe I’m considering this.

  Trying to calm my anxiety, I press my hand to my chest and control my breathing. I need the money, and from what I’ve gathered, the money is good. Secondly, exotic dancers are considered independent contractors. I wouldn’t be a club employee, because I would work for myself. The only downfall is that some clubs demand a nightly fee from the dancers, or a fee per shift. I’m not certain about the fees at this club, but I’m willing to try it. Dancing has always been a passion of mine, and I’d only have to fully strip on stage and in private. From the information I’d pulled together, this club is also strict with their ‘no touching’ policy. The only time I’d be up close and personal is during a lap dance, and I’d have a G-string on.

  I draw in another deep breath as I begin to calm.

  This isn’t how I’d set out to prove myself, but that’s life. It throws curveballs, and you either adjust or it buries you.

  I’m tired of suffocating.

  Knowing I can’t hide forever, I force myself to climb out and lock the car. My head still aches from a full day’s worth of online research. Some people can breeze through that kind of research, but I’d had to go slow.

  As I walk towards the club, I gaze at the front of the building. If I hadn’t already seen pictures of the outside, I would have expected a gaudy sign or something. Instead, the building looks newer, and it’s almost classy with its stone and brick exterior and oval overhang above the door. Stone pillars are on each side with a single black-tinted glass door located between them. The name of the club is written on it in a gold, cursive script.

  No one looks to be around, and I take a moment to adjust the hem of my dress. I’ve come prepared. I’m wearing a short red dress that I’d packed when I’d left Philly. I’ve paired it with the only pair of black Louboutin heels I’d thought to bring. Odds are, I’ll have to audition on the spot, so I want to look my best.

  I reach for the brass handle and open the heavy glass door. Cool air greets me as I enter a hallway. It’s long, and at the end a bouncer stands beside a metal detector situated in front of a second tinted door. He’s cute and built like a pro-wrestler.

  It sinks in that I am going to be taking my clothes off in front of a total stranger.

  Shit.

  I’m tempted to turn around and walk back out the door.

  No, I can do it.

  No doubts, I warn myself as I walk towards the bouncer. His eyes are admiring me from the tips of my shoes to my glossy dark hair. I’m going to own this situation, and I flash him a smile.

  He’s dressed in all black, and his blond hair is slicked back. He’s wearing an ear piece, which means that he’s in direct contact with security. His blue eyes lock on mine. “ID,” he says, his voice low and gravely. I open my purse and pull out my wallet. I hand him my ID, and he scans it. “Purse,” he requests, his expression staying professional. After I hand over my purse, I watch as he briefly looks through it.

  The outer door has opened, and I hear male voices coming down the hall. A low wolf whistle reaches my ears, and I ignore the urge to turn around.

  “Step forward, please,” the bouncer tells me.

  I walk through the metal detector without any issues, and the bouncer hands me my purse and tells me to have a good time. This time, when I open the door, loud music greets me, and I enter the club. The club’s lighting is dimmed to set the tone, and I move to the side so that the group of guys that’ll be coming in next won’t run into me.

  The club has burgundy and black décor. You’d think it’d come off as cheap, but it doesn’t. The burgundy chairs and booths look well-kept, and a mirror spans the entire back wall of the club. I can see why the place is packed. It’s managed to avoid looking like the cheap, sleazy stereotype that you expect to walk into. I spy a mixture of younger men in groups, and older men—some of them wearing business suits. A few lap dances are taking place, and the women are pretty and moving their hips to the song playing overhead. They have scraps of fabric covering their breasts and southern regions, and I’m beyond relieved to see that. I spy another woman walking amongst the maze of tables and booths, and it doesn’t take long for someone to motion her over.

  My attention shifts to the woman dancing on stage. Stage lights are focused on her, giving her a soft glow that makes her look seductive. She’s still wearing a lace bra, G-string, and a garter belt with black stockings. I watch as she moves, and I know that I can do that. When I dance, I always find myself going into a zone, one where I’m relaxed and all my problems fade away. I’m counting on that to get me through this.

  Now that I’ve scoped out the club, I turn and walk towards the long bar that spans the backside of the room. All the bartenders are male, which surprises me. Then again, I had spied plenty of women in the crowd. The club has eye candy for both sexes.

  I patiently wait until a space opens in front of one of the bartenders, and I step forward as a woman walks away with her drink.

  The bartender, a sexy man with mocha skin and a white-toothed grin, looks at me expectantly. “What’ll it be, hon?” he asks over the music.

  I lean forward and say loudly, “I’m here about the ad in the paper.”

  He nods. “One sec.” He walks towards the other bartender
and says something in his ear before leaving the bar. I watch as he slips through an ‘employees only’ door at the end of the bar.

  I refuse to allow my nerves to get the best of me, and I focus my attention on the fact that if I want to continue living with Quinn and Harper, I need this job.

  A few minutes later, the bartender is back, and a tall man is walking towards me through the crowd lingering around the bar. I’m assuming he’s the manager since he’d come out of the ‘employees only’ door. He’s dressed in a business suit, and his expression is purely professional as he approaches me. “Robert Vanderson,” he introduces, holding out a hand.

  His professionalism is appreciated, and I shake his hand. “Ashton,” I tell him, deciding to forego my last name.

  He nods. “Follow me.”

  I fall into step behind him, expecting him to lead me to the door near the bar. Instead, he directs me through the crowd and to the far side of the club. There’s a bouncer stationed in front of a hall, and when he sees Mr. Vanderson and myself, he nods respectively.

  “Is there a room available?” Mr. Vanderson asks.

  “Room three.”

  My audition is about to get underway. God, I can’t blow this. As much as I hate the idea of taking my clothes off for men, the money will be worth it, and so will being paid with cash. There’ll be no trace of me out there for my father and Hayden to find. This is the very last place that they’d ever look for me.

  I’m led down a hall that has about a half-dozen closed doors with numbers on them. Room three is empty, just as the bouncer had said, and I look around. The room is about as large as the living room at the house, and located against the far wall is a stage with a pole. Directly across from the stage are a dozen burgundy chairs with three round tables strategically placed around them. Along the wall, I spy a sound system and a shelf that’s stocked with liquor bottles and glasses.

  I look at Mr. Vanderson. The lighting is a little brighter in here, and I notice that he has a little gray at his temples. He looks to be in his late forties, and he’s thicker in the waist. There also happens to be a wedding band on his left hand, and I wonder what his wife thinks of the club.

  He looks at me, and his expression isn’t unfriendly, but it isn’t friendly, either. This is strictly business to him, and that makes me feel better about my decision to audition. I’d been worried that the manager or owner would be too friendly, and that would lead me to doubt my decision.

  “If you haven’t figured it out yet, I own the club. The only name I go by is Mr. Vanderson.” His warning isn’t lost on me. He’s the boss, nothing more. He will never become a friend or anything beyond that. This is business.

  I nod.

  “The audition process is simple. Show me what you have, and I’ll decide if you’ll fit in here.”

  Nerves flutter in my stomach as I nod once more.

  He studies me. “First time?”

  I find myself hesitating. Would the truth ruin my chances?

  Much to my surprise, he smiles kindly. “No judgement. Are you sure this is what you want?” he inquires.

  I blink at his question, because it was completely unexpected. “Yes.”

  His eyes observe me for a moment longer. “Any music requests?”

  I hadn’t thought that far ahead, and I shake my head.

  Something shifts in his gaze. “This job isn’t all about dancing,” he explains. “You’ll be expected to talk with the clientele and flirt. Show them a good time.” He’s doubting me already.

  This is where I need to let go of Ashton Delegrave and be someone else. I’ve never tried to be sexy before, but now’s the time to start. I set my purse on the nearest chair and give him a slow smile, hoping like hell that it’s seductive. “I can be anyone you want me to be.”

  He nods his approval and walks to the stereo. His back turns to me, and I pull together my composure and walk onto the stage. I’d read that not every club requires dancers to be able to pole dance. I’m certain I could learn, so I need to try to use the pole without looking ridiculous. I want to show him that I’m capable of learning.

  Music begins, and it has a strong, throbbing beat.

  I like it.

  Mr. Vanderson sits in the center chair, his expression morphing back to the professional mask that he wears so well. “Impress me,” he says.

  I begin to dance, knowing that this must be sexy and provocative. I used to dance in my room when I needed to unwind from a particularly stressful day, and I imagine myself alone.

  I quickly find that it’s not working.

  Channing’s face flashes in my mind, and I recall how he’d looked in his swimming trunks. The guy has a body any woman would want to take for a ride.

  Mr. Vanderson disappears, and I dance as if I’m seducing Channing. I use the pole occasionally, recalling some of the movements that I’d watched on the computer when I’d researched exotic dancers. When I begin to slip off the dress, I keep my actions fluid.

  I’m in the perfect mindset now, and things are coming easily to me. When it comes to my bra, there’s very little hesitation, and I playfully toss it aside. My lace panties bring back a hint of reality, but I ignore it and seductively slip them off.

  By the time the song ends, I am wearing just my Louboutin’s. Don’t turn red, don’t turn red, don’t turn red, I chant to myself now that I’m no longer dancing. I can’t read Mr. Vanderson’s face as I stand there, all my goods bared to him.

  He’s not looking at my girly bits, instead, he’s studying my face.

  I stare right back and deliberately draw my lower lip between my teeth.

  He blinks and then rises to his feet, walking to the stereo. “Have you ever performed a lap dance before? Maybe for a boyfriend?” he asks over his shoulder.

  “No.”

  “Go ahead and put your lingerie back on.”

  Thank God.

  I slip on the panties and bra before waiting for his next instruction.

  He returns to the chair he’d vacated and sits down as a new song begins. “Give me a lap dance. Close, but not too close,” he says curtly.

  Well, I’d wanted to branch out from my comfort zone. This is certainly branching out. I climb onto his lap in a smooth movement that I’d watched on the computer. I’ll never admit this to anyone, but I’d been practicing all afternoon, trying to mimic the seductive movements that I would be expected to perform.

  Honestly, this is awkward as hell as I hold the back of his chair and grind my hips within a few inches from his crotch. I’m not sure if he’s expecting eye contact, but I figure I’d better treat him like I’d treat a man paying for a lap dance. I hold his gaze, deliberately arching my back and moving in ways that I’ve never moved before.

  He doesn’t look turned on by me, which is unsettling considering that’s the point. Instead of allowing it to bother me, I remind myself that he’s married and this is his business. He doesn’t mix business with pleasure, and that’s the biggest relief yet.

  When the music ends, I gracefully climb off him and stand there, waiting.

  He rises to his feet and gives me a smile. “You’re a natural.”

  I am? “Thank you,” I say politely.

  “Welcome to the club.”

  “Really?” I ask, unable to believe that I’d succeeded in snagging the job.

  “Yes. I liked that you made use of the pole, so if you’re interested, one of the other women can help you learn some technique, but it isn’t mandatory. My only concern is you weren’t pushing your breasts out as much as you should. When you’re lap dancing, you need to tempt your client into wanting more without giving more, you get what I mean? If he wants to see more, he has to want to shell out the money to see it. Your job is to coax the customer into paying for a private dance—that’s what’s going to help put money in your pocket. I also suggest you find a way to make yourself stand out. What you did in here works just fine, but what you’re after are the tips. The more interest you gain, the m
ore money you make. You want to be memorable, not forgettable,” he advises.

  I nod, listening intently to his suggestions.

  “Let’s go to my office, and I’ll give you all the information you’ll need since you’re new to this. I’ll also need you to come up with a stage name. I’ll wait right outside the door while you put your clothes back on,” he tells me.

  When I’m alone and have privacy, I blink and process what I’d just done.

  It’s official.

  I’m an exotic dancer.

  Seven

  Channing

  It’s night’s like this that I curse my job and my classes. I’d gone straight from my last class to my job, and now I’m home for the night but have classwork to do. I unlock the front door and step inside. After securing the deadbolts, I hang my keys on one of the empty key hooks by the door. If I don’t put them there, I’m guaranteed to lose them.

  Headlights flash in the narrow window panes framing the door, announcing that someone else has arrived home. I flip the deadbolts to unlock them and step further into the living room, rubbing the kink out of my neck. I probably have an hour or two yet of work on my computer, and all I want to do is drop into bed.

  The door opens, and I look up to see Ashton. Her face is flushed, and when her eyes lock on mine, she blinks before turning a deeper shade of scarlet. I stare at her crimson face and wonder what’s going on inside that head of hers.

  She clears her throat, closing the door. “Hi,” she says awkwardly.

  I’m getting the vibe that she’s excited about something, but yet adorably self-conscious. My eyes run over her outfit, and holy fuck. It’s a short red dress that shows off her figure to perfection. I struggle to drag my eyes back up to her face. “Date?” I ask casually, thinking of her ex-fiancé. I’d shared the info with Gabe, but I haven’t had a chance to dig further. I just haven’t had the time. My job, tutoring, and classes keep me busy enough. And on the weekends, I like to cut loose and relax when I can.

  Ashton looks genuinely puzzled. “Date?”