Page 2 of Off Limits
Jax sighs a heavy sigh. He used to work in a club uptown until somebody planted illegal narcotics on him and he’d gotten fired. ‘You know the rules, honey.’
I push out my bottom lip.
‘How much you got left?’
I pull out a fifty from my corset and hold it out to him between my fingers. ‘This is the last of it, I promise.’
His eyes flit over my shoulder to the closed door. ‘Take it,’ he mumbles, with a wave of his hand. ‘I didn’t see nothing.’
‘Thank you,’ I say with a grin, tucking the bill back inside my corset. ‘You’re an angel.’
‘So… I hear congratulations are in order. You’re really doing this cheerleading thing, huh?’
I roll forward onto the balls of my feet, stretching out the backs of my calves, proud of myself. ‘Sure am. Got the news today. I’m a CMC now.’
‘Well, that’s just swell, Ren. What happens when they find out about this joint? Don’t imagine the boss man is gonna let you quit this place.’
I feel my cheeks warm. ‘Figure no one has to know. I’ll head here straight from practice on work nights.’
Jax cocks his head to one side and gives me a half-smile. ‘And when are you meant to sleep, Serenity Harper? That’s three jobs you’re working now.’
It’s sweet that he cares. ‘Come on, Jax. You know I’ve always dreamed of being a Mutineers cheerleader,’ I say quietly. ‘And this job, it’s…’
He nods his head once. He knows my situation. That I’m not here for the fun of it.
There’s a knock at the door. Hurley – one of our security guards – puts his head inside the office. He’s tall and broad and there ain’t a man in the whole of Canyon he can’t handle.
‘Serenity,’ he says in a low tone. ‘Customer’s asking for a private dance.’
My chest starts to flutter. ‘Can’t somebody else do it?’
He sniffs. ‘Asked for you personally,’ he responds in a gruff tone.
I look at Jax, my eyes pleading again. ‘Not tonight. Please?’
Jax has been busy putting the pile of cash I handed him into the safe. There’s a ledger dedicated to my tips only, which he’s supposed to fill out. I have the same at home, so I can keep track, and my records are precise, down to every last goddamn cent.
‘I’m sorry, Serenity,’ he says as he spins the dial. ‘You know I think the world of you, but… not my problem.’
He turns, holds up his palms as if in surrender, looking guilty before he adjusts his cap. Given the boss is away tonight, I figured he might go easy on me.
I follow Hurley from the office, a weight in my stomach. Mila – akaCandy Chains– is back on stage. She’s getting a lot of attention. There are four of us on rotation tonight. I keep my head down. It’s dark in here, and despite me wearing a wig, I’m conscious that now I’m a cheerleader for the local NFL team, some of our regulars are bound to be hardcore Mutineers fans. I hadn’t figured I’d have this feeling of panic in my chest.
Everybody knows the rules here: customers who want a topless lap dance must pay up front. Surly’s has private rooms with double-door entry. Hurley, or one of the other security guards, remain outside the inner door throughout, and the club has a strict no-touching policy. There’s a panic button for us girls if we need it. Lap dances last a total of seven minutes and it’s not possible to pay for double time.
Inside, the customer is already seated on the large, rounded leather couch, as per club rules. He’s not a regular, and I note that he’s wearing a wedding band. He probably has kids waiting on him at home. He wears a cap and a baseball shirt over baggy denim shorts, and in this light, it looks like his hair is strawberry blond. A layer of stubble covers his face.
No matter how many times I do this, it’s never easy. The first few minutes I face away from him, dancing, rolling and swinging my hips, stroking my thighs. I turn and lower myself into his lap around the three-minute mark. Usually they’re aroused at this point, and this guy is no different. I can feel the length of him pressing up into my ass as I grind into his jeans.
I think about my good news today, to take my mind off what I’m doing. I always wanted to be a dancer, only I never pictured it would be like this. I was born and raised in Canyon, on the west side, and growing up, the CMC were like something in a dream. Elegant, poised and beautiful, I wanted to be like them, from the first time I saw them perform at a local fashion show. Even before I became a high school cheerleader, I knew I wanted to dance for the crowds in the real-life NFL. To have all that positive energy and use it for good, like they did. To represent my city and be a future role model for all the little girls like me, who didn’t grow up all fancy with nice, shiny things.
The guy between my thighs lets out a low grunt, bringing me sharply back to reality. When I glance down, I think of his poor wife, and it makes me wanna puke.
‘Oh yeah, baby,’ I hear him growl as he leans back, into the grooves of the couch, pushing his groin against me. Unpleasant though it might be, the guy’s not breaking any rules. His hands remain by his sides.
The last two minutes are my least favorite. Leaning back, I unclasp my corset and let it fall away from my breasts. The hair from my wig falls across my face as I shift my hips atop him. I feel his arousal strain against his pants, my nipples tantalizingly close to his face and lips as I grind in his lap. My expression is indifferent. I don’t look at him. I can’t.
At least dancing topless on stage, you don’t feel like you’re being violated.
