Page 2 of Whiskey Burn

The red-haired man’s hand rests inches from my stilettos.

It’s clear as crystal. He’s going to touch me.

I fucking dare him.

I dance, pretending I’m far away, feeling the pulse of my body when the man runs his hand up my boot. I freeze. The sliminess of his palm curls my stomach. He stares back at me, clearly clueless about what he’s done. I hear the blood pump in my ears and the breath hitch in my body. But I don’t flinch or cause a scene. I leave that to someone else.

Continuing my dance, I cut my eyes to Belle, the owner of the club, hovering near the bar, and dip my chin. It’s dark in the club, but she reads me loud and clear. Our silent signal for trouble. She touches her earpiece.

I drop into a split in front of the man, his hand moving to my bare thigh. Might as well give him something to remember me by before his world is rudely fucking rocked. Because in fewer than thirty seconds, he’ll be out on his ass.

I lower myself onto my back, arch my hips. The man slides a hundred-dollar bill my way. I don’t touch it. Instead, I sit up, unhook my bra, and flash a bright smile at him.

He stares at me for a second before his eyes bug.

Sure, I’m a tease, but he deserves it.

He’s leaning in by the time a large hand comes down on his shoulder. He jerks in surprise and twists in his chair. On his mouth, the beginnings of what the fuck form. But the joke’s on him. Our massive bouncer, T-Bone, yanks him out of his chair, effectively dousing any alpha machismo the man had hoped to muster. The bachelor party bros holler and hop up and down at the free show they’re getting. As the man’s shoved toward the exit, I conjure a flirty smile and a little wave.

Lady Lawless takes no prisoners.

The song ends. I tuck the hundred-dollar bill into my garter and slip my bra back on. As I come offstage, Belle’s waiting. Her silver hair swirled into an elegant bouffant, she wears cat-eye sunglasses despite the dimness of the club.

“You okay, Lady?” Her voice is raspy, aged by cigarettes.

“Perfect.”

Pleased, she smiles. “Good girl.”

Nothing fazes Belle. Even though I was an adequate dancer when she first interviewed me, I wasn’t up to Belle’s standards. She put me through bartending school and made me hostess for a year before I was even allowed onstage. Eventually, I found my groove and my confidence. She got me out of a bad situation, and I’ve been grateful ever since.

Belle tucks a lock of hair behind my ear, assesses my attire. “Sammy’s here for you.”

My gaze darts to the long hallway that leads to the private rooms. “Which room?”

“The Penthouse. He’s already paid.”

The Penthouse is our most special room hidden from sight behind a sliding velvet wall. Belle charges $3,000 an hour.

“Be good to him, Lady, he’s our best customer.” Brow arched, Belle gives me a quick pat on the ass. “Go get pretty.”

Before I go see Sammy, I stop in the locker room, the space we use to change and do our makeup.

Stella, her head of black curly locks lowering, snorts cocaine off the back of an eyeshadow palette. “Where’s Clea?” I ask, casting my gaze at the empty vanity.

She shrugs, rubs the last bit of powder on her gums. “Not sure. Hasn’t been here for the last month.”

Strange. We never got too deep, most girls prefer to keep their personal lives separate, but even I knew Clea was working nights to put herself through medical school.

I change out of my thong and into a black silk bra and panty set, then pair it with a sheer lavender robe with feathers around the billowing cuffs and hem. Next come high-heeled fringed, sequined boots. Starving, I slip a stale Pop-Tart out of the shiny sleeve, cram it in my mouth, then chase it with a gulp of Red Bull.

I exit the room. As I walk down the hall, I rub my heart-shaped locket for good luck.

The second I slip into the Penthouse, my body’s bathed in the soft glow of pink light. Long red-wine velvet couches line the walls. Swaths of emerald wallpaper. Two stripper poles and a small stage occupy a dimly lit corner. The room is warm. The harsh scent of cologne stings my nostrils.

A man’s deep voice unfurls. “I missed you, Lady.”

“I missed you too, baby.”