Page 33 of Only for Love

CHAPTER TWELVE

Emma

“Two minutes, Ginger.”

Shit, shoot, shit. The reflection in the mirror isn’t doing me any favors tonight. But there isn’t time to fix what can’t be changed. My hair is sprayed into place, and my boobs are squeezed to look like they are way bigger than they are.

“Ginger!”

God, I hate Wednesday nights. The only thing that can save tonight is… glitter, which I hate. Grabbing the can, I shake it up, close my eyes, and spray down.

My music thumps from above. No way was that two minutes. I have no time to wait for my shimmer to dry. Cursing, I shuffle in shoes that want to kill me and head up the narrow stairs. The higher I climb, the heavier the smoke stinks. My eyes burn, threatening the barely dry fake eyelashes I just glued in place.

“Ginger Raine!” The announcer’s baritone still booms through the crappy sound system, making what has to be one of the stupidest stripper names in history echo around me.

“Ta da. I’m here.” I wave to Bruno and take in the place.

Packed, even on a weeknight. But it always is. They come to see me. I’m the stupid marquis name. If there ever was a career high point that was completely humiliating, I had that nailed.

This is what I do well. I sell the idea of sex. Of want. Of having an untouchable fantasy.

Because I am one.

Ginger Raine is my only salvation. My biggest secret. She’s the once-a-week moneymaker that lets me live my life somewhat comfortably. I’ve got a future waiting for me, and it has nothing to do with the G-string I’m about to show.

“Work it.” Bruno nods as I step onto stage.

The lights are hot. The floor is mine. A hundred eyes are on me, and my smile molds onto my face. It’s not even that I’m gorgeous; it’s that my smile says so much to the men watching the stage. I learned early on a blink of an eye or a sway of my hips does wicked good things for my wallet.

If it weren’t for that, I’d be home and wouldn’t hate Wednesdays.

A crescendo of pop beats and bass hits crawl from the speakers. This is work. That’s all it is as I mentally drift to another place where I’m dancing for one person, the only boy I ever loved, the only one who ever had me.

What if we just have tonight?The tremble of a memory runs down my spine. Years ago, his hands curled over my naked shoulders, sliding down my bare back, and tonight I drop my head and roll my body remembering how I cried for more. Slowly, my hips sway, remembering the only thing that makes me good at my job.

My eyes close. It’s just Grayson and me, all night long. This is my torture every Wednesday. It is also my moneymaker. Bruno says he’s never seen a girl bring so much tension to the stage. Guess that’s a compliment.

I’m numb to this room. When I drop to my knees, my body lies. It begs each man to touch me, to run their paycheck over my curves. I do it all without seeing a soul.

I’m crawling, gyrating, moaning, and the cash falls. Dollars rain down, and lost in a dream of a man I can never have again, I roll in my take. Fingers scratch my skin as they shove ones into my G-string. My knees slide under the carpet of money as I arch my back. Their bills stick to my skin. Only when the music ends does my autopilot trance shut down enough to sway my near-naked ass away.

The night has only just begun. It’d make me sick if I hadn’t developed have-no-choice thick skin.

“Give Ginger Raine a few minutes, and she’ll be on the floor. If you have a dream, she’ll make it come true.” The announcer promises the same thing every week to the crowd at the Emerald Gentleman’s Club.

I’m their biggest cock tease. No matter what Bruno tries to bait me with and what the announcer promises, I dance, and that’s it. Any release that men want can be found on their own.

Bruno is stage left, holding a clove cigarette in his thick fingers. He nods to the beat of the music. “Good girl.”

He rocks a Rastafarian look, but it’s coupled somehow with a body builder’s physique. His bouncers are all similar versions of him. How there’s a contingent of Rasta bodybuilders available in the semi-metropolitan area outside Summerland, Virginia, I have no idea. But he’s found them.

“I try.” But I can’t keep trying if I don’t head downstairs and change.

“Emma.” He’s blocking my path to the stairs. Tonight, his thick dreads are tied into some ginormous manly bunch at the back of his head, making him seem every bit the dread-head owner. He’s sexy. He knows it. His powerful body is in a tailored suit that hangs perfectly on his bulky muscles. Between that and owning this place, his ego is as big as his personality.

Almost every girl to walk onto his stage has been with him, not because he makes it a requirement but because they can’t stay away. Until they never come back. It’s not a job for the stable, even if Emerald’s Gentlemen Club is about as high class as exists around here. It’s not a profession that screams lengthy job history. My two years with Bruno are outliers, and because of that, we’ve developed a rapport. In his own way, he cares.

“Where’s your head tonight? You went deeper than normal.”

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