BOOK 1: PRIVATE DANCER

HANNAH

I strutted around the stage, shaking my ass and gyrating my hips.

Like I did every night.

It was hot under the bright lights.

Like it was every night.

They yelled at me to show them my tits.

Like they did every night.

I released my bra, tossing it in the crowd before playing with my tits.

Like I did every night.

They yelled at me to show them my pussy.

Like they did every night.

I ground against the stripper pole before slipping off my panties, bending over to give them a nice view.

Like I did every night.

They threw bills on the stage.

Like they did every night.

***

I scrubbed the makeup from my face, blocking out the chatter in the dressing room.

Unlike most of the girls who worked at The Go Down Club, I wasn’t into the party scene. I had no idea how they had the energy to go out clubbing after dancing for four hours.

At thirty, I was one of the older strippers. I was strictly a stage dancer. No lap dances or private backroom blow jobs. My boss knew that was a deal breaker.

According to the perverted old bastard, with my combination of my sweet innocent face, luscious fun bags, and big booty, I could bring in the dough without leaving the stage.

“Girls!” Barry yelled. “Quiet!”

A hush fell over the room as everyone turned to stare at the boss.

Barry was probably in his late fifties, and he still had a full head of curly black hair, long sideburns, and an enormous beer belly that hung over his pants.

I should probably mention that I didn’t work at an upscale gentlemen’s club. The Go Down Clubwasn’t the seediest joint in Vancouver, but it was probably in the top ten.

“Lola, Diamond, Thumper,” he barked. “My office. Now.”

I tightened my robe and followed the other girls across the hall.

My boss’s office was disgusting. A dirty, smoke-filled hovel with overflowing ashtrays and posters of naked women.

Why did he need those? He owned a strip club. If he had a hankering to look at some tits, all he had to do was go into his club and he’d get the live show.

I hung back by the door, not wanting to venture any further inside than necessary.

If he didn’t hurry up, I’d miss my train. I worked six to ten. The last train pulled out at eleven. That didn’t leave me much time for unexpected meetings.

“Reefer’s drummer was in tonight,” he announced, leaning back in his chair, grinning like the money-hungry creep he was.

Reefer was a legendary rock star who happened to be from Vancouver. Everybody loved him. I was probably the only woman in North America who didn’t fantasize about the guy. He didn’t do it for me.

Reefer was old, for one thing. The guy was forty-something. He put the sex and drugs in “sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll.”

People seemed to overlook the fact that he’d been in drug rehab more than once and hosted wild backstage parties that included orgies with groupies.

“I gave him a lap dance,” Lola bragged.

“I know you did, sweetheart,” Barry drawled. “And you did such a good job, he wants to hire ya for a private party.”

“Really?” she squeaked.

“Yup,” he said, nodding his head. “He wants three dancers for a party on Reefer’s yacht next Saturday night.”

Diamond screamed—literally screamed—at the top of her lungs.

“Fuck, Diamond,” Barry barked. “Settle down.”

“I’m out,” I said. “I don’t want any part of that scene.”

“He’s paying two grand, sweetheart,” he announced with a smug grin.

“Each?” I gasped, my brain already making a list of things I could spend that on.

“Minus my cut, of course.”

“How much are you taking?” Lola asked.

“A grand from each of you. But don’t forget, that’s a grand plus tips, ladies.”

“How long is the shift?” I asked.

“Six hours. But you get breaks. Small stage. You won’t all be dancing at the same time.”

“Are we providing other services?” Diamond asked, holding up crossed fingers.

“If they request it, you’ll do it.”

“I’m out,” I declared.

“Relax, Thumper,” he said, shaking his head. “You know, if you’d consider the extras, you’d bring in a lot more tips.”

“No, thanks.”

“Whatever, doll. I’ll make sure your contract clearly states your limits.”

I really needed the extra cash. We were behind on our bills. Cleo was hoping to go to camp that summer, but it wasn’t free.

And I had to get her there and make sure she had decent clothes. The ferry ride to Vancouver Island was pricey. Then there was the three-hour bus ride, also not free.

And I had to take the night off, which would put a huge dent in my cash flow.

“You in, Thumper?”

“Yeah.” My shoulders sagged as I headed back to the dressing room and let out a defeated sigh.

***

“C’mon, Hannah,” Alexis begged. “I promise, I won’t breathe a word to anyone.”

“No.”

“Why?” Her high-pitched whine pierced my eardrums, triggering a dull ache in my brain that was gonna escalate to a migraine if she didn’t stop pestering me.

“Because I signed an NDA.”

“I’m your sister. You can trust me.”

“Yeah, right,” I laughed. “You can’t keep a secret.”

“What if I need to reach you? Like, if there’s some sort of emergency with Cleo?”

“Call the club. Barry can get in touch with me.”

“Fine,” she huffed before stomping down the hall to her room.

Alexis was immature for twenty-four. She was still in her partying phase, clubbing every night and coming home drunk, and not always alone.

I told her to stop bringing strange men into our apartment, but my request fell on deaf ears.

She’d managed to finish beauty school, landing a job at a swanky salon in Yaletown. But if she kept going in hung over, she was going to get fired.

I pushed myself up from the table, cringing when I heard the loud music blasting from her room.

The door at the end of the hall opened slowly.

“Lexi’s mad.”

“She’ll get over it, Cleo.”

“Why is she mad?”

“She didn’t get her own way.”

“Oh.”

I followed her into her room, my eyes going immediately to the posters covering the walls. My autistic sister was not immune to the Reefer spell.

Cleo was obsessed with him. She memorized the lines to all of his songs. If she knew I had a dancing gig on his private yacht, she’d lose her shit.

Reefer wasn’t ugly. He had these mesmerizing blue eyes. The media dubbed them “panty-dropping”eyes to go with his “panty-melting”smile.

According to the tabloids, Reefer didn’t have to work too hard to get women to sleep with him.

“Why are you staring at Miles?”

“What?”

“You were staring at Miles.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“You were, too, Hannah.”

“Was not.”

“I’m gonna marry Miles,” she sighed, running her fingers over his face.

“Maybe one day,” I said, knowing better than to argue with her.

“Cupcakes with mint chocolate filling.”

“What?”

“Mrs. Patterson brought me one.”

“That was nice of her.”

“She doesn’t approve.”

“Of what?”

“You take your clothes off for money.”

“I need to start dinner, Cleo.”

“Koala bears look cute but they can be mean.”

“I’ve heard that.”

“You shouldn’t keep secrets from Lexi.”

“You shouldn’t eavesdrop.”

“I wish I could meet Reefer.”

I wish I didn’t have to strip for him and his bandmates and friends. But that’s the hand I was dealt.

Six hours on his yacht, and I could breathe again.

We’d be caught up on our bills, and maybe we could go out for a nice dinner. Cleo could go to camp and enjoy a week surrounded by her peers in the great outdoors.