It’s no Shangri-La, but as far as clubs go, it’s not the worst place I’ve ever worked. The patrons pay double my nightly take for the pleasure of standing room only, and the high rollers spend more than an entire year’s rent to sit at my feet and stare up my skirt. One good night, I could pay off my student loans. One bad night? I’ll be on my ass quicker than I can down a shot and tell them to shove the job down their throats.
The Harrington is a high-class strip club, and I have to remind myself before every shift that I am high class. I am their dream girl; I am their goddess on a pedestal. I am untouchable, and I am worth every penny I bring home. I am the girl your husband tells you not to worry about and the reason your boyfriend works late every Friday and goes out with the boys on Saturday night.
The club is full of men in cheap Ghostface masks and cheesy devil costumes on Halloween. There are a dozen John Wicks running around, complete with sidearms, and the well-known businessman in front of me wears an unironic blow-up baby costume. Knowing what he wears under his suit, it doesn’t surprise me to see him in a diaper and bonnet. There are girls on every pole, at every table, and in each private room, pouring champagne and dancing for men who don’t deserve to inhale the air they breathe.
At ten, I emerge from the dressing suite to take my place on the floor, hosting scores of drunk businessmen, trust fund kids, and tech start-up billionaires. My skirt is short, tight, and see-through, highlighting the best of my assets, and my heels set me towering over every man at the table.
I can feel the heat of their eyes on me, tracing the curve of my ass with their lecherous gazes. I pour drinks for the crowd, refreshing their scotches and seven-and-sevens. Out of the darkness, a hand on the small of my back guides me around the table and into the lab of another Ghostface wannabe. He wraps his arm around my waist, holding me in place, and I know better than to fight back. He puts his masked face close to my ear, and I smell the booze on his breath. His mouth reeks of Don Julio and cigars, making my stomach clench in knots when he speaks.
“Cara Mia, where have you been my whole life? A pretty girl like you? I could make you a princess in a week flat. Sit on my lap a little longer, and we’ll work out our wedding plans.”
Before I can muster a polite protest and slip away, Claudio steps out of the shadows. He removes the masked man’s hand from around my waist and pulls me to my feet.
“There are no wedding bells in Poppy’s future, Signore. Our prettiest flower is married to this garden. Why don’t we find you someone more suitable to your tastes? Our newest blossom requires a delicate breaking process, but a man like yourself surely has a gentle hand.”
The masked man drops me like a sack of potatoes and shoos me away with a flick of his wrist. Claudio’s henchman, Mauricio, shows him around the club, and Claudio yanks me into the shadows by his side. He glares at me, venom dripping from his mouth as he prepares to rip me a new asshole.
“You know better, Poppy.”
“He grabbed me. I wasn’t going to do anything with him. He smells like my grandfather fucked a humidor.”
“And you sat down anyway. You know better. Get ready to go on soon.”
“Go on? It’s not my night to—”
“Your dance card has been punched. A private party has requested you, and who am I to deny a millionaire his pleasures?”
“A millionaire?”
“Billionaire, oligarch, mob kingpin, it’s all the same. Put on something tight, and take the stage in five.” Claudio dismisses me without another word, fixing his cuffs and collar and disappearing into the dark club.
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There’s more to the Harrington than meets the eye. Check out Tear You Apart, Book Two – Knight, with an EXCLUSIVE sneak peek.
