Stripped (Stripped #1)(15)
Author: Jasinda Wilder

I turn slowly, arching my back, pushing out my chest. I feel his eyes on me, and my flesh crawls.

“Unbutton a couple buttons for me.”

I come to a stop facing him and stare. “What?” It comes out as a horrified whisper.

“Your shirt. Unbutton a few of the buttons. I need to see a bit of skin.” I hesitate, and he leans forward, his eyes narrowing. “Listen, sweetheart. You’re applying for a job as an exotic dancer. This means you have to take your clothes off. We serve alcohol here, so this is a semi-nude club, which means you won’t be completely naked, but you have to be comfortable in your own skin. Okay? So either unbutton your shirt or get out.”

He’s right so I swallow hard, even if I’d rather kick him hard between his legs. I close my eyes briefly and then lift my right hand to my shirt, pinch the clear plastic button, hesitate again, and then push the button through the hole. I feel layers of innocence being ripped away as each button slips through the hole in the fabric of my shirt. I do it again, and then a third time.

This isn’t how I imagined it would feel disrobing for a man for the first time. I’m sick, and scared, and disgusted.

My cle**age is spilling out over the top of the shirt now, and hints of my black bra show. I’m breathing hard, and each breath makes my br**sts swell. Timothy’s eyes are glued to my chest. He lifts an eyebrow and flicks a finger at me, which I take to mean one more button. I do it and feel tears prick my eyes. I blink them away and keep my gaze down. A tear drips off the end of my nose and hits my big toe, quickly joined by a third. I blink hard and breathe deep and focus on keeping the wave of sobs blocked in my throat. His face twists in clear lust. I steal a glance at him from under my eyelashes, and I see him shove his hand in his pocket. He adjusts himself, and my gorge rises. I may be a virgin, but I know the basics. I know why he had to adjust himself.

I swallow it back, bitter and acidic and burning.

“Nice. Very nice. You’ve got a great body, and the air of innocence you’ve got going on will have the guys going crazy,” Timothy finally says.

He’s talking to me about me. It’s weird and disconcerting. I desperately want to button up my shirt, but I don’t. Timothy is right in that I’ll have to learn to be comfortable being stared at. And this is the least of what I’ll have to do if I get this job. I have no idea what it pays, but I have the idea that strippers get paid a lot. All I know is that I desperately need a job, and if I’m going to get naked in front of men all night, it had better be worth it.

“Plus,” Tim continues, “you’ve got that sexy southern accent. You’ll draw a hell of a crowd.”

“So do I get the job?” There’s no elation, no excitement. Only disgust mixed with horror and relief.

“You’ve got the job.”

“How…how much does it pay?”

Timothy shrugs. “It depends. I’ve got a feeling you’ll have a huge desirability factor, which works in your favor. If you do private rooms, you’ll make a killing. Here’s the way it works, basically. The club itself don’t pay you directly. You get paid in tips, and you give the club a percentage out of that. Not much, just fifteen percent, which is industry average. You do two or three song sets on stage. Most girls make anywhere between fifty and a hundred per set. If the guys like you, you could do three, four, or five sets in a night. In between sets onstage you’ll work tables, which are ten bucks each table, and guys will tip you on top of that. Then there are VIP rooms in the back, four of them. Most girls will get, like, two or three hundred per VIP room visit. You’d work three nights minimum, but we’re open seven days a week. Obviously, weekends are biggest money.” He lifts an eyebrow. “Since you’ve never done this before, I’ll tell you this. Most girls supplement what they make here in the club by doing private parties, birthdays and bachelor parties, shit like that. They don’t have to tip us out, so they keep it all.”

“What—” My voice breaks, and I have to try again. “What do you mean by doing private parties?”

Timothy laughs. “It just means you do what you do here, but for a private party. Look, you set the rules for private parties. Minimum, you do lap dances and stuff, maybe a striptease for the group.” He winks at me. “I know what you’re thinking, and it’s not like that. Unless you want to, of course. But that’s up to you. That’s got nothing to do with the club. Guys’ll ask you if you do private parties, and you need to decide if you do or not.”

I have to take a few deep breaths. “Okay. Okay. I can do this.”

Timothy laughs again, a low, amused chuckle. “You convincing me or yourself?”

“Both, I guess,” I admit.

“Why don’t you come in tomorrow evening, maybe seven or eight, and we’ll work up a dance for you. My best dancer, Candy, will be here, and she’ll help you. Give you some pointers and shit.” He stands up, tosses back the whiskey or whatever it is, and then extends his hand toward me, and we shake. “Welcome to Exotic Nights, Grey. Oh, and you may want a stage name.”

He walks me out, and in the act of reaching past me to open the door, his hand grazes my bottom. It’s not accidental, because I feel his hand squeeze along the way. I scoot forward out of his reach and turn back to glare at him. He just waves at me.

I officially have a job. The relief is tempered by my nauseating horror at what the job is. I haven’t done anything yet, which means it’s not too late to back out. I can just not show up and hope something else comes up.

I button my shirt back up as soon as I’m out of the club and make my way back to the bus stop. Once I hit campus, I’m more aware than ever of guys checking me out as I head back to the dorm. I’m not a girl who won’t admit she’s pretty. I’m used to getting looks and glances wherever I go; I just tune them out. But now…after enduring Timothy’s lusty perusal and crotch adjusting, I don’t want men’s eyes on me yet every pair I pass seems to be looking at me. My jeans feel tighter than they did when I put them on this morning, and suddenly my blouse is more revealing than I’d imagined. I wish I had a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie on now.

I make it to my dorm room and into my bed on the top bunk before I let myself cry. The tears come in a hot flood along with embarrassment, guilt, horror, nausea, and doubt. Daddy was right. He said I’d fall into a sinful life, and I have. I just got a job as a stripper. I’m not going to glorify it by calling it “exotic dancer.”