Chapter 1 VIP Three
The lights at Velvet Shadows were always the same…harsh, and painting everything in shades of purple and sickly pink. The atmosphere was always choked with the smell of stale beer, cheap perfume, and desperation. Bass rattled through the floorboards, vibrating up Kira Thompson’s legs as she gripped the pole and began her set.
Twenty one years old, and this was her life in a forgotten corner of Oklahoma.
The randy men craned their necks to see more of her in her almost transparent fishnet stockings and bikini, yelling with wild frenzy whenever she rolled her waist to the music or pulled off a daring routine.
Kira hated every second of it, but not the dancing itself. She was pretty good at that, and it was obvious from the way her body obeyed the rhythm perfectly…arch, dip, grind, spin.
She dropped low flawlessly, parting her thighs as she sank toward the stage floor, back bowed, and breasts pushed forward. The crowd went wild yet again and erupted into applause and whistles.
“Fuck yeah, Raven!”
“Shake that ass, baby!”
“Take it all off!”
Drunken voices cheered her on, slurred and hungry. Dollar bills rained onto the stage…ones, fives, and the occasional twenty crumpled and tossed like trash. Hands reached up desperately, wiggling fingers as they tried over and over again to touch her ankles or her calves. She stayed just out of reach, smiling the empty smile that paid the rent.
Inside her head, she was counting beats. Counting tips. Counting days until something…anything…changed.
She rose again, turning her back to the audience and sliding her hands up the pole as she lifted one leg high, hooking it around the cool metal. The bikini shot up deliberately, revealing a generous serving of her ass and giving the audience the view they paid for. More shouts. More money. More proof that her body was currency, and she was broke without it.
Kira looked across the room as she performed, scanning all the faces out of habit. Trouble usually wore the same expressions…too much drink, too much entitlement. Tonight, most of the crowd was the usual mix…truckers passing through, locals with nowhere better to be, and a few college boys trying to look tougher than they were.
Only one man didn't fall into any of these categories…The man they called Reaper.
Ezra Kane sat calmly in a shadowed booth near the back, half hidden by haze and dim light. His leather vest was open over a black shirt, and he was as relaxed as someone who just finished having a good dinner. Three of his Iron Serpents gang members were beside him, and from the untouched bottles in front of them, she knew they weren't here to to drink.
They were here for her.
Reaper’s eyes locked on hers across the room. He didn’t cheer or clap like the others, neither did he throw money. He just watched her carefully with a slow, twisted smile dancing on the corner of his mouth.
Kira was now beginning to get uncomfortable. He’d been coming around for months now, and it was always the same thing over and over again…creepy messages and weird presents sent through his boys and never requesting a private dance or uttering a word.
Ignore him, she told herself. Focus on the stage. Focus on the money…One more song. Just one more.
She rose again, trailing her hands over her own skin…slow, sensual, the way they liked it. Neck, collarbone, breasts, stomach, hips. Her eyes stayed half lidded, expression sultry, but inside her mind, she was somewhere else entirely….Planning tomorrow’s grocery list and calculating how many more nights like this until
The tempo of the music finally dropped, slower now and more heavy on the bass. Kira swayed to it, turning in a slow circleb and giving every side of the room its moment. The drunken shouts kept on coming.
“Spread those legs, sweetheart!”
“I’d eat that pussy for breakfast!”
“Marry me, Raven!”
She let the words wash over her like dirty water. They didn’t touch her. Not really. She had learnt to built walls against them.
Her gaze drifted toward the side of the stage, where Tommy leaned against the wall near the curtain. The bossy manager with his gold chain and perpetual smirk was watching her set with the greedy look he always wore when counting potential profit. He caught her eye and lifted his chin, then held up one hand and tapped his watch.
Private session.
Kira’s stomach tightened, but she didn’t break rhythm. She dipped low again, thighs trembling from the strain of the pose, back arched until her hair brushed the stage. The crowd roared in approval.
Tommy mouthed the words…VIP Three. Now.
She nodded once, then straightened for the final spin. One last slow grind against the pole, one last flash of skin under the lights, one last shower of bills.
The music finally ended.
The applause and whistles followed her as she stepped off stage, with her sweat cooling rapidly in the backstage hallway and raising goosebumps on her arms. She didn’t look back at the audience.
She didn’t look toward Reaper’s booth either.
Her eyes were fixed on Tommy as she approached, and he grinned mischievously, blocking her path with just enough force for her to stop.
“Good set, Raven. You got ’em worked up tonight.” His gaze flicked over her body, lingering too long. “Customer in VIP Three asked for you special. Paid double up front. Don’t keep him waiting.”
The suspicious look in his eyes made her uneasy. “Who is it?”
Tommy shrugged. “Does it matter? Money’s green.”
Kira sighed in frustration as she pushed her way past him and headed to VIP Three…Just another dance she told herself. Get the money, and then get out. You’ve done worse for less.
Marcus was already sprawled across the couch like he owned it when she entered. He was one of the regulars…mid thirties, heavy gut, unkempt hair, and messy beard. Tonight he was far past his usual level of drunk. His eyes were glassy, pupils blown wide, and cheeks flushed a dangerous red. There was a wet stain that darkened the front of his jeans where he’d clearly spilled something earlier and hadn’t cared enough to clean it.
He looked up as she entered, and a sloppy grin spread across his face…
