Chapter 2 Fresh Meat

Natalie’s POV

The Devil’s Den was even worse than I’d imagined.

I stood in the gravel parking lot with my duffel bag digging into my shoulder and stared at the large dilapidated wood building in front of me.

The crooked sign hanging over the entrance had a half-naked red devil painted across it, complete with horns, a pointed tail, and a pitchfork.

Classy.

I pulled the folded job flyer from the pocket of my jeans and read it for what had to be the hundredth time.

DANCERS WANTED. CASH PAID NIGHTLY. NO EXPERIENCE NECESSARY. APPLY IN PERSON AT THE DEVIL’S DEN.

No experience necessary.

Those three words were the only reason I’d made it this far without turning around.

I had spent my entire life believing there were certain things I would never have to do. I would never have to worry about where my next meal came from. I would never sleep somewhere without checking the hotel’s reviews first. I would never carry everything I owned in a duffel bag purchased from a bus station gift shop.

And I sure as hell would never become a stripper.

Apparently, life had a twisted sense of humor.

My stomach rolled as I shoved the flyer back into my pocket. I wanted to cry, throw up, and run back toward the highway, although I had nowhere else to go and barely enough money left to feed myself for another few days.

I tightened my grip on the duffel strap.

Standing in a parking lot feeling sorry for myself wasn’t going to keep me alive. Daniel had already taken my parents, my home, and every sense of safety I’d ever had. I refused to let him take away my ability to survive too.

Even if surviving meant shaking my ass for strangers.

“Come on, Natalie,” I whispered. “You can do this.”

The name still felt strange in my mouth.

Natalie Blake was the woman printed on the driver’s license hidden inside my purse. She was twenty-five, unattached, and starting over in New Mexico. She didn’t have a fiancé hunting her or a family waiting to bury her beside her parents.

I climbed the porch steps before I could talk myself out of it and reached for the heavy wooden door. The second it opened, a wall of cigarette smoke, stale beer, cheap perfume, and something suspiciously close to urine rushed over me.

I froze with one foot inside.

“Oh, God."

The words slipped out before I could stop them.

The place was enormous, though the low lighting made it seem smaller. Red and purple bulbs glowed along the walls while strobe lights flashed near a raised stage off to my right.

Two silver poles stretched from the floor to the ceiling, and a petite Hispanic woman wearing tiny black shorts and a matching bra was spinning upside down on one of them. She moved with the kind of strength and control I would have expected from a professional gymnast.

I couldn’t even climb the rope in high school gym class.

I was so screwed.

The club was mostly empty, which made sense considering it wasn’t even late afternoon yet.

The bar took up most of the opposite wall. A woman stood behind the counter, sorting through a stack of receipts.

She looked to be somewhere in her fifties and was built like she could pick up a grown man and throw him through a window. Her bright maroon hair was curled and pinned on top of her head, huge gold hoops hung from her ears, and the black spaghetti-strap shirt she wore showed off a colorful collection of tattoos covering both arms.

She reminded me of the women who ran the prison blocks in every crime movie I’d ever watched.

That probably wasn’t a fair assumption, but considering the day I was having, fairness had temporarily left the building.

I crossed the room and lowered myself onto one of the barstools. The vinyl seat squeaked beneath me, drawing the woman’s attention away from her receipts.

Her brown eyes traveled from my face to my duffel bag, lingering on the death grip I had on the strap.

“You lost, sweetheart?” she asked.

Her raspy voice suggested she had either smoked for thirty years or spent most of her life yelling over loud music.

“Um, no, ma’am. I’m here about a job.”

I dug the flyer out again and placed it on the bar.

She looked at the paper before raising her eyes to me. “You’re here for a dancing job?”

The disbelief in her voice made the little confidence I’d managed to scrape together shrivel up and die.

“That’s what the flyer says.”

“I know what the flyer says. I’m the one who printed the damn thing.” She leaned against the counter and studied me again. “Have you ever danced before?”

I glanced toward the stage just as the woman released the pole, dropped several feet, and caught herself with one leg before reaching the floor.

“Does dancing alone in my bedroom count?”

The corner of the woman’s mouth twitched. “Depends. Were you naked?”

“No.”

“Then no.”

“Right.” I twisted my fingers together beneath the bar. “I know the advertisement says dancer, but is there any chance you need a waitress? Or maybe another bartender? I’m a fast learner, and I’m really good with people.”

That last part might have been an exaggeration. I had been good with people when those people were members of the Charleston social circle I’d grown up around. I knew how to smile through a boring charity dinner and pretend to care about someone’s newest vacation home.

Those skills probably wouldn’t help much in a place where the floor smelled like someone had peed on it.

The woman’s expression softened slightly. “Unfortunately, we’re fully staffed everywhere except the stage. We need dancers, especially with the rally coming up.”

“What rally?”

“You really are new around here.”

“I arrived this morning.”

“Figured as much.” She tapped one long fingernail against the flyer. “There aren’t many jobs around here unless you have a car and don’t mind driving an hour each way. If you’re willing to take some advice from an old woman, this is probably your best bet. The money can be good, the girls look out for each other, and we don’t let customers get away with treating them like shit.”

I glanced around the club again.

The woman onstage was now upright, practicing a slower routine while the man in the booth changed the music. She looked confident beneath the flashing lights, as though she hadn’t spent twenty minutes outside convincing herself to walk through the door.

“I don’t know if I can do what she’s doing.”

The older woman followed my gaze. “That’s Lola. She’s been dancing for eight years and teaches pole classes twice a week. Nobody expects you to hang upside down on your first day.”

“That’s comforting.”

“We’ll settle for you staying upright.”

A nervous laugh escaped me before I could stop it.

The woman waited patiently, giving me time to decide without pushing. She probably knew I didn’t have many choices. The duffel bag and wrinkled bus clothes made that obvious enough.

I thought about my empty bank account, the cash hidden inside my purse, and the motel prices I had seen near the bus station. Even the cheapest room would drain what little money I had left within days.

“I’ll take the job.”

The words tasted bitter, but I managed to say them without crying.

The woman nodded as though she’d known what my answer would be. “Sounds like a plan. The boys around here will appreciate some fresh meat.”

My eyes widened.

“Relax. Most of them don’t bite.” Her smile grew. “Unless you ask nicely.”

Heat rushed into my cheeks.

“Oh, Lord,” she muttered. “With that Southern accent, those freckles, and all that blushing, these boys are going to eat you alive.”

“I’m starting to think I should reconsider.”

“You’ll get used to them.” She reached beneath the counter and pulled out a clipboard with several papers attached. “Fill this out. I’ll need to make a copy of your driver’s license too.”

My heartbeat stumbled.

I stared at the application.

Name. Date of birth. Current address. Emergency contact.

Four simple questions that suddenly felt like an interrogation.

I picked up the pen and wrote Natalie Blake across the first line. My hand shook slightly, forcing me to slow down so the letters would remain legible. The date of birth matched the one on my new identification. I left the current address blank and hesitated over the emergency contact section before drawing a line through it.

There wasn’t anyone left to call.

The woman noticed but didn’t ask about it. For that alone, I liked her a little more.

I finished the application and removed the driver’s license from my purse. She held it beside the paperwork, comparing the photograph to my face before using her phone to take a picture of it.

“South Carolina,” she said. “That explains the accent.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She handed the license back. “You don’t have to call me ma’am. It makes me feel like I’m somebody’s grandmother.”

“Sorry.”

“I’m Marge. Most people call me Big Marge, although anybody under two hundred pounds saying it to my face had better be ready to run.”

“I’ll stick with Marge.”

“Smart girl.” She extended her hand across the bar. “I manage the club and serve as house mom. That means I handle scheduling, costumes, drunk customers, emotional breakdowns, broken heels, and any girl who thinks snorting something in the bathroom is a good career decision.”

I shook her hand. Her grip was warm and surprisingly gentle.

“The dressing room is behind the stage,” she continued. “There’s a bathroom and a shower back there. Lockers are first come, first served unless you put your own lock on one. Lola can help you find something to wear tonight, but once you start making money, you’ll need to buy your own outfits.”

“Tonight?”

Marge raised an eyebrow. “You need money, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Then tonight.”

My stomach performed another slow, nauseating roll.

She pulled the application closer and started reading through it. “The rules are simple. You tip out the house, bartender, DJ, and security at the end of every shift. No fucking the customers, no leaving with them, and no fighting with the other dancers. We provide one free meal during your shift and all the soda, water, or coffee you want. You’re allowed one alcoholic drink while you’re working. One. I don’t care if some idiot offers you five hundred dollars to do shots with him.”

“One drink,” I repeated.

“If we catch you with anything harder than weed, you’re gone. I don’t give second chances when it comes to drugs.”

“I don’t use drugs.”

“Good. One less headache for me.” She pointed toward a broad-shouldered man stacking beer cases near a hallway. “Security keeps customers from getting too handsy. If anybody touches you somewhere you didn’t give them permission to touch, you step away and signal one of the guys. Don’t slap a customer unless you absolutely have to. It’s hell getting blood out of the carpet.”

I couldn’t tell if she was joking.

Judging by her expression, she wasn’t.

“I agree to the rules.”

“Good.” Marge set the clipboard aside. “You can start filling out the rest of the paperwork after I show you around.”

“There’s one more problem.”

Her eyebrows rose.

“I don’t have anywhere to stay.”

Saying it aloud made the reality of my situation crash down around me again. I had spent the previous night on a bus and most of the morning wandering around town, pretending I wasn’t homeless. Once the sun went down, I would have nowhere to sleep and no safe place to keep my belongings.

Marge studied me for a moment before releasing a heavy sigh.

“I should’ve known from the bag.”

“I can pay for a room once I start earning money. I just need somewhere inexpensive for a few nights.”

“You’re in luck. The club keeps five rooms rented at the Silver Dollar next door for girls who need them. One of the dancers moved in with her boyfriend last week, so there’s an empty room.”

Relief struck so quickly that my eyes burned.

“I can stay there?”

“As long as you’re working here and you don’t destroy the place. It isn’t the Hilton, which I’m guessing is more your usual speed, but the room is clean, the sheets are fresh, and, most importantly, it doesn’t have bedbugs.”

My skin immediately began to itch.

Marge caught me rubbing my arm and laughed. “I shouldn’t have mentioned the bedbugs.”

“No, you really shouldn’t have.”

She bent down and rummaged through several drawers behind the bar, muttering under her breath as she moved pens, receipts, bottle openers, and what appeared to be a pair of pink fuzzy handcuffs.

After nearly a minute, she straightened with a brass key attached to a faded plastic tag.

“Found it.”

She came out from behind the bar and cupped her hands around her mouth.

“Chris! I’ll be back in a few minutes. I’m showing the new girl where she’ll be staying.”

The man at the DJ booth lifted one hand without looking away from his equipment.

Marge grabbed a pack of cigarettes from beside the register and motioned toward the entrance. “Come on, freckles. Let’s get you settled before Lola starts turning you into a stripper.”