Chapter 4 Nipple Stickers and Five Inch Heels

Natalie’s POV

The alarm went off at six, ripping me out of a sleep so deep that for several disorienting seconds, I had no idea where the hell I was.

I shot upright beneath the hideous orange-and-brown comforter, my heart pounding while my eyes darted around the unfamiliar room. The bolted-down lamp. The faded curtains. The television that apparently had anger issues. The screaming air conditioner beneath the window.

New Mexico.

The Silver Dollar.

The Devil’s Den.

My first night as a stripper.

“Fuck my life.”

I grabbed my phone and silenced the alarm before it could scream at me again. I had thirty minutes to get across the parking lot, and Marge had made it abundantly clear that arriving at six thirty-one would be treated like some kind of federal offense.

There wasn’t time to stand beneath the shower and have another emotional breakdown, so I splashed cold water over my face, brushed my teeth, and dragged a comb through my hair. I pulled it into a high ponytail, threw on a gray T-shirt and a pair of jean shorts, then shoved my feet into my tennis shoes.

The woman staring back at me from the bathroom mirror looked like she had slept for twelve minutes after being dragged behind a moving vehicle.

Her eyes were swollen.

Her skin was pale.

The cut near her hairline was still visible.

She also looked absolutely fucking terrified.

“You’ve got this,” I told my reflection.

My reflection appeared unconvinced.

“You survived Daniel. You survived three buses, a truck driver who smelled like boiled cabbage, and a strip club bathroom that probably has its own strain of hepatitis. You can survive one night.”

My stomach growled so loudly that I glanced toward the bathroom door as though someone else might have heard it.

“I know,” I muttered. “I’m starving too.”

The handful of crackers I had eaten before falling asleep had done absolutely nothing except remind my body that food existed. I prayed to every god, saint, angel, and supernatural being accepting desperate requests that a meal came with the arrangement Marge had offered me.

Surely they couldn’t expect women to shake their asses all night on an empty stomach.

Then again, men had been expecting women to accomplish impossible shit while hungry, exhausted, and uncomfortable since the beginning of time.

I checked the clock again.

6:17 p.m.

“Shit.”

I grabbed my room key and phone, shoved both into my pockets, and hurried outside. The heat slapped me across the face the moment I stepped onto the walkway. The temperature had dropped slightly with the sinking sun, but the concrete still radiated enough heat to bake bread.

The Devil’s Den waited across the parking lot, looking even more intimidating now that several motorcycles had appeared near the wraparound porch. Men in leather vests stood beside them smoking and talking, their laughter carrying through the thick evening air.

I kept my gaze straight ahead.

None of them paid much attention to me, but that didn’t stop every muscle in my body from tightening as I passed. One of the motorcycles started with a violent roar, and I nearly jumped out of my skin.

By the time I reached the club, my palms were already sweating.

6:25 p.m.

Five minutes early.

Marge would probably erect a monument in my honor.

I pulled open the front door and stepped inside. The club looked different than it had earlier. The overhead lights had been turned off, leaving the room washed in deep reds and purples from the lights surrounding the stage. Music played through the speakers while bartenders stocked bottles and filled ice bins behind the bar.

The smell hadn’t improved.

Cigarette smoke, stale alcohol, cheap perfume, and something fried hung in the air.

The fried part almost made me moan.

Marge stood behind the bar counting bills into a register. The moment she saw me, a genuine grin crossed her face.

“Well, look at you arriving early. I was preparing to send a search party across the parking lot.”

“You told me six thirty, and you looked like the kind of woman who might beat me with a liquor bottle if I was late.”

“I wouldn’t waste good liquor.”

“That’s reassuring.”

She came around the end of the bar and wrapped one arm around my shoulders, pulling me against her side. The gesture surprised me enough that I stiffened before forcing myself to relax.

Marge either didn’t notice or was polite enough to pretend she hadn’t.

“Come on, freckles. Time to meet the circus.”

“I thought this was hell.”

“Same management.”

She guided me past the stage toward a narrow staircase hidden behind a dark curtain. I hadn’t noticed it earlier, but then again, I had been busy questioning every decision I had ever made.

The stairs were steep enough to qualify as a ladder. By the time we reached the top, I was breathing harder than I wanted to admit.

The second floor opened into an enormous dressing room that stretched nearly the entire length of the building. Several vanity tables lined the walls, each surrounded by round lightbulbs. Makeup palettes, hairspray, curling irons, hair extensions, jewelry, perfume bottles, shoes, costumes, and piles of clothing were scattered over every available surface.

A rack in the corner held enough sequins, feathers, leather, and sheer fabric to supply an extremely slutty Broadway production.

Cigarette smoke clung to the air despite the NO SMOKING sign hanging crookedly beside the door. An overflowing ashtray sat directly beneath it.

“Does anyone here follow rules?” I asked.

Marge snorted. “We follow the important ones.”

“Which rules are those?”

“Don’t stab anyone inside the building, don’t fuck customers in the champagne room, and don’t steal from the register.”

“Inside the building?”

“Parking lot’s private property. What happens out there depends on how much paperwork I feel like doing.”

Before I could decide whether she was joking, a high-pitched squeal came from the other side of the room.

A woman shot out of her chair and hurried toward us with both arms spread wide.

She appeared to be around my age, maybe twenty-five, with deeply tanned skin, dyed-blonde hair tumbling past her shoulders, and bright green eyes surrounded by enough glitter to be visible from space. A tiny cropped shirt barely contained the perkiest breasts I had ever seen in my life.

“That’s Lola,” Marge whispered beside my ear.

Lola threw her arms around me before I could brace myself.

“Oh my God, you’re adorable!”

I stood trapped inside the embrace, staring over her shoulder at Marge.

Marge grinned and made no effort to save me.

Lola released me and held me at arm’s length, her eyes moving over my face, clothes, hair, and shoes with the enthusiasm of someone inspecting a new puppy.

“Look at your freckles! They’re so fucking cute. Marge told me about them, but she didn’t say you looked like a sexy little woodland creature.”

“A woodland creature?”

“A hot one.”

“That didn’t help.”

“It helped me.” She hooked her arm through mine. “Let’s get you set up, girlfriend.”

Lola dragged me toward an empty vanity near the end of the row. A laminated piece of pink paper had been taped above the mirror with FRECKLES written across it in thick black letters surrounded by tiny hearts.

I stopped walking.

“Really?”

Marge shrugged. “Everyone needs a stripper name, Freckles.”

“It sounds like the name of a cartoon dog.”

Lola gasped. “No, it doesn’t. It sounds sweet, innocent, and secretly filthy. Men eat that shit up.”

“I’m starting to hate men more with every passing minute.”

“Good,” Marge said. “That’ll keep you from falling in love with one.”

Her words hit closer to home than she could have known, but I covered the reaction by dropping into the chair.

Marge leaned one hip against the vanity and pointed toward me with the cigarette she hadn’t lit yet.

“While Lola goes over what you need tonight, here are the basic rules. You get one drink per shift. One. Not three because some asshole bought them for you, and not six because your feet hurt and you’ve decided tequila is a personality trait.”

Lola nodded solemnly. “I learned that rule personally.”

“You learn every rule personally,” Marge replied. “Your meal is free. Kitchen opens at seven, but there are snacks in the kitchenette if you’re hungry now.”

My head snapped toward her. “There’s food?”

Lola placed a hand over her heart. “Oh, honey. You looked more excited about that than you did about meeting me.”

“I haven’t eaten anything except crackers since yesterday.”

Marge’s mouth tightened, but she continued before I could see too much sympathy in her expression.

“Then get something in your stomach. There are sandwiches and chips in the refrigerator. Do not tell customers your real name, where you live, where you’re from, or anything else they can use to track you down. If anyone touches you without permission, threatens you, corners you, or makes you feel unsafe, yell for security.”

“What should I yell?”

“Security would probably be useful.”

“I didn’t know whether there was a special code word.”

“This isn’t a department store.”

“Actually,” Lola said, “sometimes I yell, ‘Get this motherfucker off me.’ That works too.”

Marge pointed her cigarette at Lola. “Because you never stop screaming long enough to remember anyone’s name.”

“Still effective.”

“At the end of the night, you tip out the house. Lola will explain how much goes to the DJ, bartenders, and security. No drugs in the dressing room. I don’t care what you do on your own time, but if I catch you snorting something off my vanity tables, your ass is gone.”

“I don’t do drugs.”

“Good. Keep it that way. The money looks easy enough to make people stupid.”

Marge straightened and glanced toward the staircase. “I have to get the bar ready. Lola, take good care of our girl.”

“I always do.”

“That’s the part that worries me.”

As Marge walked away, the small amount of confidence I had borrowed from her disappeared with her. My nerves returned so fast that my fingers began tapping against my thighs.

Women started filtering into the dressing room as the clock moved closer to opening. Some ignored me completely. Others stared openly while speaking to each other in low voices.

One redhead looked me up and down with enough hostility to peel my skin off.

A tall woman with dark curls whispered something into her ear, and they both laughed.

They looked like vultures circling roadkill.

Apparently, I was the roadkill.

“Don’t pay attention to them,” Lola said, dropping an enormous shopping bag onto the vanity. “New girls make everybody twitchy.”

“Why?”

“Because some of these bitches think every pair of tits entering the building is coming for their regulars.”

I glanced down at my chest. “My tits have no idea what they’re doing.”

“Neither do most men. You’ll be fine.”

She reached into the shopping bag and pulled out a package of glittery pink circles.

“What are those?”

“Pasties.”

She ripped open the package and handed them to me.

I stared at the adhesive circles. “They look like stickers.”

“They are stickers. For your nipples.”

I looked from the pasties to Lola.

“You’re telling me my nipples are getting arts and crafts tonight?”

Lola burst out laughing. “New Mexico law says we can’t go completely nude while alcohol is being served. You keep your thong on, and these little sparkly bastards cover the important bits. Everything else can come out and say hello.”

My heart stumbled.

“Everything else?”

“Boobs, babe.”

“I know what you meant.”

“You looked confused.”

“I’m not confused. I’m having a private medical emergency.”

Lola’s amusement faded slightly when she saw my hands beginning to shake.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” I whispered.

The room continued moving around us. Hair dryers blew. Makeup brushes tapped against counters. Women laughed, argued, and shouted for someone to return a missing tube of mascara.

Lola placed her hand over mine.

The bubbly excitement in her face softened into something real.

“We’ve all been there,” she said. “I threw up four times my first night.”

“Four?”

“The last time was on a customer.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“He paid extra.”

I stared at her.

“I’m serious. Said he was into humiliation.”

“That makes me feel worse somehow.”

“The point is, nobody walks in here knowing how to do this. The women acting like they came out of the womb wearing six-inch heels are full of shit. Everyone was scared. Everyone felt awkward. Everyone thought the whole club was staring at every stretch mark, scar, freckle, and jiggly piece of skin.”

“Did that feeling go away?”

“Eventually. Then you realize most men are just excited a woman is voluntarily standing near them.”

A laugh escaped me before I could stop it.

“There she is.” Lola squeezed my hand. “You can do this. You don’t have to be the best dancer in the building tonight. You only have to make it through the shift without falling off the stage or punching a customer.”

“That feels like an incredibly low standard.”

“It’s your first night. We believe in achievable goals.”

She reached into the bag again and produced a hot-pink one-piece outfit that looked as though someone had constructed it using dental floss and a prayer.

I held it up between two fingers.

“What the fuck is this?”

“Your costume.”

“This isn’t a costume. This is three triangles connected by string.”

“It’s a high-rise thong bodysuit.”

“It looks like something a gynecologist designed.”

“It’s going to make your ass look phenomenal.”

“It’s going to make my ass visible from Arizona.”

“That’s the spirit.”

The bottom rose high over the hips while two narrow strips of fabric climbed toward the top. The pieces intended to cover my breasts appeared offensively small, connecting behind the neck in a halter style.

Lola added a matching garter to the pile.

“This goes around your thigh. Customers can slide bills beneath it.”

“Are they allowed to touch my leg?”

“Only if you allow it. You control how close they get. Anybody forgets that, security reminds them.”

Then she pulled out the shoes.

Five-inch clear heels with thick platforms and straps around the ankles.

I stared at them with genuine fear.

“Those are not shoes. Those are attempted murder.”

“They’re beginner heels.”

“Beginner for whom? A giraffe?”

“You said you can walk in heels.”

“My mother taught me to walk in normal heels for weddings and charity dinners. She did not prepare me for transparent stilts.”

Lola pressed them into my hands. “Your mama prepared you better than mine did. Mine taught me how to hot-wire a Honda and tell whether cocaine had been cut with baby powder.”

I blinked.

“She sounds interesting.”

“She’s in prison.”

“That tracks.”

Lola pointed toward a row of changing stalls near the back wall.

“Go put everything on. Pasties first, costume second, shoes last. Do not stick the pasties over lotion unless you want one flying into somebody’s drink later.”

I carried the clothes into the changing stall and closed the curtain behind me.

For several seconds, I stood there staring at the outfit.

My breathing started to quicken again.

This was real.

I was actually doing this.

I pulled off my T-shirt and shorts, then removed my bra with hands that refused to stop trembling. The pasties took longer than they should have because I placed the first one crooked and had to peel it off.

“Fuck,” I hissed as the adhesive yanked at my skin.

“You okay in there?” Lola called.

“I just removed half my nipple.”

“Beauty is pain!”

“Whoever said that should be punched in the throat.”

I finally managed to position both pasties before stepping into the pink outfit. Getting the straps arranged required more engineering than I expected, but once everything was in place, the fabric technically covered what it was meant to cover.

Barely.

I fastened the garter around my upper thigh and slipped my feet into the clear heels. Standing required one hand against the wall.

The changing stall had a full-length mirror.

I almost didn’t look.

When I finally forced myself to turn, the woman staring back at me didn’t look anything like Rina Blakely.

She didn’t look like the daughter who had attended country-club luncheons with her mother. She didn’t look like the woman who had spent four years on Daniel’s arm while everyone congratulated her on what a perfect life she had.

She looked dangerous.

Exposed.

Terrified.

The bright pink fabric made my skin appear even paler, and my freckles stood out across my chest and shoulders. The high-cut sides made my legs look longer, while the heels pushed my breasts forward and lifted my ass.

I had never been ashamed of my body.

Daniel had tried to make me ashamed of it. He criticized every outfit, every pound, every inch of skin other men might see. He liked me covered because he had believed my body belonged to him.

Now I was preparing to show it to a room full of strangers for cash.

The irony made me want to laugh and scream at the same time.

“This body is mine,” I whispered to the mirror.

My voice shook, but I forced myself to say it again.

“It’s fucking mine.”

I opened the curtain and stepped into the dressing room.

Lola turned toward me.

Her mouth dropped open.

“Damn, Freckles. You look hot as fuck.”

Heat rushed into my face. “I look naked.”

“You look expensive.”

“I feel like dental floss is cutting me in half.”

“You’ll stop noticing after the first hour.”

“That does not sound medically possible.”

Lola circled me, adjusting one of the straps and tugging the garter higher on my thigh. She then sat me down in front of the vanity and before I even knew what happened she had curled my hair and slapped enough makeup and glitter on me I barely even recognized myself.

Two of the women who had been staring earlier approached. The redhead stopped beside Lola while the dark-haired woman hung slightly behind her.

Up close, the redhead was beautiful, with sharp cheekbones, dramatic black eyeliner, and a silver hoop through one nostril. She looked me over slowly, making sure I felt every second of her inspection.

“Don’t even think about stealing our regulars, bitch,” she said, pointing one long red fingernail at my face. “You got that?”

My fear immediately transformed into irritation.

I had spent years being ordered around by Daniel. I wasn’t interested in replacing him with some half-naked woman who smelled like coconut body spray.

“Do the regulars come with ownership papers?” I asked.

Her eyes narrowed.

Lola stepped between us.

“Back the fuck up, Maria.”

“I’m warning the new girl.”

“No, you’re being an insecure asshole before she’s even stepped onto the stage.”

Maria raised both hands in mock surrender, although the smile spreading across her face contained no humor.

“Fine. Let her learn the hard way.”

The woman beside her laughed.

Maria turned away, but not before looking over her shoulder at me.

“Cute freckles.”

The way she said it made the words sound like a threat.

When they were gone, I released the breath trapped inside my chest.

“Is she always like that?”

“She’s worse when she likes you.”

“She doesn’t like me.”

“Then you’re getting off easy.”

Lola grabbed my wrist and pulled me toward the stairs.

“Don’t worry about them. Maria gets twitchy whenever she thinks someone might take one of her regulars. Competition can get tight, especially on weekends.”

“I don’t want anyone’s regulars. I don’t even want strangers.”

“Once they start handing you twenties, you’ll become more flexible.”

“That sentence sounded dirtier than you intended.”

“I intended every bit of it.”

We descended the staircase and stepped onto the main floor. The club remained closed, but the music had been turned louder while the staff finished preparing.

A song in Spanish played through the speakers, the heavy beat vibrating through the stage beneath my feet. I thought it was reggaeton, although I didn’t know enough about the genre to be sure.

Lola climbed onto the stage without using her hands.

I stared up at her.

“How the fuck did you do that?”

“Thigh muscles and trauma. Get up here.”

I gripped the edge and attempted to climb gracefully. One clear heel slid against the side, forcing me to scramble onto the stage on my knees.

Lola covered her mouth.

“Don’t laugh.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re shaking.”

“I’m holding in encouragement.”

“Fuck you.”

“That’s the confidence we need.”

She walked me toward one of the chrome poles and wrapped my hand around it.

“First rule of pole dancing: the pole is your friend.”

“The pole feels sticky.”

“That means somebody forgot to clean it.”

I jerked my hand away.

Lola burst out laughing and sprayed the metal with cleaner before wiping it down.

“You’re a terrible teacher.”

“I’m an entertaining teacher. There’s a difference.”

For the next twenty minutes, she showed me how to move around the pole without looking as though I was circling it while searching for an exit. She demonstrated how to slide one hand higher, step around with my outside leg, roll my hips, and turn my body toward the crowd.

Lola moved as though she had been born on the stage. Every step flowed into the next, her body following the music without hesitation.

I moved like a drunk baby deer.

“Stop thinking so hard,” she called from the edge of the stage. “Feel the beat.”

“I feel the beat. The beat and I are not getting along.”

“Move your hips.”

“I am moving them.”

“You’re moving your shoulders.”

“My body is panicking!”

She walked over and placed both hands on my hips.

“Loosen up.”

“I am wearing five-inch shoes and three strips of pink fabric in front of a woman who vomited on a customer. Loosening up is not currently available.”

“You’ve got a gorgeous body. Use it.”

“That sounds simple when you say it.”

“It is simple. Men don’t care if you’re professionally trained. They want eye contact, confidence, and the illusion that you might actually be interested in them.”

“So lying.”

“Exactly. You’re learning.”

Lola stepped off the stage and told me to try again on my own.

The song changed to something slower with a heavy bass line. I took a deep breath and wrapped my right hand around the pole.

My mother had forced me into dance lessons when I was eight. Ballet had lasted three weeks before I kicked another child during a turn and knocked over the instructor. Ballroom dancing had gone slightly better, but only because my father had slipped me candy every time I made it through a lesson without complaining.

None of those experiences had prepared me to slide my ass around a metal pole while wearing nipple stickers.

I stepped around it, attempting the hip roll Lola had shown me.

“Better!” she shouted.

I turned too quickly, nearly tripped over my own foot, and caught myself against the pole.

“Almost dying was not part of the move,” I snapped.

“No, but you recovered. Recovery is sexy.”

“I think you’re making this shit up.”

“Most of stripping is making shit up.”

I tried again.

This time, I moved more slowly. I let the rhythm guide my steps, sliding one hand along the pole while rolling my hips. When I reached the front of the stage, I walked down the narrow runway and attempted to imitate the turn Lola had demonstrated.

My ankle wobbled.

My arms flew outward.

I managed to remain upright, although it was entirely possible I had pulled something in my ass.

Lola clapped loudly.

“Yes, bitch!”

“That was horrible.”

“That was your first time. Horrible is expected.”

“Thank you for the support.”

“You’re welcome.”

The music cut off.

A deep male voice came through the speakers.

“Ten minutes until doors open.”

My stomach dropped so hard I could have sworn it landed on the stage beneath me.

Around the room, bartenders finished wiping the counters. Security guards moved toward the entrance. The dancers began making their way downstairs in glitter, heels, and outfits that left even less to the imagination than mine.

Lola climbed back onto the stage and stood beside me.

“Ready?”

“No.”

“Good answer.”

The first lock on the front door clicked open.

Then the second.

Male voices carried from the porch as the security guard reached for the handle.

I tightened my grip around the pole and stared toward the entrance.

In less than ten minutes, strangers would be watching me.

Judging me.

Wanting things from me.

Expecting me to smile while I stood half naked beneath the flashing lights and pretended I wasn’t one bad memory away from falling apart.

Lola bumped her hip against mine.

“Breathe, Freckles.”

The doors opened.

I swallowed the scream rising in my throat and forced my shoulders back.

This was going to be a complete fucking shit show.