Chapter 5 OMG I’m a stripper now
Natalie’s POV
The doors opened, and the Devil’s Den came alive like someone had flipped a switch.
Male voices flooded the club first, followed by heavy boots striking the wooden floor, chairs scraping, laughter erupting, and enough profanity to make a sailor clutch his fucking pearls. From behind the curtain near the stage, I watched leather-clad men pour through the entrance in groups, slapping one another on the back and calling out to the bartenders as though they owned the place.
Maybe some of them did.
The rock ballad playing through the speakers reached its dramatic ending, and the pounding beat of a rap song immediately replaced it. The bass vibrated through the floor beneath my heels, traveling straight up my legs and settling in my already nauseous stomach.
“Holy shit,” I whispered.
Lola nudged me with her elbow, smiling like we were about to step onto a roller coaster instead of walk half naked in front of a room full of horny bikers.
“Relax. They’re loud, but most of them are harmless.”
“Most?”
“The other ones usually tip better.”
“That did absolutely nothing to help me.”
The music dropped lower, and a man’s voice boomed through the speakers.
“All right, gentlemen, listen the fuck up!”
A roar came from the club.
Men whistled, shouted, and pounded their fists against tables while I tightened my fingers around the edge of the curtain. My heart was beating so violently that I could feel it in my throat.
The DJ laughed into the microphone.
“Tonight is a special night here at the Devil’s Den. We’ve got a brand-new dancer joining the family, and it’s her very first night, so make sure you bastards give her a warm Devil’s Den welcome.”
The response was deafening.
A man near the stage shouted over everyone else, “What’s her name?”
The DJ dragged out the silence for several seconds.
“Freckles.”
The club erupted again.
Someone howled.
Another man yelled, “Bring her fine ass out here!”
Heat rushed from my chest all the way into my face.
“They haven’t even seen me,” I said.
“They don’t care,” Lola replied. “They heard new tits and lost their fucking minds.”
“I think I’m going to vomit.”
Lola laughed. “Remember what I told you? I did the same thing my first night.”
“Four times.”
“And I survived.”
“You threw up on a man.”
“He survived too.”
The DJ’s voice came through the speakers again.
“That’s enough of that shit. Let’s get this night started. Ladies, it’s your time to shine!”
The opening beat of “Bandz a Make Her Dance” blasted through the club.
Lola’s eyes lit up. “That’s us.”
“That’s us doing what?”
“Our walkout.”
“Our fucking what?”
She grabbed my hand before I could retreat toward the stairs.
“All of us walk across the stage like we’re models. Twirl, wave, blow kisses, shake a little ass. It’s basically showing the men what’s on the menu tonight.”
“I’m a human being, Lola. I’m not the fucking chicken special.”
“Tonight you’re the chicken special with freckles.”
My stomach rolled again.
Lola released me long enough to dig through the purse hanging on a hook. She pulled out a small wrapped candy and shoved it into my palm.
“What is this?”
“Ginger lozenge. It helps with nausea. Suck on it before you decorate somebody’s boots.”
I quickly unwrapped it and put it into my mouth. The strong ginger flavor burned my tongue, but I nodded gratefully.
“Thank you.”
“Don’t get emotional. I stole it from Marge.”
The other dancers had already started walking onto the stage. One after another, they emerged from behind the curtain, strutting beneath the lights while the men shouted their names.
Maria went out ahead of us wearing black leather straps that somehow qualified as an outfit. She walked slowly down the runway with one hand resting on her hip, then turned at the end and dropped into a low squat before running both hands over her thighs.
The crowd went fucking insane.
She glanced over her shoulder at me as she straightened, wearing a smug smile that said, That’s how it’s done, bitch.
“I can’t do that,” I told Lola.
“You have knees, don’t you?”
“I would like to keep them.”
“Then don’t squat as low.”
The dancer ahead of us disappeared onto the main floor, leaving Lola and me alone behind the curtain.
Lola squeezed my hand.
“Come on, Freckles.”
My shoes refused to move.
“Lola.”
“You’re going to be fine.”
“I’m wearing nipple stickers in front of fifty strangers.”
“There are closer to eighty now.”
“Why the fuck would you tell me that?”
“Because lying ruins friendships.”
She pulled.
I stumbled through the curtain behind her.
The stage lights hit me so hard that I couldn’t see anything except blinding white and purple spots. The music was louder out there, the bass slamming against my chest while men shouted from every direction.
For one horrifying second, I forgot how to walk.
Then my eyes adjusted.
The club was packed.
Nearly every table had been claimed, and the bar was lined with men ordering drinks. Marge hadn’t been exaggerating when she called the Devil’s Den a biker hangout. Almost every man in the building wore a leather vest covered in patches. Some had club names stretched across their backs, others wore patches announcing ranks, chapters, cities, and enough threatening slogans to make me wonder how many bodies were buried in the desert.
There were some white guys scattered throughout the crowd, but most of the men appeared Hispanic, with dark hair, tanned skin, and ink covering their arms and necks.
Several looked young.
Others looked old enough to have been committing felonies before I was born.
Every damn one of them was staring at me.
My mouth went dry around the ginger lozenge.
Lola kept hold of my hand as we walked down the runway. She waved to a table on the left, blew a kiss toward the bar, then lifted our joined hands over my head and twirled me.
The movement caught me off guard. I spun beneath her arm, nearly tangled my ankle, and somehow managed to stay upright.
Before I could recover, Lola slapped my bare ass.
The sharp smack echoed beneath the music.
I yelped and jumped.
The men lost their goddamn minds.
Bills flew onto the runway. Ones fluttered around my feet, followed by a five and what looked like a twenty.
I stared down at the money.
Lola leaned close enough for me to hear her over the music. “Shake it, bitch.”
“That’s all it takes?”
“Men are simple creatures.”
I turned toward the crowd and gave my hips a hesitant shake.
More money landed on the stage.
My embarrassment collided with disbelief.
I had spent hours wondering whether I could survive this, whether the men would laugh, whether I would humiliate myself so badly Marge would throw me out before midnight.
Apparently, all I needed to do was shake my ass twice and avoid falling.
Lola dragged me to the very end of the runway. She spun around, bent forward, and shook her ass so fast I was surprised it didn’t detach from her body.
I attempted something similar.
The men shouted their approval, which probably meant they were either extremely drunk or their standards were buried somewhere beneath the floorboards.
A man seated near the end of the stage lifted a folded bill between two fingers.
“Come get it, Freckles!”
My first instinct was to run.
My second was to tell him to shove it up his ass.
Then I remembered I needed food, a bus ticket, a new life, and enough money to stay invisible until I figured out what the hell came next.
I forced a smile and walked toward him.
The man was probably in his mid-thirties, with a shaved head and thick black beard. A patch on his leather vest read ROAD CAPTAIN.
He watched me approach with obvious appreciation, but he didn’t reach for me. He waited until I stopped in front of him, then extended the bill.
I hesitated before leaning down and taking it from his fingers.
“Welcome to the Den, sweetheart,” he said.
“Thanks.”
He grinned. “You’re gonna do just fine.”
The bill was a twenty.
Twenty dollars for walking across the stage and letting Lola assault my ass.
Maybe stripping wasn’t a legitimate career plan, but it suddenly seemed less impossible than it had twenty minutes ago.
Lola took my hand again, and we continued around the stage. More men offered bills. Some tucked them beneath my garter after I nodded my permission. One man attempted to slide his hand higher on my thigh, and I caught his wrist before he made it another inch.
“Don’t,” I warned.
His eyebrows rose.
The fear inside me burned away beneath a sudden burst of rage. For four years, Daniel had touched me whenever and however he wanted. He had grabbed my arms, my waist, my face, and my fucking throat while daring me to object.
I wasn’t doing that shit anymore.
The man’s eyes dropped to where my hand was locked around his wrist.
Then he smiled.
“My mistake.”
He pulled away without argument and held up both hands.
A security guard standing nearby watched until I gave him a small nod. Only then did he turn his attention back toward the crowd.
I released a slow breath.
Lola leaned close. “You handled that perfectly.”
“I wanted to break his fingers.”
“That works too, but Marge prefers we start with verbal warnings.”
When the walkout ended, we stepped off the stage and joined the other dancers moving through the club.
The first hour passed in a blur of smoke, music, and conversations that made me question the future of the human race.
A man named Eddie spent ten minutes explaining that his wife allowed him to visit strip clubs as long as he didn’t get lap dances.
He asked me for a lap dance before finishing the sentence.
Another man insisted he could guess my real name by staring into my eyes. His guesses included Jessica, Brittany, Amber, and, for some reason, Gertrude.
“Do I look like a Gertrude?” I asked.
“You look like whatever you want to look like, baby.”
“That was the worst recovery I’ve ever heard.”
He gave me five dollars anyway.
Lola moved through the room like she belonged to every corner of it. She laughed loudly, flirted shamelessly, and somehow convinced men to hand her money without doing much more than touching their shoulders and telling them they looked handsome.
Maria worked differently.
She was sharp, calculated, and territorial. The moment one of her regulars entered, her entire personality transformed. She became soft and seductive, sliding into his lap while whispering into his ear. The second he looked toward another dancer, her smile turned hard enough to cut glass.
I caught her watching me several times.
Each time, I smiled sweetly.
Each time, she looked like she wanted to drown me in the ice bin.
Marge remained behind the bar, pouring drinks and keeping track of everything happening in the club. Nothing escaped her. When a customer got too loud, she sent security over before anyone called for help. When one of the dancers came downstairs crying, Marge abandoned the register long enough to pull her into the back hallway.
She might have looked like someone’s chain-smoking aunt, but everyone in the Devil’s Den listened when she spoke.
A little after eight, Lola dragged me into the kitchenette and shoved half a turkey sandwich into my hands.
“Eat.”
“I’m working.”
“You’re going to pass out.”
“I’m fine.”
“Your lips are the same color as your pasties.”
I looked down at my chest. “That’s unsettlingly specific.”
“Eat the fucking sandwich.”
I ate.
It was the greatest turkey sandwich ever created.
By nine, my feet felt as though someone had driven nails through them. I had made nearly a hundred dollars from the walkout, tips, and awkward flirting, but I had also learned that smiling for hours made my face hurt in places I hadn’t known contained muscles.
I was standing near the bar when the DJ approached me.
He was tall and skinny, with long dreadlocks tied behind his head and sunglasses covering his eyes despite the fact we were inside a dark building.
“You’re up in ten, Freckles.”
My stomach clenched.
“Up where?”
He pointed toward the stage.
“For your solo set.”
“I thought the group walk was my set.”
“That was the introduction.”
“That was plenty.”
He laughed. “Pick a song.”
“I don’t know any stripper songs.”
“They’re regular songs. You just take your clothes off while they play.”
“I’m barely wearing clothes now.”
“Then your job is almost done.”
He walked away before I could argue.
Lola appeared beside me carrying two shot glasses full of something bright blue.
“I’m only allowed one drink,” I reminded her.
“These aren’t for you.”
She threw back both shots one after the other.
“Then why did you bring them over here?”
“Emotional support.”
“For you?”
“Watching new girls dance is stressful.”
“You’re such an asshole.”
She grinned. “What song did you pick?”
“I didn’t.”
“Let the DJ choose. He’s good at matching music to dancers.”
“He’s known me for four hours.”
“He knows your ass. That’s enough.”
Maria passed behind us and snorted.
“Hope he chooses something slow. Wouldn’t want the new girl breaking her fucking neck.”
I turned toward her. “Worried I might land on one of your regulars?”
Lola made a choking sound.
Maria’s eyes narrowed, but one corner of her mouth lifted.
“Maybe you’ve got a little backbone after all, Freckles.”
“I brought it with me.”
“Bring rhythm next time.”
She walked away before I could respond.
I faced Lola. “I hate her.”
“You’re going to be best friends.”
“I’d rather lick the pole before you cleaned it.”
“Give it a week.”
The DJ announced the dancer currently onstage was finishing her final song.
My hands started shaking again.
Lola noticed and took my shoulders.
“Look at me.”
“I can’t fucking do this.”
“Yes, you can.”
“I barely made it through the walkout.”
“You made almost a hundred dollars.”
“Because you hit me.”
“I can hit you again if it helps.”
“Please don’t.”
Her expression softened. “Listen to me. You’re not walking onto that stage for them. You’re doing it for you. For whatever brought you here, whatever you’re trying to escape, whatever future you’re trying to build. Those men are nothing but wallets with erections.”
“That might be the least inspirational speech in history.”
“Did it work?”
“A little.”
“Then get your fine ass up there.”
The dancer onstage collected her bills and disappeared behind the curtain.
The DJ lowered the music.
“Gentlemen, I hope you’re ready, because our newest girl is about to make her Devil’s Den debut. Show some love for the sweet little thing you’ve been waiting for all night. Give it up for Freckles!”
The crowd roared.
I stepped through the curtain before I could change my mind.
A rap song began pounding through the speakers, slower than the one from the walkout but heavy enough that I could follow the beat.
I walked toward the pole.
Every fucking eye in the building followed me.
My heart hammered as I wrapped one hand around the chrome and attempted the movement Lola had taught me. I stepped around it slowly, rolling my hips while keeping my gaze on the crowd.
Whistles erupted.
I turned too quickly and nearly collided with the pole, but I recovered by dropping to my knees as though I had intended to do it.
The men shouted louder.
Recovery is sexy.
Maybe Lola hadn’t been making that part up.
I crawled toward the edge of the stage, trying not to think about how ridiculous I probably looked. Bills landed in front of me. A man held out a ten, and I leaned forward to take it with my teeth because I had seen one of the other dancers do it.
The club exploded.
Confidence flickered to life inside me.
It was tiny and probably fueled by hysteria, but it was there.
I rose carefully, walked back toward the pole, and attempted a turn. My grip slipped slightly, causing me to spin farther than expected, but the movement looked smooth enough that several men stood from their chairs.
Money began covering the stage.
Ones.
Fives.
Twenties.
I moved toward the runway again, running my hands over my hips while trying to remember every instruction Lola had given me.
Eye contact.
Confidence.
Lie.
I looked toward the men seated closest to the stage.
That was when I saw him.
He sat directly in front of the end of the runway, one arm resting across the back of the chair beside him. Unlike the men surrounding him, he wasn’t shouting, waving money, or fighting for my attention.
He was simply watching me.
He was tall even while seated, with broad shoulders stretching beneath a black leather vest. His skin was deeply tanned, his dark hair cut short, and black ink covered the muscular arm exposed beneath his shirt sleeve.
Two patches stood out on the front of his vest.
PREZ.
TORRES.
My eyes lifted to his face.
One of his eyes was brown.
The other was a piercing shade of blue.
Forgetting where I was, I stared.
Fascinating.
His expression remained unreadable, but his mismatched eyes moved over me with an intensity that made my skin tighten.
It wasn’t the same look the other men gave me.
Their lust was loud, sloppy, and obvious.
His was controlled.
That somehow made it worse.
Or better.
I hadn’t decided.
A man beside him approached the stage and tucked a twenty beneath my garter. Then another followed with several ones. Hands reached toward me, but nobody crossed the boundary I set. Men slid bills beneath the garter, beneath the strap near my hip, and carefully against the edge of my costume while I continued moving.
Through all of it, Torres stayed seated.
He never looked away.
The song reached its end, and the music faded.
The crowd cheered while I stood beneath the flashing lights, breathing hard and attempting to process the fact that I had survived.
Then I bolted.
I gathered as much money as I could, nearly tripped while climbing off the stage, and hurried through the back hallway toward the dressing room.
My hands were still full of bills when I dropped into the vanity chair.
“Holy fucking shit.”
My entire body trembled.
My legs.
My hands.
Even my teeth felt as though they were vibrating.
I had done it.
I had crawled around half naked in front of a room full of strange men, and nobody had laughed. Nobody had thrown anything except money. Nobody had called me pathetic or useless or told me I looked disgusting.
For the first time in years, I had exposed myself without Daniel’s voice tearing me apart.
I had survived.
Lola burst into the dressing room seconds later.
“You fucking killed it!”
“I almost hugged the pole with my face.”
“But you didn’t.”
“I dropped to my knees because I lost my balance.”
“They thought it was choreography.”
“I took money with my teeth.”
“That was hot as fuck.”
“I think I pulled something in my ass.”
“That means you did it right.”
She wrapped both arms around me, squeezing until I laughed.
“You made bank, Freckles.”
I looked down at the pile of money covering my lap and the floor around my heels.
“How much do you think this is?”
“We’ll count it after your shift. You need a drink.”
“I’m allowed one.”
“And you fucking earned it.”
We went downstairs, where Marge made me a Jack and Coke over ice without asking what I wanted.
She slid it across the bar.
“You did good.”
“Did you see me almost die?”
“I’ve seen women knock themselves unconscious with their own tits. You were fine.”
“That happened?”
“Twice.”
I took a long drink, letting the whiskey burn down my throat.
Lola leaned against the bar beside me.
“I told you she’d be good.”
“You also told her she looked like a sexy woodland creature,” Marge said.
“She does.”
I took another sip and glanced toward the stage area.
Torres’s chair was empty.
“Who was the man sitting at the end of the runway?” I asked. “Tall, tan, leather vest, one brown eye and one blue eye.”
Lola went completely still.
Her smile disappeared.
Even Marge’s attention shifted toward me.
Lola slowly lowered her voice.
“Max Torres.”
The name meant nothing to me, but the way she said it made the back of my neck prickle.
“He had a Prez patch.”
“No shit.” Lola leaned closer. “He’s the president of the Sons of Doom.”
“The motorcycle club?”
“The outlaw motorcycle club,” she corrected. “And he owns the Devil’s Den.”
I looked toward the empty chair again.
“He didn’t look that scary.”
Lola grabbed my wrist.
“I’m serious, Natalie.”
It was the first time she had used my real name since we met.
“He’s the fucking devil reincarnated,” she continued. “Torres doesn’t forgive people, he doesn’t forget shit, and he doesn’t give second chances. Whatever you do, don’t get on his bad side.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“And don’t fuck with him.”
“I’m definitely not planning to do that.”
“Good. Keep it that way. Your best bet is staying as far away from Max Torres as humanly possible.”
A deep voice came from behind us.
“That right, Lola?”
Every muscle in her body locked.
I slowly turned on my stool.
Max Torres stood at the end of the bar, those mismatched eyes fixed directly on me.
Too fucking late.
