SUMMARY: Make money, fill the empty hole. That's Bella's game as an exotic dancer at the Sassy Apple. On her own since she ran away from home at 18, the last thing she expects is to see anyone from her past. That is, Bella's old lab partner stumbles into her club and is made privy to all her dirty little secrets.
ALSO, I'm gonna insert a TRIGGER WARNING here. This story deals with intense themes of drug abuse/addiction, depression, prostitution, sexual assault, etc. So please, please tread with caution. I know, as someone who's had person encounters with certain natures of these things, that I would appreciate a warning. So, here is your warning. Nothing but love to anyone who may need to take a step back from this story for any of these reasons. If you need access to support, here is the number for the Distress Center (24 hour crisis line) - Canada: 403-266-4357 | US: 1-877-968-8454
(Some of you may remember this story from way, way back. I've done a lot more character/plot development, have made some changes to the storyline, and have decided to just do-over the entire story as a whole. Hope you enjoy the upgrade!)
xoxo , wintersunshine
…
Lola meows at me from where I lean over my vanity table, snorting cocaine.
"Go away," I say, sliding her across the bathroom floor with my foot, away from me, "It's my birthday and I have the night off. I can do four lines if I want to."
Finishing, I fall back onto the vanity stool and stare into my own reflection as the high hits. I close my eyes, reveling in it, the euphoria, the take-me-away feeling. I don't feel a thing but good, good, good.
Happy birthday, Bella.
.
"Bambi! You're on in five." James pokes his head into the dressing room where I'm finishing up my makeup. God, my face feels heavy today.
I look over at him. "Got it." I ignore the way his eyes rake down my body, where I'm leaning in toward the mirror. He glances down the hall and then steps into the room, shutting the door behind him. This I can't ignore.
Every muscle in my body stiffens as he approaches.
"I have to say," I hear him murmur and now I see him step up behind me, in the mirror. "You look mighty sexy tonight, Bambi."
I straighten before his crotch makes 'accidental' contact with my ass and turn to face him. The black two piece I wear-made to be revealing-suddenly makes me feel exposed, in a bad way.
"Thank you, James. Now, if you'll excuse-" His hands go to my hips as I try to move past him, and my breath spikes. "James…"
"Bambi," he whispers back, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.
"James, I have to-" I begin to struggle and his fingers dig in deeper.
"Stop-moving," he demands, low in his throat, threatening, and I do. "Look at me." I look up at him, towering over me. "Do I make you feel scared?"
"No," I say, frozen with panic.
His fingers go under my chin, tilt my face up so that I'm forced to look into his eyes. "It's not every night you get a compliment from your manager," he murmurs.
"I know that."
"So when I pay you one, you accept it. Got it?"
"Got it," I'm whispering, and I hate how shaky my voice sounds. "Thank you, James."It takes every effort of mine not to pull away when he reaches up to stroke my face.
"You're very welcome…"
He keeps me here for far too long. I know if I move, I'll regret it, but I'm going to miss my mark-
"Bambi?" There's a knock on the door, and abruptly James is stepping back, away from me. Alice pokes her head in and says, "Aren't you up in two? Jazz is almost finished." Her eyes flash across the room to James, where he's now standing by the closet. I adjust my top.
"Yeah," I say to her, avoiding the way she takes the two of us in, piecing together the closed door…
Please, Alice, don't get the wrong picture here…
"I'm coming." I slip my right foot back into my shoe, from where it slipped out when I stumbled under James's dominance-not having been strapped in yet-and stride across the room toward my friend. She looks up at me, something in her cat-like eyes letting me know she doesn't expect what I've feared, and I take in a breath as I squeeze past her, out the door, into the hallway.
My heels are muffled by the white carpet as I stride toward the stage door and take my mark. Jazz heads off the stage, under the glow of the neon green lights-the lights that make the name of our club so famous.
Vic steps out onto the stage now, in a tight, curve-accentuating black dress. She comments on Jazz's performance, all the performances before then.
"And now, for the performance you've all been waiting for," she murmurs, playing to the energy in Sassy Apple's audience. I feel the high come over me, in anticipation of the performance, crowding out James's advances from before. I batt my hair away from my face as Vic announces me and the lights go black.
The excited rumble from the male audience drowns out the clack of my heels as I make my way across the dark stage to the pole. I grip the vertical bar and wait for the cue. As the white lights flare, nearly blinding, so the music starts up, and I begin my dance. I move my body with the beat of the music, making sure my profile is tilted just right.
As I strut around the pole, the music picks up its beat. The men start to cheer as I hook my leg around the pole and swing, showing off my ass for the audience, bending and twisting, tossing my long hair.
It's easy, once you get yourself into it, to just climb up on that pole and throw your body out there. I do it now as I wrap my thighs around the pole, climbing up to where I need to be. The men holler as I extend into an archer. This is the part where I want to close my eyes and just lose myself in the music. But I don't. I stay focused, alert, poised. Allegra box splits, rotate around the pole, down into brass bridge, sit up, grab the pole, drop into floor splits. Do some floor work, twist those legs, show off that ass, arch the back sitting up, back on the pole. Small pirouette, sit, slinky, iron x. Transition to sexy flexy, to closed inside leg hang. Back down to floor splits, on the hands and knees, stick that ass out, flick the hair, move to the music. Use the pole as support off the ground, move into crouch, stand with legs straight, head down, stick that ass out. Flip hair up as the music ends.
The crowd explodes, and I shoot a small smile their way and move off stage.
Easy as that.
.
I won't deny it-I'm pretty fucked up. I like to think of it as something I was born with-dealt with all of my life-instead of something I brought upon myself. I had bad luck all throughout my childhood. It's not something I dwell on. Or, at least, I try not to.
I'm aware of it now, as I do a line at the end of the vanity table after my performance. I ignore the looks the girls pass me as I wipe underneath my nose.
Screw you, I want to shout,You all do the same thing. Stop staring at me like I'm some sort of freak show.
I angle my shoulders away, stare into the mirror, fluff my hair back up. I try to ignore the way my hands shake. So maybe I shouldn't have taken that second hit. But after my encounter with James I'm on edge, and I can't help but give in to the voice that croons inside my head.
Just one more line, Bells, it won't hurt ya…
"Bambi, you in here?" I hear Vic shout from the door. I lean out from the vanity table, sticking out a hand so she sees me. "You've got a client in room two!" she informs me without looking up, and then she's gone. I nod, grab the matching leather garter belt from beside my makeup bag, slipping it up snugly around my thigh.
"That was fast," Alice comments, sidling up beside me. She pulls her makeup bag toward her, rifling through it for her liquid liner no doubt.
I shrug. "What can I say?" I comment, shooting myself a sexy pout in the mirror,
"They like what I do."
With that I stride past all the rest of the girls, back into the green-light-washed hallway, hooking a right instead of a left, headed toward the private rooms. I never think too much about the client I'm about to dance for. Usually they're middle-aged, balding, sweaty and sporting a decent ponch. It's a Saturday night so I could be looking at tons of different options: businessman looking for some action to spice up his night (good tips), a bachelor about to be married (decent), one of the regulars (whom I pretend is new every time I see them), or a variety of partyers who got a little too intoxicated both by alcohol and the sight of a near-naked woman on the stage that they were willing to fork over five hundred bucks for an hour alone with me.
I stop outside the door. I spot Em situated against the wall a couple yards down. He looks over at me, nods. I nod back. Emmett McCarthy is like the big brother I never had growing up. He's always looking out for me. He's been working in the kitchen since he was fourteen or something and never left. He mostly bounces now, but occasionally tends the bar. I feel safe either way. I know he'll look after me.
With that in mind, I slip into the room and find the typical middle-aged man, red-faced, with a glass of champagne in his hand, lounging on the semi-circular leather couch.
The walls in here are white, as well as the carpet. The light shines blue, casting a ghostly pall over both my skin and his. On a platform in the middle of the room stands a pole, just gleaming as it waits for me.
"Good evening," I say to him, putting on my best exotic dancer voice and smile as I stride over to him. I ease myself into the cool leather cushions next to him, taking up a position that looks both innocent and irresistible at the same time. "Welcome to Sassy Apple. I'm pleased you came to visit me tonight. What's your name?"
"Bill," the man in front of me croaks, taking a nervous sip of his champagne, though he tries to hide it.
New at this, Bill?
"Are you familiar with our private shows here at Sassy Apple, Bill?" I ask him, edging a heel onto the cliff of the couch.
"Pretty familiar," he confirms, nodding.
"Good. Then I don't have to remind you that we are being monitored and you are not to touch me unless I invite it, correct?"
He nods again.
There's a quiet moment, and then he says, "You were amazing out there."
I grin, trying to keep my seductive persona up. "Thank you, Bill. I always try my best."
"I bet you do," he agrees, finally warming up.
"Would you like me to dance for you again, Bill? I'd be happy to do that…"
I ignore the way his eyes roam down my body, drinking me in like a man who's been trapped in the dessert without water for days. I glance at his left hand. No ring. Either he isn't married, or he's hiding the evidence and looking for an outlet. I don't care either way.
"It's your hour," I continue, "I'm happy to remove any or all of my clothing for you," I add.
"I bet you have beautiful tits, Bambi," he tells me, not even taking his eyes off of my chest.
I laugh, playing along as I stand, my fingers going to the front clasp on the bikini top. "Would you like to see them, Bill?" My tone is teasing, light.
He leans forward, slipping a twenty into my belt. "That would be lovely, Bambi," he says.
"Thank you, Bill," I say, and pop the clasp on the top, tossing it onto the floor at my feet. I let him ogle for a few seconds. Recognition lights in his eyes when I inch closer and he slips another twenty into my belt. I smile. "A dance?"
He nods, clearing his throat. "A dance," he confirms.
I move over to the pole, finding a rhythm, ignoring the shake in my hands, closing my eyes to zone into the high coursing through my veins. I dance for this man, earning over two hundred in tips by the end of our hour. When he leaves, I slip back into my top, fall back onto the couch and tilt my head back to stare up at the mirrored ceiling. I see a disgusting woman staring back at me, the innocence in her big brown eyes so fake it makes me want to puke.