Author's Note:
Hello, again! It's been two years since I've posted a story, and I'd like to thank calypso tchaka for extending their kindness towards me when I basically fell off the face of the earth. It is because of them that I have decided to post this story.
Heads up...
I have 6 chapters already completed and have planned up to chapter 22. I will post the first 6 chapters biweekly and will try to do the same with the rest. If anything changes, I will let you know.
Also...
The first and second chapters are a little bit of a drag (and VERY long), ngl. This is because they are setting up the rest of the story, so please be patient.
Oh, and I'm a little rusty. Forgive me lol.
IMPORTANT:
THIS IS RATE ***M*** FOR A REASON. ADULT THEMES, SUCH AS...
-ABUSE
-SEX
-STRIPPING/PROSTITUTION
-DRUGS
-ALCOHOL
-MURDER
-MAFIA
-IMPLIED RAPE
...WILL BE USED IN THIS STORY. IF YOU DO NOT WISH TO READ ANYTHING THAT HAS TO DO WITH ANY OF THOSE THINGS, DO NOT READ THIS.
I WILL TRY TO BE AS SENSITIVE AS I CAN TO MY AUDIENCE. I UNDERSTAND THAT SOME OF THESE TOPICS ARE DISTURBING; THEY ARE SUPPOSED TO BE.
JUST REMEMBER: IF IT STAYS WITH YOU, THAT MEANS I DID MY JOB.
Chapter One
Men.
From her place on stage, she can somewhat see the outlines of dozens of men; lounging on the plush crimson sofas surrounding her, gathered around the outer ring of tables, sitting on stools at the bar across from her. Some enjoy a cigar, others an intimate conversation with one of the girls working the floor, but all of their eyes remain glued to her. All of them are drooling at the sight of her. All of them are waiting for her next move.
She can't see the men on the second floor, though. No matter how much she twists and turns, the VIP section remains hidden from view, living in the shadows to protect the high profilers that reside there.
On any other night, she wouldn't have cared to even try to catch a glimpse of the men up there, but Cana told her that one had an interest in her – a 'hot' one, no less, and Cana doesn't call everyone 'hot' – and she was curious, to say the least. It wasn't everyday a VIP took interest in her. She can only hope her secret admirer likes the view and that their pockets are big.
The last notes of the sensual song start to ring throughout the room, and the sultry blonde slowly slithers down the metallic pole with her head to the ground and feet to the ceiling. Running her hands one last time up (technically down) her body, she then plants her hands firmly on the ground in order to push her legs off of the pole, resulting in her being bent in a way that shows off her ample lower half to the masses. She then finds herself on her knees, panting with her plump, ruby lips parted, and hands gripping the cold pole before her while her ass remains up in the air, facing the crowded room of hollering men behind her as her number finally finishes.
She wonders if her secret admirer enjoys seeing her like this; on her knees and vulnerable if he so chose to take her. But what if he's not an ass-kind-of-guy? What if he prefers breasts? Well, she better cover her bases, then. She arches her back so her perspiring breasts envelope the pole, staying in character the entire time as she swiftly stands, and pushes the loose strands of her bangs from her face.
The clacking of her platform heels against the stage resonates throughout the entire room as she crosses to the stairs, before descending them in a way that causes her breasts to bounce with every step. Only when her foot leaves the last step does her boss, watching from way up in the DJ booth, start up the music again.
Her boss, Makarov, is the owner of the club that he so cleverly named Mak's. He is a tiny, kind-hearted old man that usually rocks an orange jumpsuit and a horned hat that manages to cover his ever-growing bald spot. The employees who know him well affectionately call him, 'Gramps,' since he is something of a grandfather to the performers, but at times that line became blurred by his perverted mind. For example, just now he, too, found himself entranced by her performance, like many of the other men who watch her pass. The difference, though, is that he has a job to do (and he's basically her grandpa), while they were allowed to relish in the sight of the blonde vixen.
The blonde accentuates her hips as she walks through the club, swaying them from side to side without managing to fall in her monstrous footwear due to years of practice. She remains poised when men stuff bills into her white thong as she passes, though internally, she cheers with every Jewel as if it's the first time she danced on that pole – gods know she needs every one if she ever wants to leave him.
Upon returning to the bar where she had lent a hand at the beginning of the night, she picks back up her tray before turning to her favorite bartender, the lovely Mirajane Strauss, who immediately starts piling drinks onto her tray. "Who are these for, Mira?" She questions over the chatter and music.
"Sherry told me they're for section six, tables three and five," the white-haired beauty responds, sweat gathering along her brow as she throws a pile of napkins onto the center of the tray.
The blonde raises a brow at this, surprised that she was taking up Sherry's tables. Usually, it's the other way around; Sherry thrives on the energy of the club, and therefore is usually the last one to leave aside from their boss and, occasionally, Mirajane. She loves performing on stage (more like she loves all of the attention thrown her way) and loves flirting with the customers. She even told her once that she plans on meeting her husband at the club, which to her sounded a little odd, considering the majority of their customers were slimy old men, but Sherry continues to believe in the idea that some rich thirty-year-old will stomp onto the stage to sweep her off of her feet.
The blonde frowns; it must have been either really late or Sherry really did find her one true love, and the latter is improbable. "Sherry left already? What time is it?"
Mira pauses her mixing to glance at the red watch strapped onto her wrist (that coincidentally matches with her scarlet corset), puffing her lengthy bangs out of her cerulean eyes, "It's a little after two. Why? Have to be somewhere, Lucy?"
Lucy simply shakes her head, looking out at the rather still full club before taking up her tray with groan, "Nope. It's just going to be a long night."
'And an even longer one when I get home.'
With that, Lucy begins her trek towards section six which is located on the far right of the club. She works her way through the floor, a few whistles blown her way that she commonly returns with a wink or, at times, a short tease-filled conversation which she finds gains her tips.
Climbing a small set of stairs, she enters section six where she quickly scouts out the tables in question. One seems on the tamer side, its occupants obviously new given they're completely entranced by the females on stage, while the other seems more troublesome with what appears to be a party of twelve crammed into a booth made for six.
With a sigh, she approaches the safer one first with a massive smile painted on her face, "Hi, there," she calls sweetly, quickly getting the attention of four middle-aged men in crumpled suits like sugar water would with flies, "who ordered the martini?"
The plump, bald one that looks like he's never seen a drink in his life until today shoots his hand so high into the air he almost knocks himself out of his chair. He is quick to recover, though, and with a smile that splits his cherry face, he rumbles, "That'll be me, pretty lady. Say, where did that pink haired girl go? We didn't get to give her a tip."
Lucy feels her subconscious smirk, 'Got you,' it sings. Externally, though, Lucy shrugs innocently, making sure to touch his palm as she hands him his drink. "She just left. I guess she doesn't love you… well," she muses, batting her eyelashes and removing her hand from his to trace a finger around her breast, "at least not as much as I do."
A couple more pleasurable words later and Lucy is walking away from that table to the next, high on victory with Sherry's generous tip poking out of the sides of her feathery bra. How she loved drunk, gullible men, willing to give all their money away to a sweet smile.
She swiftly serves the rest of the drinks on her tray in a similar fashion, thankful that the seemingly assholes at her next table turned out to be far too gone to even bother being assholes. She starts to head back to the bar, weaving through the sea of horny patrons with her tray (now full of empty drinks that she gathers along the way) balanced precariously on one hand until someone gains the balls to slap her exposed ass, the sting telling her that it was sure to leave a mark.
Now, let's get one thing straight. Yes, Lucy is a stripper. Yes, her entire job is about pleasing the male sex. Yet this does not mean that they are able to touch her whenever they please. She is a performer, not a sex toy, and deserves to be respected.
Lucy freezes, clenches her free fist, and turns to sock the sucker in the jaw, only for that sucker to be her close friend, Cana – the promiscuous drunk of the club notorious for groping the other performers on the daily. Lucy instantly relaxes at the smug smirk spreading across her friend's face as the cheeky waitress takes a swig from an unloved beer bottle she finds on her serving tray.
"Cana," Lucy sighs, "what do you need?"
The busty brunette frowns in feigned thought, walking past the blonde to a table a few means away, "'What do I need', you ask?" she questions, wordlessly handing her glass to an expecting Lucy in order to pass out the drinks on her tray. The receivers of said drinks, in turn, shove a few Jewels into the brunette's lacy blue thong. Cana turns back to Lucy, "Well, it's not something that I need per say, more like some information I need to pass along." Cana stumbles closer to snatch back her beer and whisper in Lucy's ear, "Someone up there wants to talk to you."
So, her secret admirer enjoyed the show then? Lucy bites her bottom lip in an attempt to suppress her smile, "Do they now?"
"Mhm," Cana sings, bopping her hip with Lucy's, "he wants to talk to you right away." Cana wiggles her eyebrows suggestively.
Lucy smirks, "Guess I better not leave him waiting, then."
With that, Lucy leaves a chuckling Cana in favor of hurrying back to the bar where she plops her tray down on the table for Mira. "I'll be back," she promises, before rushing to the spiral stairs that lead to the VIP section. She passes a few mirrors on her way over, quickly stopping to fix herself (what? She wanted to look presentable for the guy that's been plaguing her thoughts all night), before continuing on her way.
She places one foot on the first step and stops, her subconscious from before reemerging as the voice of reason. 'What are you doing?' it asks, 'Why are you so eager to meet this guy? You don't know him – what if he's here to hurt you? Kill you?' Lucy rolls her eyes, who would want to kill her? And to do so in such a public place? She places her hand on the rail; she's just overthinking things again. She needs to stop thinking and just do it. She needs to see – not imagine – what is waiting for her upstairs, and so, she allows curiosity to get the best of her. She scrambles up the steps before she can stop herself, all of her inner worries exploding with every step, and emerges into the luscious space made for the rich and powerful… only for her to find herself all alone.
888
Lucy flies down the stairs, upset and disappointed and – more than anything – pissed. At whom? She doesn't quite know yet. If it turns out Cana's been lying to her all night, getting her all riled up about a guy that doesn't even exist, then she'll be pissed at her. But if Cana was telling the truth and the ass wad just up and left after asking to see her, then she'll be pissed at him. Gods help him when she does meet him; she has a Lucy-kick so brutal for him in store, he's going to wish he never even laid eyes on her.
She yells over her shoulder to Mirajane that she was leaving for the night while storming past the bar into the corridor for private dances. Lucy is unfazed by the moans and grunts resonating from the numerous rooms obscured by the thick, ruby curtains lining the hall, the sounds commonplace after working at Mak's for so long. She is sure to say her goodnights to the bouncers (each of whom have saved her ass at least once) standing guard outside of each room prior to entering a space labeled, 'EMPLOYEES ONLY'.
The blonde quickly finds her locker and plucks the tips from her body to make a pile on one of the shelves. She sighs in relief as she slips off her costume that consists of a matching, white bra-and-thong set with fluffy ivory feathers hot-glued on, courtesy of Cana and Mirajane trying to make her cheap buy scream desirable. The costume reminds Lucy of – ironically – an angel, but sadly for her, the angel bra digs into her ribs like a demon clawing out of Hell, so she gladly trades her work attire for flat-soled boots, a simple sable skirt, and a blue blouse (and granny panties and a comfortable withering bra). She grabs her keys, phone, and bus pass, stuffing them into her trusty bra before shoving on her jacket. She grabs the pile of money from her locker, shuts it, and walks towards the locker room's exit to the alley, counting the money she made tonight as she does.
Two hundred Jewels. She growls, aggressively shoving the wad of cash into her bra. Don't get her wrong, two hundred Jewels was a great haul – especially for a Monday – but she wasn't entirely sure if it was worth her staying until three in the morning for, considering she told him she was going to get home at one.
Lucy grumbles something along the lines of "stupid stingy men" as she gets to the bus stop near her workplace, and unceremoniously plops herself onto the bench accompanying it to wait for her ride home. She shivers, it was chillier than she anticipated. For early June, the night was unreasonably cold (she blames global warming, though some tend to differ), and is grateful that soon cold would no longer exist. Summer was upon them, with winter long forgotten. Her old enemy, ice, could no longer bruise her bum to the point she'd have to sit in the dreadful snow to relieve the pain.
She should rephrase that – it's not that Lucy hates snow, far from it, actually, as some of her best childhood memories were made in the ethereal fluff, it was just that she hates the snow in Magnolia. Northern Magnolia, to be specific, as the snow here was nowhere near the snow she remembered playing in as a child. At her old home, the snow shone bright in the light of day; so white, it was clear, and so fluffy that it could break falls from a third story. Here, though, the snow was turned black by the fumes of the cars, and the consistency was slushy – a mixture of ice and water that she didn't even trust to walk in, much less play in. It was tainted, a warped idea from her early years, much like the rest of her life since. She missed it at times, her childhood – carefree and innocent, having tea parties with her father, reading with her mother, playing hide-n-seek with an unknowing staff… those were the best years of her life.
How she wishes she didn't take them for granted.
Shaking her head from her thoughts, Lucy decides that she'll go shopping tomorrow for a light jacket… of course, only if he permits it, given she has to ask for his permission to take a shit, much less leave their apartment.
She growls – she hates him. She hates the very idea of him, so to live with him is unbearable, but she sucks it up and stays with the asshole. Why? Because she needs him… more like she needs his wallet. Bora, her boyfriend of six years, was the one paying the rent, after all. How? She doesn't know considering he doesn't even have a job, but he does, and so long as he keeps paying that bill every month, she doesn't care if he's the Devil himself – she's keeping him until she no longer needs him. That might sound a little condescending, but it's the truth, and if Lucy wants to survive, that's the only way to do so.
The world's cruel, she just has to find a way to use it to her advantage.
Lucy jumps slightly as the smooth material of dress pants rubs against her right thigh, and her eyes flicker to watch the owner of said pants sit down on the bench beside her. It's a man and be it either due to her strong spiritual connection or her kick-ass female survival instincts, she recognizes almost immediately that something about him was… off. Not necessarily 'lunatic' off (she's seen Psycho and he was no Norman Bates), but an 'odd' off.
Firstly, he's dressed in a rather expensive looking beige tux with matching dress shoes and a white dress shirt, the top few buttons left undone revealing part of a tawny chest and tattoo. This is not a common sight in this neck of the woods – the chances of someone even owning a suit, much less a tux, on this side of Magnolia is slim to none.
He's also too relaxed for her liking. His arms are strung up on either side of the bench, one hand containing a freshly lit cigarette, and his legs are outspread leisurely, hence the contact of his left knee against her own.
A deep sigh leaves his lips, forcing her to glance up at his face. Before she can even take note of it, though, his exotic hair pops out at her – another reason why he was so damn odd. Salmon locks spike out in every direction, and she wonders if it's natural – his eyebrows are a similar shade, so she assumes as much, but it's still highly unlikely that someone would be born with pink hair. Some of the strands hang low in his tanned face, just reaching his eyes that Lucy finds herself taken aback by.
His eyes, at first glance, are pure unforgiving ebony, but as she stares a little longer, she spots tiny mesmerizing flecks of emerald and gold near his irises. He has a slightly crooked nose and a fading scar high on his cheek, and a narrow chin. His lips are thin, and slightly chapped, and he brings his cigarette up to them, taking in a drag before exhaling slowly, smoke escaping in tendrils from his nose.
Lucy's entranced – he reminded her of a dragon, in a way. He was beautiful. A little tired, a little worn out as seen by the crease forming between his brow and bags under his eyes, but beautiful, and of course, with that last observation, Lucy picks up on the oddest thing about him: he was wet.
He was sopping wet – head to toe. His suit, his hair (that is still somehow sticking up because fuck gravity, right?), his socks – he was dripping wet. From what? Lucy has no idea. At no time at all today did it rain – there wasn't even a chance for a storm until next week. He could have fallen into a pool, yet Lucy rules that unlikely given the majority of the pools were closed at this time. Lucy wants to ask him about it, she even opens her mouth to do so, only before she can utter the words, he beats her to it.
"Don't ya know it's not nice to stare?" he grumbles in a gravelly voice, and her eyes flicker up from his lips to meet his own eyes glaring hostile holes into hers, causing her to promptly avert her gaze to the store in front of her.
"Sorry!" She squeaks softly prior to clamping her mouth shut, feeling his stare on her as she does. She wants to die. A very attractive and unusual man sits next to her on the bench for the bus and all she can do is offend him by staring. 'Great. Just great job, Lucy. Maybe he'll also kill you, given the only people out at 3 am on a Monday – well, Tuesday – are people like you and criminals, and there aren't a lot of people like you.'
Just as Lucy begins to lose herself to her ongoing list of ways to escape if the man next to her does turn out to be some psychopathic killer, a cigarette invades her field of vision. She blinks, looking down at the hand outstretched to her, before looking towards its owner.
His face is just as stoic and tired as before, yet there seems to be another sentiment weighing his brows down lower that wasn't there before he snapped at her. "Here," the pink haired man says in a softer tone that still manages to leave no room for argument, "have a puff."
Hesitantly, she lifts a delicate hand to his own and takes the cig between her thumb and forefinger, glancing at him to catch him watching the cigarette as she slowly lifts it to meet her lips. She wraps her lips securely around the papery base and sucks in a long drag like she had seen many others before her do, feeling kind of sexy as she does, only for this feeling to be replaced by that of her body going into panic mode. Her eyes water and her lungs immediately revolt against the feeling of the smoke entering them – the passage of this new substance assailing them with its suffocating ways. She quickly pulls the cigarette from her mouth, coughing furiously away from the stranger next to her whilst practically shoving the cancer stick in his face.
He, in turn, laughs as he plucks the cigarette from her hand. Once she is able to get her coughing under control (which feels like forever to her), she greedily sucks in a breath of cool air, before casting a glare at her amused companion who places the cigarette between his curled lips.
"Never smoked before?" He questions with a smirk as Lucy wipes the tears from her cheeks.
"No." She answers hoarsely.
"Plan on doing it again?" He wiggles the cigarette in her face.
She shoves his arm away, "No."
Silence falls over them again, yet unlike the previous one, this one is far more comfortable. She feels herself relax a bit, sinking into the bench (she didn't even realize she was sitting up straight as board until now) and crossing her arms loosely over her chest, far more convinced that he is not her soon-to-be murder. An asshole, maybe, but a killer? No.
It seems the asshole is able to relax as well as he lets his head hang back over the bench, sighing deeply as he does. She catches him closing his eyes, and she finds herself staring at him again, admiring his dark long lashes and the thrum of his pulse in his neck. She can only wish to be as beautiful.
Sure, Lucy is attractive and obviously sexy. She has to be, working at a strip club, but that doesn't mean she was beautiful. The delicate beautiful that she saw in him. Yes, he was a little roughed up, but the scars only added to his appeal in her opinion, and beauty like his was only because he was hiding something from view.
Take a Venus fly trap, for example. Or, going back to her old analogy, a dragon. Strong, magnificent, beautiful, yet ferocious, unforgiving, dangerous – deadly. That's something Lucy is not, therefore there's no reason for her to be so beautiful. But him… she doesn't know the first thing about him, only that he dresses well, he smokes, he's currently wet, he's making small talk with a woman on a bus bench at an ungodly hour, and that he's beautiful. Again, she is back to not knowing, because she doesn't know, and not knowing things can cost a life.
Lucy shifts on the bench so her thigh is no longer in contact with his, and it is quick to go cold.
His voice suddenly slices through the air, startling her, "What are you doing here at this time of night?"
She tenses. Does she answer him truthfully? He's a stranger. She's a woman all alone at 3 am. More specifically, she's a stripper – the so-called scum of society right next to prostitutes and drug dealers. She knows how this story goes. Despite this, or really, because of it, she clears her throat, "I could ask you the same thing." A response is better than nothing, even if it is filled with sass.
A grin from the corner of her eyes. "Touché." He rumbles.
A long stretch of more silence passes and Lucy doesn't know why she does it – perhaps she was getting sick of always playing it safe or perhaps she was just getting sick of the silence or perhaps she was just plain bored waiting for this damned bus to take her away from this nightmare of a situation – but she manages to blurt, "I'm going home."
"Wish I could say the same." He mumbles, shifting so that his elbows rested on his knees.
She frowns, "Where are you going then?"
He takes another drag, "To a house where I sleep and eat and take a shit every now and then."
A laugh escapes her body and she feels all of her worries leave with it – he wasn't going to hurt her. If he was, he would have done so already. She finds herself back in her previous state of relaxation, not noticing he had turned his head to watch her over his shoulder as the last of her giggles die out, and asks, "Isn't that your home?"
He shakes his head, tapping thoughtfully at his cig as his eyes penetrate her own, "No, that's not home."
She still feels the smile on her lips as she meets his intense gaze with her soft (and frankly exhausted) one. She tilts her head, resting it in her palm as she whispers, "What is your home, then?"
He turns his head back out to the street, "I haven't got one."
"Come on," Lucy rolls her eyes, nudging him softly in an attempt to probe the answer out of him, "everyone's got a home."
He sends her a broken smile, "Not me."
Lucy feels the weight of his words settle on her chest like an elephant, squeezing her heart tightly, and suddenly the broken in her starts coming out, too. "Well," she starts, carefully choosing her words as she can tell they're heading into touchy territory, "what's a home to you?"
He leans back, running his hands on his thighs and clenching his jaw, but instead of looking at her, he intently stares straight ahead so much so that Lucy wonders if he's even looking at anything at all, "Home isn't a place," he says so lowly she almost doesn't catch it, "It's a person. It's that one person that can erase all your worries and make you feel safe. It's that person that's always there for you, always supporting you, loving you, no matter how bad things get. It's that person whom you look forward to seeing everyday – the reason you get out of bed and the reason you leave work in a hurry. It's that person that sees all the ugly – that knows of all the awful things you've done – but still loves you in spite of it because they understand you." He finally looks up at her and Lucy's breath catches at the raw emotion burning in his coal eyes as he mumbles, "That's why I don't have a home."
Lucy can only stare back into his dark eyes that are flitting between her own, pleading with her to listen, to understand, and she finds that she does.
"I guess I don't have a home either, then."
Then she kisses him.