The thing about working at a strip club was that there was no such thing as a slow night. No matter the day of the week, the day of the month, or the day of the year, if the club was open, it was packed with men, horny and eager to spend their hard-earned dollars on a few minutes of attention from a pretty (and scantily clad) woman.
Emily stepped off the stage – g-string stuffed with dollar bills – amidst the crowd in front of the stage still clamouring for her attention. She'd been on her feet for the last four hours – giving endless lap dances as some kind of convention must've been in town, given the crowd of Japanese business men who seemed to have overtaken the club's patronage that night – and she was exhausted and more than a little pissy.
She flagged down the bartender and, without a word, he poured her a shot. If there was one perk to the job, it was the endless supply of alcohol: the only thing that made the job even remotely bearable. Downing the shot, she proceeded to count out the money that had been stuffed in her thong.
"Do you mind if I join you?" Derek asked, approaching beside her. He flagged down the bartender, silently ordering a round for the both of them.
"Be my guest," she said without looking up from the money she was counting, except to down the shot placed in front of her.
For several moments, a heavy and rather awkward silence fell between them, during which Derek struggled to find a neutral conversational ground – ordinarily not a big ask...except for the fact that all he could think about when he looked at her now was the night they'd spent together.
At length, when the silence continued on too long for comfort, she said, "Something wrong?"
"Oh, no!" he insisted quickly, realizing he had been staring. "Just thinking," he lied.
She looked up at him then, raised a brow. "About what?"
He shook his head. He didn't want to admit that his thoughts had strayed to remembering how she looked when he made her cum. "Nevermind," he said. She didn't seem entirely certain she believed him, but didn't say so, for which he was extremely grateful. Then, seemingly remembering himself, he said, "I have something for you..." He proceeded to pull a square of paper out of his pocket and slide it across the surface of the bar to her.
Curiously, she took the paper and unfolded it, unveiling an unmistakable crayon drawing. Gasping softly, a fond smile crossed her lips, even as her eyes filled with tears.
"Jayde made it," he explained needlessly.
She choked on a sob, not bothering to stifle the sound, in spite of the fact that anyone could overhear. "My baby..." she whispered. Looking up to meet Derek's gaze, she begged, "Please tell me she's okay..."
"She's fine," he promised. "She misses you, but she's strong. She's resilient, like her mom. Mama says she asks about you all the time." He reached over to rest a hand on hers, squeezing it gently.
She opened her mouth to respond, but before she could form the words, her gaze caught on something across the club, an expression like she'd seen a ghost crossing her face.
"Em?" he said gently, watching her face blanch. He squeezed her hand tighter in an attempt to get her attention. "Em? What's wrong?"
She shook her head, once, twice. Her eyes tracked movement through the club, face pale, her hands trembling slightly.
Derek followed her gaze, brows furrowed with concern. She seemed to be tracking the movement of a familiar man who was talking to the doorman like they were good friends. "Isn't that your Champagne Room guy?" he asked. "I thought you'd be happy to see him – or at least his wallet..."
She didn't respond, didn't seem quite able to form any words.
"Do you want me to talk to Rossi?" he asked, "Have him throw the guy out?" He wasn't entirely certain why she seemed so stricken with fear, but he didn't need to know. All he needed to know was that she was afraid and he would do everything within his power to keep her safe.
She shook her head insistently. "He wouldn't," she said, "He spends so much, Dave would probably kiss his boots if he asked." What she didn't say was that she was worried that if he knew she'd seen Ian outside the club, she'd get fired for hooking...
"Are you sure?" Derek pressed because she really didn't seem all that certain of her own decision.
She nodded firmly, then without another word, she stood from the bar and stalked across the room. "Ian, what the fuck are you doing here?" she demanded, words hissed under her breath so they wouldn't be overheard.
He turned to her with a facade of pleasant surprise. "Lovely to see you again, Ruby. I'm here for some company, of course." Emily just glowered. "Come on, Ruby," he urged, "I'll make it worth your while. You only need to hear me out."
She huffed, still staring daggers at him.
He pulled a hundred dollar bill from his pocket, pressed it into her hand. "I just want to apologize."
Reluctantly, she followed him into the Champagne Room. "Go ahead," she ordered once they were alone and out of earshot. "Talk."
"I'm sorry for what happened, Ruby. I didn't mean to let my temper get the best of me like that. I should never have laid a hand on you. I hope you can forgive me."
She scoffed. "Forgive you? You slammed me into a fucking wall!"
"Well, maybe if you weren't being a smart-mouthed little bitch..." he started, then held up his hands in self-defence. "I'm sorry, that wasn't how I wanted this to go. I want to make it up to you."
She raised a brow, clearly not buying the act.
"Please," he insisted. "I want to take you to dinner."
She chewed on her lip, clearly not convinced.
He reached out to rest a hand on her thigh, gently stroking up and down her leg, gradually moving higher. "Just dinner, nothing else.