“You look like a nice kid, so I’m going to be straight with you. You go in there, they’ll probably expect a blow job. You up for that?”
My eyes widened, although I shouldn’t have been surprised. I’d heard of that happening, of course, and I was pretty sure my mom had done it a time or two. But The Line had a reputation for not forcing girls to do anything . . . I’d assumed this place would be the same, given the direct competition between them for dancers. Stupid of me.
“Seriously?”
She nodded, her face sour.
“Yeah,” she said. “It’s bullshit. I mean, I’ve got no problem with anyone who chooses to do it, but if you’re looking for quick cash, you’d probably do better turning a couple tricks.”
I sat back, stomach churning.
“Or you could go over to The Line and get a real job,” she added. “They’ll treat you better.”
I frowned. “Why are you working here if The Line is better?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Yeah, my life is complicated, too. The Line isn’t an option.”
Curiosity sparked in her eyes, and she bit her lip. Something felt off here. What was her angle?
“You want some water or something?” she asked. “It’ll be a while before Mr. McGraine gets here. He’s the manager.”
“Sure, thanks,” I said absently, then pulled a dollar out of my purse to tip her. She waved it off, setting a glass in front of me. I sat drinking it, looking around the club. They’d taken the Vegas theme all the way. There were neon signs covering the walls, along with big murals of various casinos and attractions. Along one wall was a row of slot machines and video poker, although they were clearly labeled as being “For Novelty Purposes Only.”
Right.
Tubes of tiny white lights lined the stages, and the poles were each lit up with different colors. The whole place was tacky as hell, but somehow still smooth and polished.
Slick.
Like Vegas.
Everything was obviously set up for the day, but nobody was dancing yet. This was probably because the place was empty. Apparently most of the area’s hornier men weren’t up and about just yet.
“They did a good job decorating in here,” I said, nodding toward the stage. The bartender shrugged, then turned away pointedly as another woman strolled up to the bar. She was young and pretty, but I could see the faint hint of a bruise on her face, covered by makeup. She was dressed like a showgirl.
“Hey,” she said, her voice low.
“Hi,” I replied, wondering if I was going to get another warning.
“You looking to dance?” she asked. I nodded. “You should leave. Get out now. This isn’t a good place.”
“Lisa—don’t you have somewhere you should be right now?” a man asked, his voice firm. Lisa stiffened, then nodded her head quickly and scurried off. I turned to look at the man, who wore a suit and had a broad, friendly smile on his face.
“Hi, I’m Lachlan McGraine. I’m the manager here. I hear you’re interested in becoming one of our dancers?”
He looked so nice, so normal. Utterly harmless in every way to a degree that it creeped me out. Something about him made the little hairs stand up on the back of my head . . . His smile was just a little too bland, his eyes a little too flat.
Or maybe I was just losing my mind. That bartender had me all paranoid, I decided. And God only knew what Lisa had been talking about.
“Let’s talk in my office,” he said. I stood and started in the direction he pointed. His hand came around and touched the small of my back just a little too firmly. It wasn’t just a touch designed to guide me—it felt controlling.
We went through a door down a long, black hallway that ended in an emergency exit door. A big man stood in front of it, and as I walked toward him, his eyes slowly and deliberately crawled up and down my figure.
I didn’t like this place. I really, really didn’t like it.
“Here’s my office,” McGraine said, opening a door on one side of the hallway. It was a good-sized room, with a broad desk, a couch, coffee table, and two comfortable leather chairs. At the far end a pole had been installed on top of a low-rise section of dance floor.
McGraine closed the door and leaned against the front of his desk. He didn’t invite me to sit.
“So, have you danced before?”
“My mom taught me,” I said. “I grew up in California. She worked in a lot of clubs down there.”
“Why do you want to work here?”
I smiled, thinking the answer should be obvious.
“I want to earn better money than I get waiting tables. I’m in school and I don’t have a lot of employment options right now.”
“And why did you choose Vegas Belles?”
To avoid the Reapers.
“Because you’re new, and I heard the girls here make good money.”
“You try out at The Line?”
“No.”
He raised a brow.
“You have a problem with the Reapers MC?”
I shook my head quickly. Too quickly, I realized, because he smirked. Sheesh.
“Okay, take off your clothes and dance for me,” he said. “We’ll see what you can do.”
I swallowed, because this was it. I caught the edges of my shirt, then looked down, thinking. The last time I’d done this had been in my stepfather’s house. He’d been watching. With his friends.
I promised myself I’d never do it again—not like this.
“What kind of shifts do you have open?” I asked suddenly, feeling desperate. “I mean, if you like what I can do.”