Stripped Read online

“Plus,” Tim continues, “you’ve got that sexy southern accent. You’ll draw a hell of a crowd. ”

  “So do I get the job?” There’s no elation, no excitement. Only disgust mixed with horror and relief.

  “You’ve got the job. ”

  “How…how much does it pay?”

  Timothy shrugs. “It depends. I’ve got a feeling you’ll have a huge desirability factor, which works in your favor. If you do private rooms, you’ll make a killing. Here’s the way it works, basically. The club itself don’t pay you directly. You get paid in tips, and you give the club a percentage out of that. Not much, just fifteen percent, which is industry average. You do two or three song sets on stage. Most girls make anywhere between fifty and a hundred per set. If the guys like you, you could do three, four, or five sets in a night. In between sets onstage you’ll work tables, which are ten bucks each table, and guys will tip you on top of that. Then there are VIP rooms in the back, four of them. Most girls will get, like, two or three hundred per VIP room visit. You’d work three nights minimum, but we’re open seven days a week. Obviously, weekends are biggest money. ” He lifts an eyebrow. “Since you’ve never done this before, I’ll tell you this. Most girls supplement what they make here in the club by doing private parties, birthdays and bachelor parties, shit like that. They don’t have to tip us out, so they keep it all. ”

  “What—” My voice breaks, and I have to try again. “What do you mean by doing private parties?”

  Timothy laughs. “It just means you do what you do here, but for a private party. Look, you set the rules for private parties. Minimum, you do lap dances and stuff, maybe a striptease for the group. ” He winks at me. “I know what you’re thinking, and it’s not like that. Unless you want to, of course. But that’s up to you. That’s got nothing to do with the club. Guys’ll ask you if you do private parties, and you need to decide if you do or not. ”

  I have to take a few deep breaths. “Okay. Okay. I can do this. ”

  Timothy laughs again, a low, amused chuckle. “You convincing me or yourself?”

  “Both, I guess,” I admit.

  “Why don’t you come in tomorrow evening, maybe seven or eight, and we’ll work up a dance for you. My best dancer, Candy, will be here, and she’ll help you. Give you some pointers and shit. ” He stands up, tosses back the whiskey or whatever it is, and then extends his hand toward me, and we shake. “Welcome to Exotic Nights, Grey. Oh, and you may want a stage name. ”

  He walks me out, and in the act of reaching past me to open the door, his hand grazes my bottom. It’s not accidental, because I feel his hand squeeze along the way. I scoot forward out of his reach and turn back to glare at him. He just waves at me.

  I officially have a job. The relief is tempered by my nauseating horror at what the job is. I haven’t done anything yet, which means it’s not too late to back out. I can just not show up and hope something else comes up.

  I button my shirt back up as soon as I’m out of the club and make my way back to the bus stop. Once I hit campus, I’m more aware than ever of guys checking me out as I head back to the dorm. I’m not a girl who won’t admit she’s pretty. I’m used to getting looks and glances wherever I go; I just tune them out. But now…after enduring Timothy’s lusty perusal and crotch adjusting, I don’t want men’s eyes on me yet every pair I pass seems to be looking at me. My jeans feel tighter than they did when I put them on this morning, and suddenly my blouse is more revealing than I’d imagined. I wish I had a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie on now.

  I make it to my dorm room and into my bed on the top bunk before I let myself cry. The tears come in a hot flood along with embarrassment, guilt, horror, nausea, and doubt. Daddy was right. He said I’d fall into a sinful life, and I have. I just got a job as a stripper. I’m not going to glorify it by calling it “exotic dancer. ”

  Page 16

 

  I don’t even want to know what Mama would say.

  I’m going to do it, though. I won’t go crawling back to Macon, Georgia. I just won’t. I’m going to finish my degree.

  I’ve been working my ass off to get an internship with Fourth Dimension Films, so I edited the piece on my mom and showed it to Mrs. Adams, my film program advisor. She saw real potential in my work, and Fourth Dimension is one of the biggest private production studios in L. A. Getting an internship there would be a huge foot in the door. But for that, I can’t be homeless. I have to stay in school and have somewhere to live. I need a professional wardrobe.

  In short, I need a job, and this is the only opportunity I’ve found in months of looking.

  Still, I cry myself to sleep. Lizzie doesn’t come back until after three, and she’s got a guy with her. They roll into her bunk, and I hear noises that keep me awake for hours—moans, grunts and giggles.

  Chapter 6

  I squeeze my eyes shut and pray, but then feel guilty about it; God wouldn’t approve of what I’m about to do, that’s for darn sure. I clench my hands into fists to stop them from trembling, but they shake like leaves in a Georgia thunderstorm.

  “Gracie, you’re on in five. ” Timothy pokes his head into the door of the dressing room, and I certainly don’t miss the way his beady little eyes rake over me.

  My flesh crawls and I want to tell him off, but I can’t. After all, I’m about to get a whole heck of a lot more perused in about five minutes. I’m barely clothed, at least as far as I’m used to. I grew up wearing ankle-length dresses and skirts with loose T-shirts. Nothing low-cut, nothing above the knee. Nothing revealing or immodest. Nothing sexy or sensual. Nothing ungodly or irreverent.

  Right now, I’ve got on a pair of cut-off jean shorts, the hems frayed into white threads. Back in Macon, they would’ve called these shorts Daisy Dukes, since they’re cut so short the bottom of my backside is hanging out. I mean that quite literally. My butt is actually hanging out the bottom of the shorts. They’re tight, too, squeezing my thick dancer’s thighs like spandex. I’m wearing a flannel shirt, but it ain’t—I mean, it isn’t—much better as far as modesty goes. It’s unbuttoned down to my cle**age, which isn’t contained by anything at all. There’s only four buttons done up, and my boobs strain those four buttons fit to burst. That’s the point, after all. The buttons are supposed to pop. There’s a whole row of shirts similar to this one in the corner of the dressing room, since part of the act is to pop the buttons as I rip the shirt open.

  It’s supposed to be sexy, Timothy says. “It’ll drive ’em wild. ” He’s the expert, I guess. The rest of the flannel shirt is tied up in the front just beneath my boobs, so most of my midriff is bare. The last bit of the outfit—the costume—is a thick leather belt with a big sparkly buckle, and a pair of knee-high boots. Hooker boots, I’ve heard them called. Seems appropriate, I guess, since Daddy would call what I’m about to do whoring myself out. They’re suede boots, the material loose and bunching, with a spindly three-inch stiletto heel that makes me stand a full six feet tall, since I’m five-nine in my stocking feet.

  My blonde hair is brushed to a shine so glossy Candy asked me if I was wearing a wig. My face is caked with a garish amount of makeup. Whore paint, Granddaddy would call it. I never wore more than a bit of lip gloss and some eye shadow growing up, so all the foundation and the lipstick and the mascara and all that feels like a mask. Which helps, in a way, as if the mask of makeup could hide me.

  I take a deep breath and force myself out of the chair, swaying on the unfamiliar heels. Timothy shoves the door open and holds it for me, but it isn’t for the sake of being a gentleman. He stands in the door so that I have to squeeze past him on my way out. I stifle the urge to deck him when he “accidentally” palms my backside.

  “Don’t do that, Tim,” I say, proud of how steady and calm my voice is. It’s not the first time I’ve asked him not to touch me.

  “Do what?”

  I fix him with the glare I learned from Daddy, the one that makes
most men quake in their boots. Or, in Tim’s case, pointy-toed snakeskin loafers. “Just ’cause I’m doing this doesn’t mean you can go touching me whenever you want, Timothy van Dutton. Keep your slimy little paws off of me. ” I hate the twang, but I’m nervous and upset, and it’s part of my “Gracie” persona.

  Tim leers at me. “Listen to you, Gracie. You sound like a southern belle. I love it. Keep that attitude, it’s good stuff. Now get out there and do what I’m paying you to do. ”

  “You don’t pay me, the customers do,” I retort.

  His eyes harden and his voice goes low. “Don’t you ever talk to me that way again or I’ll fire you. ” He smacks me on the backside so hard my eyes water, but I don’t give him the satisfaction of a response. It may be sexual harassment, but I need the job too much to argue.

  He strolls past me, leaving me to gather my wits and my courage about me. When he’s out of sight, I rub my bottom where he smacked it, realizing with dismay that he can very well fire me if he wants. Then I’d be up a creek without a paddle.

  I wend my way through the backstage area, ascend the three small steps to the stage, and stand behind the curtain. My heart is pounding like a jackhammer, my throat closed so tight I can barely breathe, and I’m on the verge of tears. I don’t want to do this.

  My “training session” with Candy was awkward and horrible. Swinging around on the pole is a lot harder than it looks. I fell several times before I got the hang of wrapping my knee around the cold metal and spinning around it. There was no one watching but Candy, but I still cried when I took off my shirt for the first time. Candy saw my tears, but didn’t say anything. She just critiqued the way I strutted from the pole to the end of the stage.

  I don’t have a choice, though. Not if I want to finish my degree and get my dream job as a film producer. I got the internship, and I start next week, but I need appropriate clothes.

  The generic pop music fades from the house speakers, and the buzz of conversation quiets. Surely the crowd of men on the other side of the curtain can hear my heart, since it’s beating so loud.

  “Gentlemen, are you ready?” Tim’s voice echoes over the PA system, reedy and breathy and dripping suggestion. “I have a very, very special treat for you tonight. A brand-new act. She’s fresh from Macon, Georgia, a real corn-fed southern girl, and boys…she…is…hot. ”

  Page 17

 

  Catcalls and whistles rise to a deafening din, until Tim quiets them.

  “Allow me to introduce…Gracie!”

  At least Tim had me use a stage name. The girl standing with her back to a stripper pole, hip popped to one side, hands draped around the cold metal high above her head…that girl is Gracie, a performer. A stripper.

  She isn’t me.

  My name is Grey Amundsen. But Grey, she doesn’t exist in here, in this slimy, smoky, sex-hazed hole. In here, I’m Gracie.

  The curtain sweeps open, blinding me with the glare of stage lights, white and red and purple, and so hot I break into an immediate sweat. I don’t move at first. I let them look. That’s why they’re here, after all. To look at me. To stare at me…to want me.

  I’ve been assured they can’t touch me, but that’s little consolation.

  I’ve never been wanted, not by anyone. Daddy always wished I was a son, so I could play football and go to seminary like Daddy did. If I was a son, I could have taken over the pulpit of Macon Contemporary Baptist Church. But I was born a girl, so I couldn’t do any of that—an only child at that. I was told to be seen and not heard, to sit properly and be demure. Be a lady, be proper. Sit up straight, mind your manners, and obey your elders. No rock music, no makeup, no boys. That last one was the one he focused on most strictly.

  I’ve never even been on a date, never been kissed (except Craig, and he don’t—doesn’t—count).

  But, for some reason, Timothy van Dutton thought I had some kind of “innate sensuality” that men would go nuts over, and he hired me. Maybe he just smelled the desperation on me.

  The men in the audience get over their shock and begin to whistle and cheer and howl.

  “Take it off!” a man at a table near the stage yells.

  I circle the pole, holding on to it with one hand, taking long, prancing steps, Broadway-dancer steps, runway model steps. It shows them my legs, lets them see I have style. I’m not just going to peel off my clothes and swing around the pole. No, if I’m going to do this, I’m going to do it with some kind of style.

  Candy helped me choreograph my routine. Candy is a svelte, black-haired girl a few years older than me, but with a street hardness I’ll never have. She’s not exactly beautiful, not up close, but with enough makeup and the body she has, you’d think she was. Plus, she can do tricks on the pole that make the guys crazy. I’ve seen it. I don’t dare try the things she does, complicated spins and upside-down twirls. Candy was brusque and business-like as she showed me how to move, how to sway and shimmy, how to spin around the pole and slide down it. She and Tim watched me practice the routine before the doors opened tonight. I saw the evidence of my success with his bulging zipper.

  I leap into the air and swing my body around the pole, hooking my right knee around it, tilting my head back so my thick blonde hair hangs behind me. My heart hammers like a drum as I spin around the pole several times, and then land on one foot, the other still wrapped around the pole. I feel myself jiggling and bouncing in the skimpy outfit. I’m fighting tears of guilt, shame and embarrassment, but I have to not only keep them at bay, but plaster on a fake smile. I get closer and closer to vomiting with every move.

  I’ve choreographed this dance to keep me clothed as long as possible, but the moment comes all too soon. I’ve swung and hung backward and upside down, I’ve slid my spine down the pole so I was crouched with my knees spread wide, giving them a tantalizing glimpse of my crotch.

  Now…

  Now I have to start actually stripping. I swallow hard, disguising my nerves with an unchoreographed swing around the pole, and then land to stand as I was when the curtain opened: my back to the pole, legs shoulder-width apart, hands over my head. Then, with shaking fingers, I slip the top button through the hole, stride forward to the middle of the stage, untie the knot at the bottom. Now the shirt is loose, and the inside of my cle**age is exposed. Then, just to tease them, I button the bottom buttons. The men groan and lean forward, and I can see hunger and lust in the leering of their eyes.

  Then, as the club music rises to a crescendo, I grasp the lapels of the shirt and rip it open, scattering buttons with a dramatic flourish. My br**sts bounce free, and I stand topless in front of a hundred and fifty men.

  A single tear drips free to mingle with the sweat on my upper lip.

  I’m officially a stripper.

  Chapter 7

  I’m dressed in a slim navy pencil skirt, a basic ivory button-down shirt, and a pair of heels to match the shirt. My hair is tied up in a bun, and I’ve got minimal makeup on. I’ve never worn a lot of makeup, but I wear even less now since I started dancing at the club.

  Dance.

  Yeah, I’ve started thinking of it that way. I’ve been there three months, and I’m the most popular dancer by far. All the VIP rooms request me. I do five stage sets a night, and I always pull in at least a hundred dollars per set. I charge twenty per table dance, five for lap dances, and VIP rooms start at one-fifty.

  I still get sick before each performance, and I still cry myself to sleep some nights. I hate being a stripper. An “exotic dancer. ” It’s not dancing; it’s lewd provocation. It’s performing to make men lust after me. I’ve been groped more times than I care to count, and propositioned even more. I’ve been offered a thousand dollars to “entertain” a celebrity in private for one hour. I turned him down.

  Now I’m going in for my first real assignment with the Fourth Dimension internship. I’ve been learning the ropes so far, filing papers, working i
n the office, taking dictation, following the real producers around. I worked my ass off to get the internship, and I worked even harder for Fourth Dimension as an office assistant, hoping to get noticed and given work on an actual project. Apparently it worked.

  John Kazantzidis is an important producer, known for having a good eye for strong, compelling scripts. He’s worked on some of the best-selling films of the last ten years, including the recent blockbuster film adaptation of The Sun Also Rises. He’s always been polite to me, and he seems to take me seriously as a production student. He’s a partner in the studio, so working with him directly is a huge deal. My classmates are crazy with jealousy.

  I wait outside his office until Leslie, his secretary, answers the intercom and sends me through. Mr. Kazantzidis, or Kaz, as he likes to be called, is tall and broad with thick black hair and dark brown eyes. He exudes authority and power and wealth, although he’s not ostentatious. For an older man, he’s very attractive and charming.

  Page 18

 

  He waves at the deep leather chair in front of his desk, a phone pressed to his ear. He listens for a few moments, then interrupts in Greek before hanging up. “My apologies, Grey. That was my mother. ” He grins at me, showing white teeth.

  “No problem, sir. I think it’s nice that you talk to your mother. ”

  He nods. “Mothers are important. Do you see your family at all?”

  I shrug. I’ve tried to avoid talking about myself or my family. “Not really. My mother passed away, and my father and I…well, we don’t really get along, unfortunately. ”

  Kaz frowns. “I’m sorry to hear of your mother. How did she pass?”

  “A brain tumor. ” I pull my new, company-issued iPad out of my purse and open Pages, ready to take notes. “What’s my assignment, sir?”

  Kaz leans back and fiddles with a pen. “You can put that away. ” He waves at the iPad. “It’s very simple. You’ll be working as the direct liaison between Fourth Dimension and the lead actor on our newest film. We’re partners in the remake of Gone With the Wind, and I know I don’t have to tell you how important this project is. The original is an iconic part of American culture. ”

  “Yes, sir. ” I slip the tablet back in my purse and cross my leg over my knee, listening carefully

  “I’ve emailed you all the pertinent files on the film, including the bio on your assignment. Before you come in tomorrow, study all aspects of the project. Filming begins next month, so there won’t be much to do until then, but your assignment begins as of now. ” Kaz leans forward and sets the pen aside. “Grey, you’ve proven yourself thus far. I like you. If you do well on this assignment, I’ll bring you on board full-time when you graduate. Until then, you’ll receive base-level salary. ”