here, love. Let’s take a look at you first.”
I dropped my bags by the bar and walked over to the table. Momma was older, maybe in her fifties, with a ready smile and warm eyes. Roman, maybe thirty-five, had a lean face and jet black hair. The multitude of rings on his fingers tried to outshine the gold chain around his throat. His open-necked black shirt looked like silk. Style by way of pimp. He radiated money almost as much as the Coveter had. One of the managers, then; maybe the owner.
“You’re a bit old for this, aren’t you?” His gaze crawled over my body, leaving no curve unexplored. “What are you, thirty?”
Next to him, Momma rolled her eyes. “Jesus, Roman. Have some class.”
“I’m so fucking classy, I could open a university. I’m just saying the gal’s a bit past prime.”
Creep. Never ask a female her age. Personally, I stopped counting after four thousand years, but that wasn’t the point.
I planted a hand on my hip and rolled my shoulder back, thrusting my tits forward. Maybe I couldn’t tap into my power, but thousands of years of seducing shmucks like this guy meant that I knew how to move my body. Putting the right amount of purr into my voice, I said, “I might be older than other dancers, but I’m also more experienced.”
Roman swallowed, his eyes locked on mine. A bead of sweat glistened on his brow. Based on how the air-conditioning was set to about thirty degrees, I was sure his reaction wasn’t from the temperature in the room. “What kind of experience you talking about, love?”
My eyes telegraphing all of the things I could do to him if I so chose, I blew him a kiss.
Momma chuckled, a throaty, rich sound. “Oh, you’re good, honey. I love the attitude. And your eyes’re lovely, and so’s your hair. Can’t tell about your figure with your clothes on, but I guess if you’re willing to show it off, you’re proud of what you’ve got. Can you dance?”
Turning my smoky gaze her way, I smiled. “Try me.”
Roman mopped his brow, then shouted, “Lyle! Put something on. And make sure it has a beat, God damn it.”
“Go ahead, honey.” Momma motioned to the stage. “Show us what you’ve got.”
I sashayed to the stage and glided up the five stairs. Standing on the platform, the spotlights in my eyes, I couldn’t see a blessed thing other than the stage itself. Probably done on purpose to keep dancers from getting nervous, seeing so many eyes on them. Me, I liked the attention.
From the speakers mounted above either side of the stage, drums tapped out a beat—bump, ba-bump, bump, ba-bump—followed by a guitar. Southern rock, maybe country gone the way of blues…Marc Broussard’s “Home.” A good tune. I let my body pick up the pulse, felt it move through my hips, my shoulders, my neck. Marc began to sing, his voice deep and lush with emotion. Feeling the passion in his voice caress me, I let his words carry me across the stage.
Stopping in front of Roman and Momma, I planted my feet wide and dropped my body down, then rolled up slowly, snaking my hands up my calves, my inner thighs, my belly, my breasts, then raised them over my head, all the while my hips working the beat. I felt Roman’s eyes on me, locking onto my hands as they traveled the length of my body, boring through my clothing as if he wanted to eat me alive from the inside out.
That’s right, sweetie. Feast on me.
Moving to the music, I pulled the pins from my hair, freeing my curls. My hands swam through my locks, gathering up my hair and letting it crash around my face. I smiled at my audience as Marc sang, feeling as sultry as his voice.
Next to Roman, Momma’s head nodded, either to the beat or for my performance. I didn’t care which it was—as long as she didn’t grab a cane and yank me off the stage, she was encouraging me to go on. And I did, letting my body speak the language of foreplay, promising sweat and tangled sheets.
Marc sang, “Here we go,” and clapping hands amplified the drumbeat, making my steps bigger, bolder. Crossing my arms in front of my stomach, I grabbed the bottom of my shirt and pulled it over my head, then let it drop to the floor. Hips grinding to the music, I unclasped my bra in a fluid motion and swung it away. Freed, my breasts bounced as I danced, my nipples erect and my skin dotted with goosebumps. My amulet bobbed against my skin.
Maybe it was an icebox in the club, but I was feeling hotter than the Lake of Fire. There was no way I could strip off my jeans while dancing in low-heeled sandals, so I opted to keep them on. Instead I popped the button and unzipped my pants, then mimed peeling them off. Roman’s face told me he easily pictured the real deal. He looked like he was thinking with Mister Happy instead of his brain.
Awesome.
Crying out to his audience or his God, Marc begged that someone take him home. I dropped to my knees and arched back, my body undulating to the beat. The sound reverberated along my flesh, teasing me, seducing me, and I opened wide as I let the music fuck me.
And just like sex, it was over too fast.
I held my final pose for a moment after the song ended, thrilled by how my blood pounded, how my breath had quickened. Then I lifted myself up until I was on my knees. Still smiling my Come Here Sailor smile, I planted one foot and rose gracefully, awaiting judgment.
Roman’s eyes shone, a wolf contemplating the possibility of lamb chops. “When can you start, love?”
Feeling proud, I toted my shopping bags as I marched down the hallway of Hotel New York, searching for my room. I was looking forward to my new role as a dancer. Granted, Roman seemed to be a real ass, but I liked Momma. Maybe that’s because she’d buttered me up as she’d given me the lowdown about working at Belles.
“You’ve got terrific sex appeal,” she’d confided after my audition.
“It’s my scented body wash,” I said. “Vanilla. Does wonders for pheromones.”
“Hygiene helps.” She chuckled, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “But on you, it’s more than a smell. You radiate sex. If you’re half as confident with a live audience during your shows as you were for the audition, you’ll actually score decent stage tips.”
“I’m feeling confident. But I’ll buy some new lingerie just in case. You can’t help but feel sexy when you’re wearing new lingerie. Maybe some new shoes.”
“Shoes are wonderful. Go with a minimum of four inches. Five, if you can swing it—you’re a tiny thing and can use the extra height. Break ’em in before you show up tonight. And don’t forget to put grips on your heels. Stage floor’s polished and can be a slippery bastard. Don’t want to see you taking a spill.”
I grinned, bemused by her concern. “You really are the house mom, aren’t you?”
“It’s what I’m paid for. Actually,” she added, lowering her voice, “that’s a lie. I work for tips. But my girls are good to me. And I’m good to them. Makeup, hair, costume repair—you name it, I’ll do it. I even have spare G-strings, if you ever need one. But those are a dollar a pop. The other stuff is free.”
“Good to know.”
“You’ll do well here, honey.” Her eyes twinkled as if she had a marvelous secret. “I can tell.
