Bad Judgment (6 page)

Do I tell him why I’m here and ask how I go about applying for a position to work the pole?
My other option is paying the cover and slinking around inside, hoping to figure out who I need to talk to.

Practicality wins out. “I’m actually not here to watch. I’m here to apply for a job.”

This time his eyes widen a fraction, followed by a once-over. I know what he’s seeing, because I put a lot of time and effort in front of my mirror tonight.

Dark hair I curled into “beach waves” after watching a few online tutorials, smoky eyes that I think stayed on the side of sultry rather than raccoon. The push-up bra I’d splurged on boosted my already ample boobs into the tight V-neck of the black tank I paired with my skirt. Black strappy heels, also borrowed from Merica and never returned, completed the look, and made my average-length legs look long and toned.

“You sure?”

“Yes. Could you point me in the direction of the hiring manager?” I’m not sure how formal strip clubs are about the HR hierarchy, but I don’t know who else to ask for.

He jerks his head toward the black door across from the counter. A heavy bass beat thumps beyond it, and neon lights peek out from beneath.

“Marv’s office is in the back of the club. He’s the only manager we got. But I gotta warn ya. He’s hired three new girls for the stage this week, and I doubt he’s looking for too many more. There’s a cocktail waitress position open, though.”

A cocktail waitress position won’t make anywhere near the kind of cash I need. “Where in the back is his office?”

“Through the doors, across the club to the back left corner. There’s a hallway, and his door is the first on the left. Says Manager
on the door
.
You can’t miss it.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it.”

He gives me a short nod, and I head to the door. A healthy
what the fuck am I doing
runs through me.

This is just a means to an end.

Purpose driving my every step, I push open the door, determined to find Marv and get myself a job.

Ryker

Sitting beside my friend and former frat brother, a stack of ones and two beers between us and two women in tiny G-strings humping brass poles onstage, I feel like I’m back in college.

Except now I’m not entertained by the titty glitter the strippers take pride in smearing all over every man they come in contact with.

I officially feel too old for this shit. But when Brandon called to say he wanted to hit the strip club to celebrate his new promotion, I wasn’t going to say no. First, because I’m genuinely happy for the guy, and second, because I don’t feel like doing anything else. Not even one whole week into the semester and all I can think about every time I sit down in a class is how much I can’t stomach the thought of being a lawyer.

I’ve officially hit the
zero fucks given
point.

So instead, I’m sitting in a strip club on a Thursday night instead of doing my reading for my classes on Friday. I haven’t done the reading for any class yet, so why start now?

“Dayum, you think she’s on the menu tonight? She looks a little classy to climb that pole, but if I’m right, I call dibs.”

Brandon’s gaze leaves the stage and tracks someone moving across the club floor. From my angle, I can’t see who he’s talking about.

“Where?”

He turns completely around in his chair and nods to the brunette a dozen feet away, head down as though she’s intentionally trying not to look at the stage or make eye contact with any of the patrons. Her posture doesn’t match any of the strippers working the floor. No way does she work here.

But why does she seem familiar
?

She nearly runs into a cocktail waitress in a bra, five-inch heels, and fishnets tucked under booty shorts. The brunette’s head pops up and she raises her hands as though to apologize.

That’s when I catch a glimpse of her face.

No. Fucking. Way.

“Shit, she’s hot as fuck. I’m taking her home tonight.” Brandon’s voice isn’t slurred by the five beers he already put down, which is mildly surprising. I’m the DD tonight, since it’s his celebration, but there’s no way I’m going to let him make a move on Justine.

“Sorry, bro. I called dibs on her ages ago.”

Brandon’s eyes widen comically. “Seriously? You know her? Thought you said you hadn’t been here since undergrad?”

“She doesn’t belong here either, and she sure as shit doesn’t work here.”

Brandon’s smile turns into a lopsided grin. “Maybe she’s stripping her way through school. God, that’s so fucking hot. I’d throw down enough cash for private dances to pay for at least one class. She’s smokin’.”

The urge to plant my fist through his face is strong and instinctive, but the echo of his words through my head pulls me back from actually acting on it.

Stripping her way through school.

Shit. She lost her scholarship. Could she be here looking for a job?

Again—
No. Fucking. Way.

I follow Justine’s path until she slips through a doorway and disappears from sight.

Brandon’s attention hasn’t returned to the stage. It’s still on me.

“I’m right, aren’t I? The chick you called dibs on is going to start stripping for her tuition.”

“Shut the fuck up, and if you ever mention you saw her here to anyone, I’ll tell everyone about the transvestite you got head from sophomore year.”

Brandon jerks back against his seat. “I didn’t know she was a tranny! Those tits looked so fucking real. She barely had an Adam’s apple.”

“A chick with a dick sucked your cock, and if you want that to stay between us—”

Brandon grabs his beer and knocks back a swig. “Fuck. Fine. But that’s the last time you get to pull that card on me. And you’re buying me some goddamn Scotch. Get me drunk enough tonight, and I won’t even remember if I saw Hillary Clinton working that pole.”

“Nasty, dude.” But still, I raise my hand to catch the attention of the cocktail waitress. “Get him a double Scotch. Whatever top shelf you’ve got.”

She smiles flirtatiously at me as she slides one leg between my knees and leans forward. “And what can I get for you, big man?”

“Water.”

Her smile falters as she steps back, clearly reading the fact that I’m not down with playing her game. But she’s not giving up yet because she lowers her ass to her heels just in front of me, knees spreading wide.

“Are you sure there’s nothing? Because I’d be happy to give you a rundown of all the
off menu
items I’m happy to provide.”

Just the insinuation that she’s willing to fuck me for money is enough to make me want to run down that hallway, grab Justine, and carry her out of here before she has a chance to make whatever bad choices she’s considering. She doesn’t belong here.

“Water,” I repeat, and the cocktail waitress finally stands and returns to the bar.

“Damn, bro. She would’ve sucked your cock right here if you would’ve given her a sign.”

I flick my gaze toward Brandon. “And that’s a challenge how?”

His eyes flash with mischief. “Is that the appeal of little Miss Wannabe Stripper? She’s a challenge? Because if she comes to work here, she’s not going to be one anymore. If you’ve been striking out, which must be the case if you’re still interested, then maybe it’s your key to getting a piece of that sweet ass.”

“You’re going to drink your Scotch and never fucking mention this again. Understand me?”

Brandon jerks back at the vehemence in my tone. “Got it, man. Sorry, I was just giving you shit.”

Not wanting to taint the night of his celebration, I reach for my wallet and toss a fifty on the table between us. “No harm, no foul. Now, why don’t you get that private dance you were wanting? On me. Congrats on the promotion.”

The waitress returns with the Scotch, and I pay her before Brandon rises and walks toward the skinny redhead with enormous tits he’s been drooling over since we walked in the door. Which frees me up to find out just what the hell Justine was doing.

Tucking my wallet back in my pocket, I head for the hallway.

Justine

I knock on the door marked Manager, and the only positive thing I can come up with to focus on is the fact that I don’t have anything in my stomach to throw up because I couldn’t summon up an appetite while I was getting dressed for my . . . interview.

The door jerks open, and I do a double-take when I catch sight of Marv.

Except I know him as Marvin. Gramps’s next-door neighbor. The one who would come over and fix leaky sinks and shovel snow off the front walk when Gramps’s health started declining. He’d bring over a couple beers, and we’d listen to Gramps tell stories about World War II.

No. Freaking. Way.

His eyes light with the same recognition the moment I step into the room. “Justine? What the hell are you doing here?”

I struggle to find my voice. Do I lie? Do I tell the truth? If I lie, he’s going to know I’m lying. So I go with the truth.

“I . . . uh . . . I’m here to see about a job.”

Confusion crushes his bushy brows together on his forehead. “You graduated from college. With honors. So I repeat, what the hell are you doing here?”

My mouth opens and closes as I try to find the words to explain how badly things are screwed up right now.

“Sit down, kid. You’ve got some explaining to do.” He nods at the chair across from the desk.

I cross the room and drop into it. “I’m so screwed.”

I proceed to spill the entire story of what happened with the scholarship, the details about my parents I wasn’t sure Gramps had shared, and my aversion to debt. If I expected sympathy from Marvin, that’s not what I would get.

“You’re a smart girl, Justine. I refuse to believe this is the best idea you’ve got.”

Fixing a scowl on my face, I glare back at him. “How can you judge me for this? You’re the manager of the place!”

“And there are plenty of girls here who don’t have the options you do. Not only would I not hire you because my slate of dancers is completely full, but because I respected the hell out of your grandpa, and he’s gotta be rolling in his grave right now. I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with stripping, because there ain’t, but this isn’t for you.”

“I don’t have any other options if I want to stay in school. Don’t you understand? There’s no job I can get that will pay me enough to cover my tuition.”

“And you think this one could?” He shakes his head. “You’d be the new girl. Bottom of the ladder. You’d get the crappiest shifts with the worst tips. There’s no guarantees you’d make any more here than anywhere else. It’s not like money falls from the sky when these girls strip. This ain’t some fancy club in Vegas.”

“What about another club?”

Marv leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. “It’s gonna be the same no matter where you go. Besides, I know most of the managers, and I promise you that you’ll find yourself blackballed if you apply.”

What the hell is his problem?
“Why would you do that? I need the money.”

“Told you, I respected the hell out of your grandpa. He’d have my balls if I let you get sucked into this world. You’re a smart girl. Find another way.”

I open my mouth to protest one last time, but he shakes his head. “It’s good to see you, Justine, but you need to get the hell out of my club.” He stands and comes around the side of the desk, reaching out a hand to pull me to my feet. “Someday you’ll thank me for this.”

Marvin escorts me to the door of his office, gives me a hug, pushes me back out into the hallway, and shuts the door in my face. But not before telling me to keep my ass out of strip clubs until I have a bachelorette party.

I sink against the wall across from his office door and whisper, “What the hell am I going to do now?”

A deep, familiar voice comes out of the darkness. “I want to know what the hell you’re doing here to begin with.”

No. Freaking. Way.