Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 59738 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 299(@200wpm)___ 239(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59738 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 299(@200wpm)___ 239(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
He doesn’t seem satisfied with his insult, so he adds salt. “Might want to go heavy on the makeup.”
“Duly noted,” I bite out. “Lots of makeup.”
I don’t actually have any makeup, but I’m hoping one of the other dancers will loan me some.
“There’s a shower too.” He points toward the back of the room. “You should probably use that.”
Shame blisters any pride I might have had left, threatening to ruin this opportunity before I even get started. I don’t know why he feels the need to be such an ass, but it isn’t necessary. I already hate myself enough for both of us, and nothing could be more humiliating than crawling out from behind a dumpster every morning.
I washed up this morning in a gas station bathroom, but it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to point out that I still look a fright. My hair is knotted and in desperate need of some hot water and conditioner, and my skin could do with something other than crusty old bar soap.
I cross my arms to hide the fact that I’m shaking. It’s freezing in here and with such a low body weight, I get cold easily. “What else do I need to know?”
“You get a three-song set,” he says. “Better make it worthwhile. Crow doesn’t keep girls around if the clients don’t like them.”
Christ. I thought I had this job in the bag, but it makes sense that if I screw up, I’m gone. It doesn’t matter if I lied and said I have experience; these guys need to believe I do. Thank God I’ve been camped out here all week watching the other girls because I don’t know what I would do out there otherwise.
Conor rakes his eyes over me one last time and shakes his head like he doesn’t get why I’m here. “Sort yourself out. You have thirty minutes to impress us, or your arse is out the door.”
“What’s up with the new girl?” Rory asks when I sit down beside him in the pit. “Since when does Crow have you managing the dancers?”
“He doesn’t.” I focus on the stage, so I don’t have to look him in the eye. “I offered to do him a favor since he was busy.”
Rory studies me as I settle back into the seat and drain my glass. Crow asked me to do this in confidence, so I wouldn’t go yapping to all the other lads about it, and I have no intentions of fucking that up.
“She’s pretty,” Rory observes.
An acerbic taste coats my mouth, tainting my reply with a sharpness I don’t recognize. “She looks like Crow pulled her half-dead arse out of a dumpster in Southie.”
Rory smirks and relaxes into his seat like he has all bloody night to sit around and watch the dancers. “Suit yourself then. I’m sure there are plenty of others who wouldn’t mind having a ride like her.”
My jaw hinges shut, and I have the irrational desire to loaf my mate in the head for saying so. As much as I’d like to believe I’m not attracted to the twig of a woman, I can’t deny that she would be pretty, once she got cleaned up a little. But just because my dick inflated every time she glared at me doesn’t mean shite. She isn’t my type. Or anyone in this establishment’s type for that matter. Already this assignment is fecking with my head, and the less time she spends here the better.
I’m grateful for the silence when the DJ announces the first dancer of the night. Sláinte is known for having some of the most beautiful dancers in the city, but I can’t seem to focus on any of them. One by one, they get up on the stage and perform. They work the crowd and peel away their clothes until there is nothing left but tits and ass. It’s an art as old as time, but my dick has fallen asleep, and my irritation is only growing by the second.
Rory is toying on his phone beside me, not paying attention to the show, and I want to know what the feck he’s even doing here. He never watches the dancers, and it seems like he’s intentionally trying to get on my bleeding nerves. I want to be alone when Ivy comes out. If Rory catches me staring, he’ll get the idea that this is something other than what it really is.
By the time the DJ finally announces her, I’m wound up tighter than a coil. Rory, on the other hand, seems content to stuff his phone in his pocket and watch the show when the lights dim and #1 Crush by Garbage blasts from the speakers.
My fists contract as the waifish silhouette moves toward center stage. Her hips sway in a slow, sensual rhythm with every step she takes, arousing the reverence of the crowd. On top of her platform heels, she’s a delicate little doll. Her grace is softer than I expected, and a hushed quiet falls over the room as every pair of eyes become enchanted. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t too, and that’s a fucking problem.