SCORCHED: A Firefighter Stepbrother Romance Thriller by Evelyn Graves Page A

a real champagne room, but what we had did
the trick. It offered the girls and their customer privacy whenever somebody
decided to spring for a more intimate lap dance. I knew some of the other girls
found ways to earn a little more back there—blowjobs, handjobs ,
full-on fucking. I wasn’t part of that club. That stuff led down dark paths.

 
    We got
a lot of lonely guys here. A lot of guys that came in because
nobody else would have them. They ran the gamut from just a little
awkward to real goddamn creeps. But one guy had transcended all the regular
weirdoes we got around here. One guy had scared me so damn bad I’d almost quit
working right then and there.

 
    I shook
off the chill snaking up my spine and said to Gino, “How’s the money on this
one?”

 
    Gino
shrugged. “Not bad. Ain’t the world’s biggest
spender, this one, but better than you would’ve made out here. ” He handed me the damp twenty-dollar bill. “ Here. Maybe this’ll sweeten the deal.”

 
    Gross! I plucked the money
from his hand with the tips of my nails. Twenty dollars was still twenty
dollars, even sweat-stained and reeking of Crown Royale.

 
    I wove
through the tables, spying Ginger grinding on stage
out of the corner of my eye. Her red hair flashed as she flipped it, stealing a
glance in my direction. I saw her smirk—saw triumph glitter in her eyes. Whatever, bitch. I won’t be out of
commission forever.

 
    Maybe
if I made enough money, I could get a new outfit. Something skanky. Something
with higher heels. And then maybe Ginger could go jump off a fucking bridge.

 
    I was
halfway to the champagne room when Chelsea spotted me. She was on some drunk guy’s lap, which was pretty much where you could
usually find her, if she wasn’t at home. Even when we went out to the
clubs—the ones without naked
chicks all over— Chel was a bloodhound for the
guys with one too many drinks in ‘ em and more money
than they could spend. Sometimes I wished I had her nose for it. Maybe then I
could get the fuck out of Gunner’s place, this club, and this whole damn city.

 
    “Hey,
look who’s here!” Chelsea said, giggling as she bent backward. With her tits
straight up in the air she looked at me, batting her baby blues. “How’s the
hand, sweets?”

 
    “Shitty
for dancing,” I told her, smiling as she straightened back up. She undulated
like a snake, her flesh always moving. Her customer seemed pleased. “I got
someone in the champagne room, though.”

 
    Chelsea
spun around, kicking her legs off the man’s lap to grind her ass into him.
“Ooh, maybe you’ll get another regular? I’m tellin ’
you, sweets, a steady stream of loyal customers is the only way to go.”

 
    “You
want loyal customers?” one of the fat, greasy men next to her sneered over the
rim of his Jack and Coke. “Shut the fuck up while you’re on the job.”

 
    The man
under Chelsea winced. “Jeez, Dad. Leave her alone.”

 
    I stood
there for a moment, taking in the scene. Chelsea was ignoring the men pretty
successfully, but I couldn’t. I just didn’t have her resolve.

 
    It fuckin ’ killed me to see the generational misogyny evolving
right before my eyes. Maybe the kid wasn’t so bad, but he was still here,
wasn’t he—taking advantage of women with no viable alternative for
survival? Renting our bodies like we were any other whore on the street? He might not have been a blatant dick like his dad, but what
would happen if Chel saw him in a Starbucks someday,
and he thought he could get her into his car and back to his house because,
hey, he’d bought and paid for her, right?

 
    When
she said no, what was the first thing he’d say back to her? No? You’re a fucking stripper. Who the fuck
are you to tell me no? Fucking bitch. You’re nothing but a whore.

 
    I’d
seen it happen. I’d been on the receiving end of that shit way too many times.
Thank God I’d always been able to walk away. I knew