16. Brinlee

16

What am I doing?

I plotted for myself a routine, a plan to avoid Sawyer and the handsome pack I met outside the shelter—and my steps led me right back to the Book Café, only to find all of them here.

Is it just my luck?

No, it's as if I lost control, snapped my strings, smashed my plan, and instinctively sought them out.

Which is a big mistake.

And now… now I feel crushed.

That reminds me that I left the book Sawyer gave me. Damn. And I was dying to read it.

Then again, it's probably for the best. Accepting gifts and running away is rude. I mean… God, it was the fantasy romance I've wanted to read for ages, and hearing Sawyer discussing it in the book club only made me want it more. But… money. Buying books costs, and right now I can't afford the pretty paperback I crave.

It was right there, in my hands.

And I left it behind.

Priorities, Brin, I remind myself. And ethics. You can't accept gifts from handsome men you don't intend to hang out with.

Not that I wouldn't want to. It just won't work out.

Trust me on this.

My life is a mess. I'm not a catch, and Sawyer and the handsome pack spending time in his café will realize that sooner or later. I'd rather they don't find out more about me. Leave them with the illusion that I'm someone worth talking to, worth looking at the way Sawyer was looking at me just now.

Besides, that pack and the way they were gazing at Sawyer? There's a spark there, and I should leave them to it. They were waiting for me to go, so they would talk to him. Court him, probably. He is, after all, an omega, and a successful man, with his own business, his interests, and hobbies.

What would I have to offer any of them? Nothing.

And I knew it when I entered the café today, just like I knew it every time I visited, and when I attended the book club just for the pleasure of seeing Sawyer and hearing him speak.

I'm pathetic.

As I step outside, onto the sidewalk, my heart aches. And as I walk away, I slow down and glance over my shoulder, somehow hoping Sawyer will come out, call me back.

Oh God, stop it, Brin.

After all, I was the rude one, walking out on him. I may have my reasons, but he doesn't know them. He must think I'm a horrible person.

That… that breaks my heart a bit more. Because I don't want him to think badly of me. Yet I don't know how else to behave to stop myself from throwing myself at him, from wanting things I just can't have.

I've always used distance to convince myself I don't need anything from anyone.

I've always pushed people away to avoid getting hurt.

Now you're an adult. Shouldn't you find better ways to cope and deal with other people?

I guess. But guess what? Not much has changed. I'm still the unwanted child who has no place among the beautiful, happy people. I'm still the girl who can't hope for a relationship because she isn't who people think she is, because she's not good enough, because she's not worth it.

Shit.

And like always when these thoughts hit me, I run. I start running, running away from these men who are too handsome and nice to be real, running away to hide.

Yeah, nothing has changed at all.

"Hey! Over here!" I hear a voice greet me as I enter the club where I work. "Here!"

"Okay, heard you the first time," I mutter, a little annoyed. "What are you doing hidden behind the door?"

"And you're in a mood, Baby Doll. What happened?" She steps back and nods. "Tell Jasmine everything."

Jasmine is one of the dancers working here. We have both girls and boys dancing at the club, the numbers more-or-less even.

"There's nothing to tell. What were you doing back there?"

"Sheesh, relax. I thought you were Janice and I was waiting to scare the shit out of you. Well, out of her. But you're not her."

"Obviously." For one, she's a beta and two heads taller than me—not hard to do, anyway, seeing as I am a shortcake. And for another, she's a brunette goddess, unlike the child-like girl wonder with boobs that is me.

"You're too quiet. Something's been on your mind. Come on, tell me. Get it off your chest."

"I'm fine," I mutter.

I mean, where would I even start? Between my brother, the medical bills, and the handsome men I can't have haunting me, I'm messed up. She should know better than to ask. All of us here at this club are a few sandwiches short of a picnic.

Short. Ha. See what I did there? I'm the shortest of them all.

In every sense.

"All right, girl, up to you." She snaps her gum, then blows a bubble. "You're up first tonight."

"Shit." Shaking my head, I leave her behind as I rush through the still-empty club to reach the dressing rooms. Going on stage first means I have less than half an hour to get dressed, do my makeup and some breathing exercises. Calm my usual nerves and get in the zone.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of Jerome, one of the bartenders, and wave at him. Then I say hi to two more of our pole dancers, Emily and River. River is only dressed in golden hot pants. He blows me a kiss as I go by.

As I hurry on, I shake my head again, smothering a grin. There are honest-to-God nice people working here. Some of them are strippers. It makes much more money than just dancing. River is one of our best.

I wonder where Faye and Jynx are. Haven't seen them around for days.

I burst into the dressing room we all share, and groan at the chaos reigning inside. To be fair, it's not as bad as it could have been. All of us dancers know that we need to keep the place tidy. It's so small that it's easy to step on others' toes and break stuff, ruin costumes and mess up the makeup products. So we all try our best to clean up after ourselves—but with so many dancers and so little space, it's practically impossible.

With a sigh, I pull the stool in front of the mirror and plonk my bag on it, then start stripping off my clothes. It all goes into my bag—which is why I need it so big.

And then I grab my costume and don my persona.

A Baby Doll has to wear… a babydoll dress. The tiny, lacy pink dress is a must. The customers expect it. They expect the whole shebang—bright red lipstick, fake lashes, and extra freckles on my face, my hair in a cloud around my head. Stockings with ribbons. Pink sandals with extra high platforms. Painted toenails. The whole picture.

They ask, we provide, so they can rain dollars down on us.

I squeeze my girls into the tight top of the babydoll, turn right and left to make sure I'm not flashing my nipples. You wouldn't think it, seeing how slight I am, but I have some serious boobage going on.

The customers seem to love it. It's one of my best assets.

And now I'm wondering if Sawyer has noticed, if he likes my boobs. If the handsome pack hanging out with him liked anything about me. If they find me pretty.

God, Brin. Really? You were just thinking that you need to stay away from all those beefcakes. Right now, the best you can hope for is to get through the evening without a customer groping you and make enough to pay the bills.

Small goals, yeah? Baby steps. That's how this works. That's how we manage not to sink into the mire. Handsome and kind men are way out of our league right now.

And why am I speaking in plural?

Is this a sign of lunacy?

It wouldn't be the first.

I pout my lips at the mirror, add another dab of lipstick. I'm practically a caricature of a woman like this, my eyes made huge with makeup and long fake lashes, my tiny dress accentuating my figure.

I wonder how men find it arousing.

Then again, they don't get to touch me, and mainly see me dancing on stage. I'm a showgirl, I'm here to play a role, and that's all there is to it. I don't hate it. Dressing up even helps me go through the motions because it's as if it's not me on that stage but a character in a story.

A story not my own.

A story I'm reading, observing from afar.

When nobody touches me, I can maintain that illusion. Let's hope tonight is one of those nights where I can play my role without interruptions from reality.

Climbing onto the stage, I keep my eyes on the toes of my shoes and the steps, then I fix my gaze on the pole. I know from experience that glancing around at the customers sitting at their tables, waiting for the show to start, will only make me more nervous.

The ones sitting front row, on the tip rail, usually expect lap dances and extras. The VIPs of the club. Its princes and princesses, because not to forget, not only men seek us out. It's generally an alpha haunt, but sometimes rich betas and omegas also join the ranks of pleasure seekers.

Personally, seeing without being allowed to touch would never do it for me, but the more money you can wave around, the more touching you're allowed. Special rules and all.

Which is why I hate the tip rail and am scared of those people with enough money to break the rules.

I signal Meera and my chosen song plays over the speakers. I can't choose just any song, of course. It needs to be approved by Meera who runs this show. She is in charge of our personals, costumes, dancing and music. She's like our pimp, DJ, trainer and shrink in one. It's to her we go with any issue or question.

The song starts. It's Stars and Roses, by one of my favorite rock bands, The Fugues, and the beat starts strong, echoing inside my bones. I let it seep into me as I sidle up to the pole, swaying my hips, getting into the rhythm. I swing my head right and left as I strut around the pole, letting the lyrics pierce me.

‘You said let me in, let me in, but every smile I wore is now broken,

Faking fine, faking fine, I try to breathe, but the air is too thin

I'm haunted…'

A drumroll, the singer wails into the microphone, and I grab the pole, swinging onto it, wrapping one leg around it, sweeping my arm out, fingers outstretched.

I grin, feeling a little mad, like the Joker, or like Harley Quinn, but shorter and with better makeup.

A poison doll.

Thankfully, the customers can't read my thoughts as I now grab the pole with both hands and hook a leg around it, gyrating. I let my head drop back, open my arms, using only my leg muscles to keep myself on the pole.

It's tempting to lose myself in the dance, get lost inside my head and dance for myself only, but the boss will be mad. I need to dance for the customers, play up the sexy angle.

Meera taught me all that. Gone is the wide-eyed innocent who landed upon these seedy shores. Now I grin wider as I climb up the pole and lean back. I turn as I spiral, giving the customers a good look at my cleavage, flashing them my black lacy panties.

Look but don't touch. That's the idea.

Fantasize about me but remember you can't have me.

I don't turn tricks. I'm only here for your viewing pleasure. And that pleasure should be enough.

‘You said, let me in, let me in, but in the shadows of my mind anxiety creeps,

We weren't meant to be together, not forever,

Lost in a maze…'

I spin on the pole. I can't do most of the acrobatics some of the other dancers are able to do, but I'm not required to hang upside down or do the splits. Only look sexy. So I crouch down, slowly straighten, arch my back, press my ass to the pole.

Then turn and press my boobs to it, slowly spinning, throwing my head back.

Dollars fall on the stage with soft whispers. Chairs scrape on the floor. Yeah, they like that. They think it's a metaphor for their dicks, they think I'm dying to rub myself all over them.

I'm not, just for the record. I'm just dancing the way Meera taught me to.

And the only dicks I'm interested in…

Don't go there, Brin.

Not even as Sawyer's face flashes through my mind, as the faces of the handsome pack lounging in his café become a reel playing on repeat.

Nope.

Don't do that to yourself. You walked out of that café for a reason. The reason is still valid.

As I spin and smile and toss my wild hair, as I make love to the pole for the dollars raining on the stage, with exultation but also dread in my heart, I know that nothing has changed.

And what happens next simply hammers it home.

The air is electric as my second song winds toward its end. One of the tip rail customers pats his lap, winking at me as I come to a halt, panting, sweat dampening my back, rolling down between my breasts.

I'm supposed to give them something. I don't feel like doing any lap dancing, but I sway my hips as I climb down the steps from the stage and head for the winking customer.

Even a mini lap dance can get you a nice tip, so I nod at him and put a hand on his shoulder, fake-straddling his lap. My ass isn't touching him, though. You need good thigh muscles for this trick.

I sway my hips from side to side, sweep my hair right and left, tip my head back. To everyone else, it might seem like I'm riding his leg, practically getting off on him, but I'm still dancing, dancing to the beat.

Then, from under my lashes, I catch his gaze narrowing on me, on my cleavage, on my spread legs. His mouth tugs in a smirk, sharp and cruel.

Now that's what gets me. I'd expect a guy's gaze to… lose focus somehow when I'm touching him, not grow more shrewd, as if he's calculating something inside his head. I expect a guy to lose control, not… this. This total control. This cold calculation.

It's slimy.

It makes my stomach roil.

Done with this crap, I straighten and step away from him, not caring anymore about the tip. But his hand closes around my wrist, yanking me back to him.

"Where are you going?" he hisses. "We aren't done here."

I yank my wrist away, glancing around for Meera. "No touching policy," I remind him quietly, but he's going again for my wrist.

I almost trip over my platform shoes as I all but sprint away from him. His hand closes on nothing, and I, my heart pounding, hurry toward the back, to the dressing room.

Shit, what a nasty reality check.

The door is open and I stomp into the dressing room, closing it behind me. I lean my back on it, trying to catch my breath. My ankle throbs. I think I twisted it a little as I ran back here.

"Brin?" a male voice rumbles. "Everything okay?"

I just about jump out of my skin, a shriek escaping me. "Oh my God, River! You scared the living shit out of me."

He laughs, then frowns. "Are you all right? You're pale. Did something happen?"

"Customer." I shrug. "Got handsy."

"You should tell Meera."

"I will." I grab my bag and go sit in a chair by the wall, watching him get ready. I always have a book inside my bag, to read a few pages and unwind before I head home. "Front row, receding hairline, blue suit. In case he goes for you."

He tuts, spraying his hair, tousling it. "If he wanted you, I doubt I'm his type."

True. He's a beta, and is nicely muscled, like that beta from the pack.

Roman. God, he had been so handsome. More slender than River, slightly more androgynous in his elegance and beauty, but with that dark-caramel voice that does something to me.

"Will you be okay?" River is watching me through the mirror, still frowning. "You can lock the door after I'm gone."

"He'd never come back here," I assure him, hoping it's true, and make myself smile. "I'm just going to read and go home."

"The usual ritual." He tilts his head to the side. "And at home? Everything okay?"

"Everything's fine," I lie, just like I lie to anyone asking, just like I lie to myself when I panic. "Go and strut your stuff on that stage. Give them palpitations with your talent."

"Don't worry, darling." He grins at me as he gets up, passing a hand over his golden hot shorts and translucent top. "I'm planning on it."