“I am not practicing lap dancing on my best friend. That’s just going too far.”
Owie bounces back to the table. “I won a Snickers Bar.” He shows us excitedly.
Jenna finishes her drink. “Come on, we need to get going.”
Owen picks up his iPad and book.
“Mom’s going to work tonight, kiddo, so it’s just you and me. Let’s get some ice cream on the way home.”
“Yes.” He beams.
Jenna’s eyes scan me up and down. “We’ve got to find you something to wear.”
I scrub my hands down my face. “Oh God, it gets worse. Shit’s getting real.”
4
Ashley
I sit in my car and watch the large, heavy front doors of Club Exotic across the street. It’s 10pm and my nerves are pumping under my surprisingly calm exterior.
“Ashley, what are you doing here?” I whisper to myself.
With each man that arrives, my heart rate goes up another twenty beats per minute. These are no sleazy street guys. They’re middle aged, handsome men in expensive suits. My mind goes back to the little sales pitch Madam Whorehouse gave me today.
And that’s exactly why we want you. I don’t want stripper wannabes. I don’t want people trying to be discovered to be famous. I want attractive, sexy, and intelligent women who know what they want from life.
It all sounds too good to be true, but I could never imagine doing this. I get a vision of myself half naked, writhing on a stranger’s lap, and I cringe and bring the car engine to life again. I can’t do this. Who am I kidding? I steer the car out of the parking lot and pull out into the traffic. Her words run through my mind again:
Think about it, Ashley. Two and a half thousand dollars a week for one shift.
What holidays could you take your son on? What car would you drive? What designer clothes could you buy?
I blow out a deflated breath and pull into Starbucks. I need some time alone to think. I would love a cocktail somewhere, but I’m not going to a bar alone. I park the car, get out, and walk in deep thought.
“Welcome to Starbucks. What would you like to order tonight?” the young, chirpy male assistant asks.
I scan the lit up menu board behind him. “I’ll take a caramel latte and a chocolate mud cake, please?”
“Sure.”
I pay and make my way over to a table. I feel sick—partly because I know what I should do financially, and then what I know I am capable of.
Dancing naked in a whorehouse isn’t on either list.
But…
The money would make such a difference to Owen’s quality of life… and mine.
My number is called and I go and pick up my coffee and cake, then take a seat back at my table. I wonder what the girls wear for a uniform?
Nothing, you idiot. Half the women don’t even have tank tops on. I screw up my face as I imagine the boob fest just hanging out in the open for everyone to see. I wonder what the VIP girls are like. Jeez, I can’t imagine going to work and just casually fucking people as if it means nothing. But, five grand a night is insane.
The guys they fuck are probably hot, too. I smirk into my coffee cup. Imagine banging a hot, intelligent man and getting five thousand dollars for the privilege. Hell.
I wonder what they spend their money on? I get a vision of crazy expensive handbags and vacations.
Morals are overrated. I could do with an extra twenty-thousand dollars a month.
If only…
Imagine if I did do the VIP job, and then one day in the future Owen found out.
My eyes widen in horror.
How could you ever explain to your child that you were a prostitute? That you let men fuck you for money. You couldn’t. They would never understand and there is no possible excuse you could ever use, because it’s inexcusable. I shake my head in disgust that I even contemplated working in a place like that. I eat my cake and drink my coffee alone, and even though I’ve made the decision not to go in and check out the club, an annoying little voice inside is telling me it’s the wrong one.
I need money. I desperately need money. I moved Jenna all the way here to help with Owen and I have to damn well find a job that pays well.
This isn’t a club that offers slap dash women who have slept with every man in the USA. This is a