Thunder (Hell's Handlers MC #10) - Lilly Atlas Page 0,5
thirsty work.
Clearly, the women were parched as well. They all but ignored him now that his performance had concluded, sucking back champagne like it would prevent their Botoxed faces from aging.
Christ, he hated loaded, entitled women.
But at the same time, he was grateful for them because they’d been lining his pockets for years. Go-go dancing had been pretty much the only profession he’d known until he patched with the Hell’s Handlers and began working at Zach’s gym during the day.
Working in the daylight hours…who knew that was a thing?
After scooping the money off the floor—a degrading act he fucking hated—he slipped a pair of gray athletic pants over his briefs. No way was he leaving in the clichéd police officer getup he’d arrived wearing.
“Hey, Thunder.” The syrupy, slightly slurred voice behind him had him rolling his eyes before he plastered a smile on his face and turned.
“Hey, Mrs. Henderson.”
The short-haired, platinum-blonde in her Ralph Lauren dress and flats giggled. “Come on, how long have we known each other?”
Too fucking long.
“When are you going to start calling me Lisa?”
Never. These women got a naughty little thrill out of being called Mrs. Whoever while gawking at a nearly naked man who wasn’t their husband. Hell, a few even liked it when he was fucking ’em. Just last month, some broad requested he shout “Mrs. Simpson” as he came down her throat. Whatever. He’d made a thousand bucks to get a blowjob then get her off with a dildo her husband bought her because he was having trouble getting it up.
The stories he could tell.
“I’ll call you Lisa when you agree to leave your husband for me.” A little flirting went a long way with these women and was the difference between a night of good tips and a night of fucking bank.
She tittered again, pink tinging her cheeks. The perfect little demure woman. Or so she wanted the world to think. In reality, she had a thing for deep throating a man twenty years her junior for cash.
He’d rather die than be chained to a gold digger like Lisa Henderson, not that it was a worry he’d ever have to give more than a second of thought. She may be in a bland, sexless marriage like most of these hoity-toity bitches, but she’d never leave. Who’d pay for her weekly spa trips and designer shoe collection?
To these ladies, he was damn good fantasy fodder, but not a single one of them would ever want a man like him on their arm at their next charity gala. To them, he was nothing more than a dirty biker and a male whore.
“It’s too bad you’re not working at You’ve Got Male anymore. We all miss your headlining act.” She batted her false eyelashes as she stepped closer and ran a perfectly manicured fingernail down his sweaty chest.
His dick didn’t so much as twitch.
“I hear ya, babe. Just couldn’t swing the hours with my club commitments.” That was the truth. Working at Zach’s gym was great, really. Daytime hours, no one grabbing his ass, a regular salary. He loved it, but on a slow night when he’d been at YGM, he came home with an extra five hundred in cash. Though a rockin’ boss, Zach sure as hell wasn’t paying him that much. Still, he’d had to decide which club meant more to him because he couldn’t swing both.
The Handlers had won out.
Easily.
Lisa pouted, projecting that glossy lower lip out in a move he’d grown immune to somewhere around the thousandth time it’d been used on him. Probably before he’d turned nineteen.
“You know,” she said, as she traced a tattoo on his right pec, “I’m in the mood to keep having fun. How about you?”
Thunder bit back a sigh. He could really use the extra Benjamins she’d slip in his hand if he laid down and let her ride out her boredom. His dick’s disinterest in her didn’t mean shit. He’d spent enough time around professionals to know just how to get and keep it up no matter who was on the receiving end of his cock. After a few romps fucking women he had no interest in, he’d learned to disappear inside his head. To conjure up a vivid fantasy and fuck through it. All he had to do was call up an image of someone who tripped his trigger, and he’d be good to go for as long as necessary. Like that cute little waitress Toni had hired last week.