Page 29 of Painkiller (Sin Records #3)

She wastes no time getting to business once I’m sitting in the only other chair in the room. “I’m Lana, in case no one has told you.”

“Po-ah…Ginger.” I extend my hand to accept her manicured one, but she doesn’t just shake it. She flips it over, examining it.

She must sense my confusion because she chuckles. “Sorry. Habit when I interview girls. Unless they’re hired by Dominic, they have to pass my inspection. This place might have shady shit going on, but it’s still elite and high-end, so I expect everyone to look the part.”

I take my hand back, feeling awkward as hell. “Yeah. Um…I have to keep my nails basic for my day job.”

“What’s your day job?”

My lips become a tight line as I wonder if I should tell her. Then, with a resigned huff, just say it. “I’m a ballerina.”

“Ah. You’re one of those girls.” She chuckles when I lift a brow. “We have plenty of girls just like you. They want to be real dancers, but until they get their big break, they end up here to pay the bills.”

“Better hang on to this job, too, then,” I mutter, ignoring the assumption I’m an aspiring ballerina. I prefer it anyway. It means she has no idea who I am, and I won’t have to worry about it getting back to anyone who could cause problems.

“All right, straight to business.” She moves a tablet across her desk and begins swiping.

She explains the menu , which I learn includes more than drinks, and all in code.

You know, so no one figures out that nothing in this place is legal.

Meaning I have to somehow memorize the entire list in the next few minutes, and now I’m thinking I might be in over my head because it’s a lot and very intimidating.

Next, she hands me my uniform, and I blink. “Uh. Is there more?” I ask, staring at the tiny, high-cut g-string.

She looks just as confused as I do. “Why would there be?”

“No reason,” I squeak. How did I not realize they walked around practically naked up here?

Probably the same reason you didn’t know it was a prostitution club.

“The rest of the rules are mostly the same here. Always wear your mask, you only answer to your stage name, and you don’t exchange personal information, but there’s not a hands-off policy in The 1st Circle.

They can and will touch you, but you may tell them to stop.

Heads up, though…the tips are better if you just go with it.

” Yay, me. “Now let’s get you on the menu. ”

“Excuse me,” I squeak.

“The menu.” She taps the tablet again. “You have to be on there so the customers can order.”

“Oh, um…” Fire races across my cheek. “Dominic said I don’t have to…you know.”

“Whatever you’re willing to do is up to you, but we have to have you on the menu for dancing.

Sometimes the customers will pay extra to see specific girls on the stage.

And of course, there’s table dancing, lap dances out there, and private dances in the rooms. It all requires them to know if you’re available.

They’ll know you aren’t available for more from the lack of options under your name. ”

“Oh. Right. Got it.”

“Now, tell me. What are you offering today, Ginger?”

An hour later, I’ve discovered that The 1st Circle is madness. Less than a quarter of the people are allowed in compared to The 7th Circle, but it’s constantly changing. When one person leaves, another appears. I haven’t stopped moving since I started, but I’ve had to pick up my hustle even more.

It’s every bit as debauched as I expected. Table dances are two-fifty, lap dances are triple that. Technically, it pays more than the other services, but they’re not nearly as in demand.

Nope. Here, it’s sex, sex, and more sex happening in every corner.

Nothing is off limits from the oral sessions on the sofas to the doggy-style adventures over a table.

But don’t think anything comes with the hefty membership fee.

Each favor has a price tag along with the four hundred dollar an hour fee for the server .

And if they want a little more than basic vanilla—yes it says vanilla on the menu for each coded treat — for an additional five hundred dollars an hour you can request an hour in a room packed with every toy and tool—each one costs extra—to let you be a kinky little freak while still getting your exhibitionism on.

Don’t worry, though, if exhibitionism isn’t your thing or you just want privacy, you can get an exclusive, private room for five hundred an hour.

Oh, by the way, the room charges don’t count the server or what goes on in there.

Those fees are still separate and double what it is in the other rooms. Tips not included.

I really hope no one comes here for a private blow job.

And the servers get half of everything. An honest-to-goodness fifty-fifty split. Well, of the services . Not the room fees or other refreshments.

I would be lying if I said I didn’t see why most of them don’t just take part but actively seek customers they know will want to have some fun.

The prospect of all that money is tempting, and rumor has it some of these girls clear almost ten grand a night.

It would take me a week to make enough to pay the bank.

Not to mention the constant scene of bodies writhing against each other, women’s heads thrown back in pleasure, the heady moans, extremely attractive men on the cusp of release…

Dammit, I don’t know if it’s normal, but I’m so turned on, the friction from simply walking makes my eyes roll.

I blame my lengthy dry spell and a certain green-eyed bad boy for my predicament.

However, if this reaction is typical, it’s another reason the girls don’t mind.

A little pleasure and a lot of money? It’s enough to tempt anyone.

But I really can’t stomach the idea of something so transactional and clinical with a stranger—even a one-night stand is more personal than this—and I am not a good enough actress to fake it.

Since I will not join them, I’ll just make sure I’m the best waitress and dancer up here for the night.

That everyone wants that just as much as anything else.

Pivoting on my toes to the right, I barely miss colliding with another girl on my way to a table.

A quick pas de bourrée couru prevents another near miss between two more girls.

Swinging my arms up with a quick tourner, I miss another.

And I manage with no boob to boob contact.

Or boob to muscly abs of the guys. Who knew ballet would be so handy as a waitress?

Me. I knew.

When I reach the customer’s table, an incredibly attractive businessman with cold eyes and a leggy blond on his lap, rubbing him through his pants, my thigh muscles clench as I hand off his drinks, ignoring the moans of the woman on the sofa behind him with one of the male worker’s head between her legs.

A hand in the air beckons me, and I make my way to the next customer. My steps falter when I spot Jagger and his friends walking through the room. Green fury seeps into my veins as I watch them claim a sofa by the stage. My jaw clamps with a surge of malice.

I haven’t seen him in days. Not that I should have. That afternoon, he helped me get my apartment cleaned—meaning he paid to have it done—and stayed with me while I spoke with the police. Then we came to the club together where he fought, this time a little less bloody, and I waited tables.

It was…friendly.

I haven’t seen him since. I should not have expected to see him. Yet, I keep waiting for us to bump into each other.

Closing my eyes, I spin away, reminding myself it doesn’t matter. He’s not mine, and I am the one who made it abundantly clear that nothing can or will happen between us. He has every right to be here with anyone he chooses.

He doesn’t owe me anything. If I’m honest with myself, I owe him. He’s paid for multiple meals, chauffeured me, and even gave me a place to sleep when I was too shaken to remain in my apartment.

Exhaling the jealousy gnawing at my chest, I go to my next table. Without my permission, my eyes slide his way again, and this time I notice the icy rage dancing in his green eyes and the tension in his shoulder. Why is he so angry?

Envy blisters me again as three girls approach them. Their masks let me know they’re all part of the staff, but the glimmer in their eyes gives away their excitement. They like what they see. Maybe they even know them. Know what they’ll order and the benefits they can reap by serving them.

A blond approaches Jagger, and for a moment, spite tickles my palms, the urge to snatch her away making them itch. When she touches him, it becomes a malevolent need.

Until I see his eyes flare, his demons rising, dark and fast, filling his jade orbs with anger and panic. One of the other girls, a brunette, snatches her away, shaking her head and whispering something to her. The blond’s eyes dart back to Jagger with apology. He nods, not looking at her.

When the brunette takes her place beside him, the insidious animosity returns like a tidal wave, and I find myself stalking toward them.

I’m saved by someone stepping in front of me and grabbing my arm.

“Ginger, right?” a dark-eyed siren with curves for days—fyi, my lack of curves definitely makes me stand out in this place—asks me.

I nod once. “Lana said for you to take over stage four for the next set.”

“Which is stage four?”

She looks over her shoulder and jerks her head…

Right toward my unwanted desire .