Page 18 of Pink Poison (The Butchers MC #1)

Chapter eleven

Stevie

My heart skips with anticipation as I slam open the women’s locker room doors.

The floor was packed full of clients, all eyes glued to the stage as the dancer seamlessly shucked her lingerie off.

I thought about Mae’s warning and my initial discomfort of knowing that these people could give in to their desires while I work the stage, but I've found a sense of relief… for now.

The cloying fragrance of perfume assaults my senses as I approach the locker Mae assigned for me. Harsh whispers from a group of women pique my curiosity, convincing me to slow my pace to catch their words.

Mister Lennon seemed keen to have this one.

She’s not even marked.

She looks like a slut. I mean, have you seen her tits? Those can’t be real .

“Which one of you prissy little bitches just called me a slut?” I bark. Turning on my platforms, I face the now silent group. “Come on, don’t be shy now.”

A petite woman with short, auburn hair steps forward with a hand on her bony hip. Her mousy, brown eyes roam over my body before rolling to my face. Her nose scrunches, leaving behind a wrinkle, like she smells something putrid. “Do we have a problem?”

I snort. “Honey, it sure sounds like we do.”

“Listen, honey ,” she mocks. “You might think you’re hot shit around here, but to us? You’re nothing. All you’re doing is taking away from us by being here. You should be on the third floor with the other whores who spread their legs.”

Licking my lips, I step forward with my hands clenched at my side. I can’t afford to pull a Teegan right now and beat the hell out of this gnat, but if she calls me a whore again, I don’t think I have it in me to hold back.

It doesn’t sound the same as when Max calls me one.

“You know," my brows lift in disbelief as I purposely check her out again, "I’d be jealous of myself, too, if I looked like that .” I don’t take pride in knocking down another woman by her appearance, but if she wants to play ball, she needs to know how to catch, not just hit.

She scoffs, damn near turning her nose up at me. “As if I’d want to look like a fucking plastic doll.”

“You can thank the big man upstairs or the one down below for all I care, but these—” I smirk, groping my chest over my dress. “Are very much real.”

“She’s not worth it, Cheyenne,” someone snarks from the group.

Pulling my attention away from Cheyenne , I flick my gaze toward the group and give them my best pout. “It’s not that I’m not worth it. It’s the fact none of you could afford me.”

“Whatever,” Cheyenne huffs .

Rolling my eyes, I continue forward. Before I have a chance to stew on whatever dancer showdown that just happened, I reach my locker.

With a sigh I open the door, hoping like hell that the box that Creed sent is still there.

While the blue dress was not an option to wear, I can make do with the pale blue lingerie he sent along with it.

A sharp gasp catches in my throat as my eyes catch on a large, white box decorated with a pink chiffon bow.

I swallow thickly, knowing that it's all too similar to the box Atticus gave me earlier.

Gently, I pull the gift from my locker with trembling hands, noting the heavy weight difference.

Placing the box on the leather bench in front of the lockers, I unravel the decorative bow and lift the top lid.

What the fuck? Inside rests a gathering of white and pale pink feathers, and a card.

What the hell is this?

Flicking the card open, I read the brief note from Creed Hill, stating that an angel needs to wear wings, and that pink is certainly the better of colors.

I toss the card aside and lift the feathers from the box.

Jesus, how loaded is this guy? They aren't just feathers. They are, in fact, an elegant costume piece. Underneath the feathers is a frilly, faded pink French Coquette lingerie set worth more than a month’s worth of dancing would get me.

My stomach clenches uncomfortably at the implication this would send if I wore it on stage.

Creed Hill doesn’t seem like the kind of man who does things like this out of the goodness of his heart.

No. He’s cut from the same cloth as Atticus Lennon, and for some reason, he has taken an interest in me despite Jameson’s earlier effort to ward him off.

Fuck.

I set the feathered wings down and reach for the hem of my dress.

It takes a little effort, but I manage to get it off and toss it into my locker.

Goosebumps ghost over my skin knowing that I'm completely bare for anyone to see.

It's a strange feeling, being in a new club again.

It always takes a while to adjust, but something tells me it'll be impossible to adjust here.

The previous chatter in the room silences as the remaining dancers exit, giving me a moment of peace before I officially mark my place here.

“Blondie,” Kash whispers. A piercing scream scratches my throat, unprepared for anyone, much less him to be in the locker room. “Shit, don’t scream, you’re gonna get me caught.”

My frame shakes as I turn my head to see my golden-haired stalker. He stands only a few feet away, smirking playfully with his hands tucked behind his back. “What the fuck , Kash?” I spit.

“You were taking too long. I got worried.” He shrugs.

“I was uh—” I glance at the gift box and costume wings. “I was thinking about what I should wear.”

“Is that from Hill?” Nodding, I grab the lace-cut panties, hating how decadent the material feels on my skin.

“You’re not wearing that,” he states sharply, not bothering to hide his disdain.

I sigh. “I don’t have much choice.” Carefully, I step my platforms through the leg holes. “I planned to dance topless with my thong, but we both know what happened to those.”

Kash growls, “Not a chance in hell, sweetheart. Take those panties off.” His gruff, commanding tone leaves no room for argument.

As in, I'm pretty damn sure he'll rip these panties off himself.

Shaking the fabric from my legs, I let it pool around my heels.

I chance a look at him through my peripherals, watching as he slides his arms from his leather vest before shaking it out and draping it over his forearm. “What are you doing?”

He takes a step forward, and then another. “Nothing from Creed fucking Hill is going to touch your body while you’re on that stage,” he seethes.

My eyes narrow, unimpressed with his current critical thinking skills. “Kash, I can’t go on completely naked. ”

“You won’t be completely naked.” He smirks devilishly, placing his cut over the gift box. “You'll be wearing this.”

“Are you insane?” I snap.

Obviously, he is. Because a sane man would never take his goddamn cut off and demand a stripper, a stripper he doesn't even fucking know, wear it on stage.

I may not have been around the MC long, but the one thing that Mo instilled in us was how important that leather is, and what it means to wear it.

"Barbie," Mama Mo calls.

I walk to her on unsteady feet. Teegan says I'll get used to wearing platform heels, but I find that hard to believe when I'm practically Bambi on ice in them. "Yeah, Mama Mo?"

Mo coughs. "You ready for tonight?"

I nod. I've been practicing my routine all week and feel confident on the pole. "I'm as ready as I'll ever be."

She lights a cigarette, not caring that her club is supposed to be a smoke free zone. "Good. Do you remember the rules?"

"One piece must come off by the end of the first dance," I recite. "Wait to collect tips until after my song stops. Oh, and don't fall."

"You’re missin' a rule," Mo drawls. My brows pinch, certain that I memorized everything Teegan told me.

Inhaling a long drag of her cigarette, she pins me with a firm stare.

"Don’t mess with none of them bikers that come in here.

" She exhales, blowing the smoke out the corner of her mouth.

"And don't ever put one of their cuts on. "

"W-Why?" I ask.

"You tryin' to become property?"

Property? Why in the hell would I want to do that?

I shake my head. "No, ma'am."

She laughs, her voice raw and smokey. "Then you best remember not to touch anyone's leather, girlie. The minute you put one on, you're that man's property, and you can't take it back."

Kash snorts, bringing me back to reality. “I never said I wasn’t crazy.” He pats his hand over his leather vest.

Jesus fucking Christ. Yeah, this man is certifiable.

"I can't wear that ," I grit.

His face hardens, undeterred by my refusal. "I think you’re mistaking this as a request when it's actually a demand, Stevie." He steps forward, standing toe to toe with me. "Put my fucking cut on and get your sexy ass on that stage."

The tension between us thickens, choking me with my next breath. "Kash."

He grabs my face and squeezes my cheeks punishingly. I hate that I let him do it, just as much as I hate that I notice the calluses on his fingertips, the way I know what spiced cologne he's wearing.

Dior Homme 2020.

"Do not mistake the fact that I'm sweet on you for kindness, sweetheart ," he bites. "I'm just as much Butcher as my brothers." His fingers dimple my cheeks, undoubtedly forming bruises on both sides. "Put. My. Fucking. Cut. On."

“Fi-Fine,” I mumble, reaching for the vest.

My platforms click as I walk toward the blindingly bright stage. Inhaling deeply, everything Kash clouds my senses. Leather. Stale cigarette smoke. Beer. Dior Homme. It's close to convincing me that it was actually a good idea to wear his cut.

Close.

Sadly, close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome to the stage for the first time here at Le Papillon, Stevie,” the emcee rumbles, breaking me from my thoughts of Kash.

Swaying my hips, I walk towards the center stage pole to an unfamiliar beat—one that I haven’t danced to before.

Shit.

I add an extra pop to my hips, flashing a teasing view of my ass.

A piercing wolf whistle shrieks over the music and I use it as a confidence boost, knowing damn well who made the sound.

Kash. With a sassy toss of my hair, I grip the pole and throw my weight around.

It spins me seamlessly while I lock one leg around it.

Between muscle memory and the rush of performing, I lose myself in the fluidity of the music.

It's almost like meditation— my version of it at least. As soon as the bass vibrates through the stage, I drop to my hands and knees. Kash’s vest falls open, revealing my full chest and uncovered mound.

Faces blur together while I crawl forward.

Reaching the end of the stage, I witness exactly what Mae warned me about.

The entire gallery is lost in pleasure while I provide their entertainment… or inspiration.

Oddly, the sickening feeling I anticipated never comes. Instead, in its place is a tempered burn of pride. Pride that I commanded this room with nothing but a few swings around a pole.

The rapid thump of the music slows, morphing into a familiar slow, sensual song.

Leaning back on my heels, I inch my knees apart and trail my hand down my cleavage to my core.

The masses fall into each other, succumbing to their pleasure while I continue to work the floor.

Time no longer feels real as the song continues to play, almost as if the music is bending the rules for me.

Before my mind has a chance to keep up, the bass tapers away, signaling the end of my song.

I pull my weight forward and close my legs before standing back to my full height again.

The ache in my muscles deepens with each step away from the stage, but I manage to put on a flashy strut as I normally would.

“Great set, new girl,” the emcee whisper-shouts.

I move to thank him, but a hint of familiar blond hair from the side stage catches me off-guard. “Let's go, sweetheart,” Kash’s voice clips.

Straining a smile, I shuffle backstage, ready to get the hell out of here and sleep this entire day off.

The heavy thump of boots hitting the ground follows me offers a slight comfort, knowing that Kash is watching over me. We walk in silence up the stairs until I reach the locker room. The door briefly hovers behind me before slamming closed, followed by the sound of Kash's boots.

Of course he followed me in here.

I don't know why I thought he would do anything different. The man clearly doesn't know the definition of personal space or taking it slow. I should hate it—I really should, and yet for some un-fucking-godly reason, I don't.

Not yet, anyway.

“You didn’t have to follow me in here.” I sigh as I shake his leather vest from my shoulders. “I’m going right to the hotel once I get dressed.”

He huffs a laugh. “I’ll make sure you get there, blondie. It’s not like I’m in any hurry to get back to The Deli, anyway.”

Shaking my head, I slide his cut from my arms and set it on the bench before opening my locker.

I ignore the lavish gifts from Creed and dig out the pink bodycon dress I wore earlier.

Pulling it over my head, the material sticks to my sweat-slicked skin as I stretch it over my chest, giving Kash one hell of a show.

Not that he seems to care.

“Worried about your Prez scarring that cute face?” I tease, yanking the fabric lower, successfully covering my body.

“Something like that,” he mumbles, shuffling away from the lockers.

My stare falls to the bench where his vest sits as I left it. His silent command is loud: I’m wearing it until I’m at the hotel.

Asshole.

Rolling my eyes, I grab the leather before trailing after him.