Page 38 of Trick Play (Playing the Field #4)
CHAPTER
THIRTY-SEVEN
Micah
Now
“Ow, ow . Fuck. Shit!”
The sounds of my friend’s expletives can be heard from down the hall as he slowly makes his way toward the dancers’ lounge, and when he rounds the corner with Chicago on one side and Macy on the other, I know this can’t be good. He has his arms over their shoulders as they support his limping frame to the nearest seat. He stifles a whimper as they help him down, sniffling.
“Let me see, Frankie,” Macy urges gently, crouching in front of him. Lip trembling, he holds tight to Chicago’s hand while Macy carefully slips the heel from Frankie’s foot and inspects his ankle. “Can someone get an ice pack, please?”
“I got it!” Karma jumps up with a worried expression and bolts for the refrigerator on the other side of the room. It’s always filled with fresh fruits, veggies, and cheeses for us, and the freezer section holds an array of ice packs for this very reason.
I, along with the other dancers lingering in the lounge, observe from a distance as our resident nurse checks over our coworker’s foot. “What happened?” I dare to ask Frankie, hoping that maybe talking will distract him from the obvious pain he’s in.
Watery eyes meet mine, and Frankie blinks rapidly to hold back the tears. “I stepped wrong. Tried to catch myself before I could fall, but my heel caught, and my ankle just . . . buckled . It hurts so bad, Mickey. What if it’s broken?” He reaches his free hand out for me to take. I give it a reassuring squeeze.
“I’m sure it isn’t,” I try to console, casting a nervous glance at Macy, who prods and rolls his ankle until he cries out and jerks away.
“Got the ice,” Karma announces breathlessly, though it wasn’t the few quick steps from there to here that has him that way. Since he’s started dancing, no one has had a serious injury, thank God. This is the first he’s seeing, and I’m sure it’s a nerve-racking experience.
“Don’t worry. Mr. Santiago pays a lot of money for us to have good health insurance. If Frankie has to go to the hospital, he’ll get the best treatment,” I tell Karma to try and calm him down, then look at my friend. “After Macy checks you out, do you want me to drive you home or to the urgent care? I don’t mind leaving?—”
Frankie gasps loudly, not in pain but as if he’s just remembered something important. “Shit! I have a client waiting for me in a private room. I have to . . .” He makes a move to stand, and the moment his toe touches the ground, he hisses in pain. We all urge him to sit back down again.
“They can get a dance from someone else,” I insist.
“I can do it,” Karma offers, ever eager to please.
I place a restraining hand on his shoulder. “You aren’t giving private dances right now, remember? No, the client can pick someone else from out front.”
“He already paid me,” Frankie informs us. “I have to go.”
Macy tsks. “Not on this ankle, you aren’t.”
Frankie throws his head back and groans. “Damn it. I already had a new purse picked out with that money.”
Already? It’s only been a few minutes!
Karma opens his mouth again, I swear to offer for the second time to give the private dance for Frankie, but Frankie speaks before he can. “Mickey,” he says in a voice I know all too well. It’s the one he uses when he wants to go to the spa for the second time in one week and he’s asking me to go along with him. I know what he’s going to ask before he can even say it.
“No,” I declare firmly. “I don’t do private dances. You know this.”
“Please, Mickey. I’ll give you half of the money.”
I can’t help but chuckle. “Only half?”
“He paid me five hundred.”
Damn. A seriously high roller.
“I know the client, and he’s totally respectful of the dancers.”
“It’s true,” Karma pipes up. “I was dancing at his VIP table one night when Dream came over and—um—said I could go dance for someone else.” I internally roll my eyes, knowing that’s Karma’s nice way of saying Dream was an asshole, as usual. “This client—he didn’t want to make me lose out on a dance, so he paid both of us to dance for him. He was very nice and generous, too.”
I hesitate. If Karma is saying the client is nice . . . I suppose I can do this for Frankie. “Just this once.” I point at Frankie for emphasis. “I’m only doing this once, and you owe me big-time, Frankie. You know I hate private dances.” Not because of the dancing but because some clients seem to think that a secluded room means I’ll let them touch me. Even before I realized that half of them turn into assholes behind a curtain, I still didn’t very much enjoy dancing with just me and a client. I prefer the stage up front. All eyes on me. Everyone wanting me but knowing they can’t have me. Can’t touch me. I like the empowering feeling I get from dancing in the public area.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” Frankie smiles broadly like his ankle doesn’t even hurt in the slightest, and I shoot him an odd look. “Thank— Ohhh, owie, owie. Macy, make it feel better.”
“I can get you some Tylenol or ibuprofen,” she offers without too much concern. Maybe it isn’t that serious.
Frankie makes a face. “Does anyone have any alcohol?”
Macy rolls her eyes and stands. “You’ll be fine. Just ice and elevate. We’ll work out a ride home for you, okay? Hang tight.”
“Thank you,” he says to her, then to Fox, who passes him a frozen margarita. To me, he simply says, “Room three. Show him a good time, will you? He sure paid enough money tonight to deserve it.”
I huff, no longer worried something is too terribly wrong with his ankle. At this rate, he’ll probably be back on the dance floor by tomorrow night. All I have to do is get through one dance while he rests up. I can do that.
Changing into my pink lingerie bodysuit with an attached cheeky lace skirt and a long, billowy white robe, I don a pair of heels not quite as tall as Frankie’s and make my way toward the hallway that houses the private rooms. I pass Key at the entrance, and I’m grateful to see him on post. I know he’s one of our most vigilant security guards, something that is only reinforced when he gives me a curious look.
He takes in my attire with a furrowed brow. “Are you doing a private dance, Mickey?”
“Frankie hurt his ankle,” I explain. “I’m helping with the client he has waiting.”
“Huh, okay. Hope Frankie gets better. And I’ll be listening extra close for you, okay? Don’t worry about that.”
I offer him a genuine smile. “I know, Key. I always feel safe around you. Now, wish me luck.”
“You don’t need it.”
Each room is equipped with its own surround system, and I pause outside the closed curtain of room three to select a song from the panel. The playlists are organized by each dancer’s name to make it easier for us to choose our songs, so I open mine and pick one I know well. This way, I won’t have to think about the fact I’m giving a private dance. I can focus on going through the motions and hoping it’s enough to impress Frankie’s high roller.
The rooms aren’t quite soundproof, so I hear the first staccato piano notes of the song without having to strain too hard. Once I step through the curtain, though, the rest of the club falls away. Music plays from every corner and wall from small embedded speakers that must have cost a fortune but are so worth it. The overall ambiance of the room feels very secluded and encapsulating, and I let that feeling wash over me as I put one heel in front of the other.
I look only long enough to confirm someone is sitting on the couch before I head for the stage in a slow, seductive walk, completely ignoring him. I know if I focus too much on who it is, what he looks like, or how he might act, I’ll pull a Frankie and trip over my own feet.
A strong, feminine voice begins to croon about putting a man under her spell as I reach the stage, carefully taking the few steps up. Once I’m front and center, back to the client, I sway my hips and let the featherlight robe begin to slip off my shoulders and down my back. It tickles my bare legs, then pools onto the floor at my heels.
The client gasps, and I grin to myself. I know I look good—it’s my job—but bringing grown men to desperation is something I’ve grown to thrive in doing. He’s not immune, falling victim to me just as every man in the front of the club. My nervousness dissipates as he reacts the same way I’ve come to expect from the male patrons of Mischief. I know this routine, have done it plenty of times over the last few years. I know what to expect from this encounter. His heated gaze. Parted lips. The awe. The wonder. The desire. The hardening bulge in the front of his pants. I know when I turn around, it will all be right there as it should.
But then the client does something I don’t expect.
He says my name.