Tough Guy: A Hero Club Novel by Jamie Schmidt (the reading list .TXT) 📗

the crowd watching me go wild on my twenty-first birthday.

I cleared my throat. “Why was she the best stripper? Was she a classically trained dancer?”

Shaking his head, Miles said, “Because she could do math.”

“I hate math.”

“Most people do. But if you do four VIP sessions in an hour, how much do you make?”

“Four hundred dollars.”

“I take half.”

“Half? That’s bullshit.” I only took fifteen percent of my client’s salary. Fifty percent was ridiculous.

He smirked. “My building. My booze. My protection.”

I admired his large arms and broad chest. I wouldn’t want to get into a fight with him. “Okay, fine. I’ll give you that.”

“So, you wind up making two hundred dollars an hour. For a six-hour shift, the most you can make is twelve hundred dollars—and that’s only if you book back-to-back sessions, which most girls don’t.”

“What about tips?”

“That’s the name of the game. If they’re not in the VIP room, they can still make money doing twenty-dollar lap dances.”

“Do they do forty-two-hour work weeks?” That would be every day. Seven days straight of dancing was tough.

“If they want. But most of them work four days on and four days off.”

It hurt, but I did the math in my head. Maybe that drink hadn’t been so watered down after all. “I guess someone who was driven could think she could walk away with twenty-five thousand dollars after a month.” Was that why Lisa decided to stop being a bartender? By the end of the year, she could have paid off her medical bills.

“That’s a high goal. Like I said, that’s only if you’re booked solid. No one here has ever been booked solid. The real money comes in tips. I don’t take a penny of the dancers’ tips. That’s 100% free and clear. So when they get the customer into the VIP room, they have to give them an experience that they’re not getting on the floor.”

“What kind of experience?” I asked warily.

“Not what you’re thinking. Out there,” I jerked my thumb behind me. “The clients can’t touch the girls and they move on after one song unless the guy pays for another lap dance. In here, it’s a more intimate one-on-one show.”

I took in a sharp breath.

He held up a hand. “I’m not running a whorehouse. I’m legit. But most guys will tip Jacksons to have a beautiful woman give him one hundred percent of her attention for fifteen minutes. Believe it or not most of the guys just want to talk to a naked woman while she’s dancing. That’s it.”

“No funny stuff?” I asked, fascinated despite myself.

He smirked. “Guys don’t want a girl to make them laugh.”

Rolling my eyes, I said, “I mean what about touchy feelies?” I made groping motions with my hands.

“Legally, you can’t do anything lewd. There’s a line not to cross.”

“What’s the line?”

“A little grinding is okay. Maybe a kiss or a nuzzle. The key is to make the guy feel special. Harvard knew that. She could make a grand in the time it took the other dancers to earn a hundred.”

“What did she do that made her so popular?”

“Anything the client wanted that she was willing to do.”

Crossing my arms in front of me, I said, “I thought you said you weren’t running a whorehouse.”

He lifted his hand in mock surrender. “I get undercover cops in here all the time and I’ve never had a solicitation violation. Besides, there are cathouses a quick taxi ride from here where it’s all legitimate and you get what you pay for.”

“Yeah, you’re a perfect angel.”

“Not even close.”

Damn. I blew out a shaky sigh. I had to stop enjoying talking to him so much. I was on a mission. “I can’t see Lisa letting strange men grope her.”

“It doesn’t have to be groping. It can be sweet talking and pushing drinks. It can be entrancing them with their bodies, teasing as an art form.”

“There’s got to be guys that take it too far,” I said shakily.

“Mav,” Miles barked.

I flinched at his tone and the couch sucked me in deeper.

About ten seconds later, the door got kicked open and a giant man stood there glaring into the room with a telescoping baton in his hand. His gaze skated over me and I almost peed in terror. I saw a slight frown cross his brow as he realized it was just me and Miles in the room.

“You need help subduing this one, boss?” he drawled.

“We’re good, Mav,” Miles said, without turning around to look at him. His dark eyes on mine were amused.

“You sure? Because she looks like she could be trouble.”

“Fuck off.”

“You called me,” Mav grumbled, storming out of the room.

“Close it behind you,” Miles said.

The door slammed.

“He was listening in the whole time?” I asked.

“No. Our system responds to keywords. Calling his name or mine triggers an emergency signal that tells security what room and what dancer needs us.”

“What happens then?”

His smile turned darker. “I earn my fifty percent.”

Well, that explained why Mav came in like a freight train. “I see.”

“I take the safety of my staff very seriously. The dancers are in total control in this room. If a customer tries to assault one of my dancers, they get arrested and banned from my establishment—after I bang them against the wall a few times. If you think Broadway met a dark end, it didn’t happen in this bar.”

“I’m pretty sure she didn’t.” I told him the story of Lisa’s accident. I left out the part about the pills, but played up how worried my parents were. “She shouldn’t have been dancing at all.”

He smirked. “Vegas turns saints into sinners.”

“Don’t I know it.” I almost choked when he turned interested eyes on me. “But that’s not what I meant. Yeah, my mom would shit a brick sideways if she knew her precious ballerina was stripping. But I don’t give a shit. Frankly, I’m surprised she unclenched enough to dance to “top forty.” I did air quotes on the last two words and said them in Lisa’s snottiest tone.

Miles smirked.