Stripped

 

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Introduction

"This particular patron has a special request." He held out his hands, atop which rested a black blindfold. "He's a very private man. You will be well compensated, as will I." And with that, he turned me around and proceeded to tie the bandana over my eyes.

******
Meet Ellie Brookes: smart, stubborn, and sarcastic Vegas stripper who is requested to provide private performances to a seductive patron who insists on remaining anonymous. Unwillingly forced to dance blindfolded to fulfill this (presumably) handsome stranger's lucrative request, she finds that despite her resistance to what she sees as a misogynistic fetish, his mystery and intrigue leave her spellbound. After a menacing client attacks Ellie outside the club, she awakens in her bed wrought with situational amnesia and soaked in blood. She immediately begins behaving in ways that leave everyone around her stunned - including her handsome stranger for whom she has begun to fall. He fights to keep her close, but as her memories from that sordid night begin to return, along with flashbacks of a painful past long-forgotten, her angst to discover his identity begins to lose traction to another, more pressing addiction: revenge.

"Wow. Can I say that I love Jayne Dixon's writing? Brilliant plot and storyline!"

"I'm hooked! This story is fantastic!"

"I seriously seriously love "Stripped!" I am obsessed! I've reread it like probably 10 or 15 times! I love it! What an amazing author!"

"This story is a fun romp through the world of an average girl finding her place of belonging within an average strip club, but with TONS of fun, sexiness, adventure, mystery, lust, love, and plot twists!"

 

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Chapter 1

I clutch my leather satchel with a tension that turns my knuckles white; and I haven't even gotten to my gate yet. My anxiety is eclipsed by every well-toned, brown-haired man that enters my peripheral vision – as if I'm watching the final results of the power ball tease their way into place.

I suppose the typical airport smells of cinnamon rolls and Mexican food is delightful enough when the rum-infused breath of the drunken man next to me isn’t abusing my senses. Every few minutes, he burps loudly without reservation and takes another gulp from his ‘coffee’ cup. It’s like I’m back in college again, watching my Chemistry professor grade papers, the sweat from his rolling neck dripping across the keyboard while his stained yellow teeth made a disturbing clicking sound. If I had any choice in the matter, I wouldn’t hesitate to offer this drunkard the entire bench; he could certainly use the space. But as it is, I’m stuck here, my fingers sweaty and twitching while my eyes dart from person to person hoping that this ridiculous daydream I’m chasing isn’t as elusive as it seems. If this man weren’t so tantalizing; if he hadn’t made me burn in ways I’d never experienced, I might never have stepped foot in another airport. But I’m hard pressed to come up with any reason not to do as he requests, especially when the possibilities are endlessly appealing.

I miss dancing already: the smooth movements, the adrenaline pulsating through my veins, the hot and horny clientele shouting at me over the bumping dance mix. Everywhere else in the world leaves a lot to be desired. Stressed out travelers, screaming children, and overworked fast food employees are equally boisterous, but there is certainly no pleasure to be had within a mile of where I sit.

For what God-awful reason am I sweating in this suffocating airport, scrutinizing traveling businessmen when I could be collecting cash and dancing my ass off in a drunken state of euphoria? I suppose you'd like to know?

Well, okay, but get ready. It's a long story and I guarantee you’ll hate me when it's done.

It all began about six months ago when I literally bumped into Mia during my shift at the grocery store. She was kind enough to forgive my clumsiness, which was great, because it turned out she worked there too – it was her first day. And it was just her day job; at night she was a dancer. No surprise there, she was gorgeous with penetrating brown eyes, beautiful long dark legs, and a figure that had even the straightest girls reconsidering their sexual preferences. Everyone wanted to be friends with her. I guess I was one of the lucky ones, especially considering I nearly knocked her unconscious at our first encounter.

It didn't occur to me, of course, to ask what kind of dancer she was. I just assumed it was a post-economic-downturn talent-turned-hobby she liked to indulge in at the rec center. It didn’t take me long to notice that the rec center paid her very well…in stacks of small bills…

"I’m a stripper in the evenings," she explained. "It pays very well. You should try it sometime. You've got the body for it."

I almost laughed in her face, but kept my composure. She could see me, bright as day. Why she thought I ought to be up on stage in front of a crowd of men was beyond me. I didn't take her up on her offer, but she knew better than to leave me alone about it.

She was more convincing than I’d expected, so much so that even before that momentous day when I shuffled shyly into the Men’s Den behind her, she’d already had me convinced that this was the answer to all my problems. Nothing would have stopped me. The shoddy buildings that flanked the club didn’t deter me, nor did the graffiti on the outer cement walls or the vagrants pissing in the nearby ditch (though they did inspire me to enter with an air of caution). Something about this – maybe my friendship with Mia, maybe the rebellion of it, maybe it was just the mystery, who knows – had me hooked.

It was still daylight outside when Mia threw her body into the handle of the back door, forcing it open against its will. Tendrils of smoke made a hasty exit from the dark and dank interior, but Mia blew right through without hesitation. She looked composed and confident in her brown miniskirt and crop top, while I must’ve looked like a scared cat with my unkempt hair, wide eyes, and khaki pants pared with an ill-fitted tank top. Fashion had never been my thing as evidenced by my college photos that featured fully buttoned shirts, ankle-length knit skirts, and one consistent pair of sneakers. Khaki pants were a daring venture for me.

The other dancers hadn’t arrived yet so our only audience was the owner, slouched on a couch in the dressing room just inside the door, flipping through an old porn magazine while he enjoyed his cigarette.

“Randy!” Mia ordered. “Get your ass up. Your new girl is here.”

He hardly flinched. Instead, he took a long draw from his cigarette, and rested his head against the couch as a few pieces of hot ash dusted his wrinkled t-shirt and baggy black jeans. He flicked them aside like would-be crumbs and held the stub out for Mia. She took it gratefully at first, enjoying her own long draw, then gave him an expectant look that would’ve had me on my knees begging for mercy.

He rolled his eyes and glanced back at me. “This is your girl?” he drawled, lazily.

I stood up a little straighter and sucked my belly in a little tighter.

“God, you are such an ass,” Mia scolded. “Get up and get a good look at her, for fuck’s sake.”

Randy sported a cheeky smile. “I love it when you call me names.” He slapped her ass as he stood and ambled towards me.

Wow. He was rather tall – probably six-foot-three and in decent shape. His five o’clock shadow in conjunction with the stench of cigarettes and rum on his breath indicated that first impressions weren’t his number one concern, but they definitely added to his sex appeal.

I closed my eyes and let out a deep, steady breath.

“She’s nervous,” Randy barked. “How the fuck is she going to handle a whole crowd if she can’t even sit still while I’m checking her out?”

My teeth clenched and my eyes narrowed. I glanced at Mia who just shrugged.

“I’ve recruited almost all of your dancers for almost three years now,” she countered, smugly, “You should have learned not to question me. Look at Crystal, Charlotte, Dashia…I know when I see future talent.”

Randy’s deep blue eyes scaled my body from head to toe, his hands stroking my skin and raising goose bumps across my arms and legs. “She certainly has the equipment…” His eyebrows tethered. “Is she even old enough for this? I don’t take children; the motherfuckers who get horny off that shit know better than to come in here.”

“I’m twenty-four,” I announced with as much stamina as I could muster.

He grunted. “Exactly how innocent are you? A virgin?”

I flushed. “No.” My voice shook and it pissed me off. I clenched my fists. “I know how to handle a man.” My cheeks turned a beet red reserved only for salads and rug burns. I was mortified as I stood there like a pig on display at the state fair. I forced myself to relax and dug up my self-confidence. I rested my hand on my hip and looked Randy right in the eye – a stark reminder that he was dealing with a person, and a very stubborn one at that.

He stared back, unfazed. “Are you sure about that? Because you look like the type who still lives with Mommy and Daddy.”

My blood boiled, but I kept my cool. “My parents live outside of Vegas; I live here. End of story.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “And your boyfriend?”

I shrank. “I don’t have one anymore. My relationships don’t usually last long.”

He grunted. “Good. The last thing I need is another jealous dickwad with itchy fists and no cash.” He gestured around the room. “So why this? What the fuck brings a pretty little thing like you to a rat hole like this?”

I glanced at Mia and she nodded. With effort, I returned Randy’s hardened gaze. “My parents are yuppie assholes. They cut me off the second I had sex with my college boyfriend and I need money to pay off my student loans.” I paused to consider. “And frankly, telling my parents that their prudish beliefs turned their daughter into a stripper would piss them off in a very satisfying way.”

“A rebellious one, eh?” He caressed his stubble with long, calloused fingers. “You sure you can handle this shit? You seem a bit soft, and I’m not talking about your well-moisturized skin.”

My eyes narrowed. “Depends: Are your customers assholes too?” I held his gaze until, almost without my permission, my hand snuck up to my mouth. I placed my index finger sensually on my bottom row of teeth, and then tugged gently on my lower lip while my eyes gave his body a good, long top-to-bottom analysis. I shrugged. “Either way, you don’t look like much of a challenge.”

I heard Mia suppress a snicker.

Randy stood up straight, cleared his throat, and turned to Mia. “You’ve got ten minutes to teach her something that convinces me she can dance. I’ll be in my office.”

Shit. I thought I had him.

Mia hardly flinched. “Don’t worry, Ellie, I know how to convince Randy of pretty much anything.”

Fifteen minutes later, I was standing in the center of a dark and worn stage in nothing but my bra and panties (I really wish Mia had prepped me for that), with Mia a few inches away bedazzled in a similar manner. A single spotlight was concentrated on us, promising to reveal every zit and blemish on my skin. Randy had slunk down in an old chair on the main floor, watching with interest and just a touch of disbelief. He waved his hand, signaling us to begin.

As Mia strode to the back of the stage to start the music, I glanced down at myself. I was standing almost completely naked in front of a complete stranger. So odd. For a small moment, I imagined myself back on campus in a classy blouse and a pair of pristine blue jeans, my long brown hair cascading down my back. I was a straight-A student. I followed all of Mom and Dad’s rules. I went to church and volunteered at the rape crisis center. I did everything perfectly. Oh, except sex. I had a lot of sex with a lot of very nerdy boys.

But in every other way, I was the perfect daughter. And now I was going to learn how to take my clothes off for horny men in exchange for fistfuls of bills and, as my mom would say, sacrifice my “inner beauty.”

I had been so perfect for so long, yet so empty and torn inside. I was never a happy person, but I did my best to keep up the facade after graduation. I failed miserably. I felt like a dried up ocean, a desert with nothing to comfort me but prickly cacti and burning hot sand. I had nothing without my academic successes. And here I was, about to fall even deeper; peel that modest skirt off my hot, sweaty skin and throw it into a mass of drooling men so they could stare at the most real, most vulnerable version of me. It terrified me.

It was exhilarating.

Mia set the music to a deep and delicious hip-hop tune and strode to her pole, nodding at me to approach mine. The routine was simple: we both did a couple of sexy turns, eyeing each other the whole time. Then we came together in the middle, executing the age-old night club button popper: the girl-on-girl floor grind. It was such a menial move, I wasn’t sure Randy would be impressed, but when I glanced over and saw him squirm in his seat, I knew I was in.

Mia really does know how to get straight to a man’s dick.

I began my first set two nights later. From day one, I realized something I hadn’t expected – see, at the start, this whole endeavor was about making ends meet; it was all about the money. But that first night I walked on stage, I realized something even more critical, and nothing less than absurdly shocking: I loved being a stripper.

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Chapter 2

I still remember well the deafening music that blared in my ears and the tingles of alcoholic rapture that spread across my limbs my first night of work at the club. My face was caked in blue eye shadow, red blush, and gobs of glitter that made my skin itch. It took all my self-control to keep from scratching my own damn face off. I sported a sexy little number Mia had helped me pick out: a gold two-piece with beads cascading down the top to decorate my bare belly. Anywhere else I would have felt awkward dressed so dramatically, but at the club, I fit right in. It was like playing dress-up and getting paid for it.

Like a naïve teen flashing her first fake I.D., I fluttered my most fantastical bedroom eyes to my first potential customer: a frustratingly apathetic dickhead sitting beside me at the bar. I coughed as he released another puff of his cigarette and moaned quietly with the deep and sensual beat of the hip-hop music.

I nudged him with my elbow. "Are we working a few more shots here, baby, or have you had enough?" My flirting skills needed work but my insecurities were forced to take a reluctant back seat to the necessity of covering the rent.

Dickhead huffed. "Depends. How much you gunnin' for tonight? I haven't gotten paid yet, sweetheart."

From the corner of my eye, I could see the drooling men at the front of the room by the stage, waving their money at the bikini-clad objects of their obsession. Their efforts were soon thwarted as the girls caught sight of fresher blood: a young political up-and-comer who was standing uncomfortably at the back of the room. Within seconds, the dollar-clutching patrons were left destitute as the girls clamored towards the expensive suit and tie.

With a roll of my eyes, I turned back to Dickhead. "I may be able to work in a Friday night discount, just for you.” I winked. Money was tight and I’d already shelled out fifty bones to dance there that night, but chunk change was better than no change. And anyways, “it's better than getting tangled up in that mess over there."

I glanced over to see the politician unsuccessfully trying to fend off several of my very aggressive colleagues. He looked completely lost. It was fantastically entertaining.

It wasn’t five minutes earlier that the politician had sauntered through the doors of the Men’s Den in his slacks, shiny cuff links, and very expensive watch, his security flanking him at a very intimate distance. His eyes scanned the room cautiously through the thick cloud of smoke, as though hoping to find some essence of familiarity. His expensive jewelry was in odd contrast to the worn wood laminate floors and neon lights that flickered off his pretty face. Politicians were certainly not an unusual sight in this particular locale, but celebrities were delicacies on our menu; I knew the girls were going to be having sissy fights in no time.

I had no personal interest in getting my hair yanked and my reputation dragged through the dirt, so I continued to keep my distance and grabbed another shot at the bar with Dickhead while I watched the other girls close in on their rare prey.

Mia would get him; I was certain of that. I wasn’t even sure why the other girls tried. But somehow, Lacy got there first, flirting shamelessly while I laughed raucously at the absurd scene. She looked so determined while the politician looked so goddamn awkward.

"Some guys get all the luck," Dickhead huffed.

I turned back to him, flashed a charming smile, and placed my hand on his thigh, caressing him like I’d seen the other girls do. "I'm here for you, baby, don't worry about him."

“You want another?”

I shrugged. “Whatever you want, handsome.”

He raised his finger to the bartender and another shot glass of gleaming clear fluid slid in front of me.

As I raised the vodka to my lips, the sound of shattering glass echoed across the room. I craned my neck to the left just in time to see Mia smack Lacy in the face just inches from the shocked expression of the handsome politician. She pushed her over one of the bar tables, scattering a few cocktails in her wake. Lacy was back on her feet in seconds, grabbing Mia's hair and dragging her away screaming, unwittingly opening up a small wedge of space next to Richy Rich, the Political Hopeful.

I chuckled as Crystal ditched one of her regulars to dive in for her chance on the politician’s payroll. Bad move. The regular was pissed and wasted no time telling the flustered politician to stay the hell away from his girl. The politician took a couple of blows to the face before staggering out of the crowd towards the door.

I lost sight of him as the tables turned and Lacy found herself being dragged to the dressing room, Mia's arm hooked around her throat. I knew that was the last time I'd see her at the club.

They all say Mia's the Mamma Goose of the club – you don't fuck with her unless you want to get flattened or fired.

I returned to my shot glass, a bit taken aback by the wealth of entertainment at my disposal, but the chaos began to calm as Randy barged in with his thugs, throwing out Crystal's regular and giving the girls his special recipe of ‘what for.’ I was in the process of returning to my sales pitch when my eye caught sight of the politician over by the door. Apparently, his black eye wasn’t enough motivation to ditch this shithole. He seemed to be arguing with his ‘muscle,’ that is until his eyes found mine through a small break in the crowd. He held my gaze with a look I knew all too well. I immediately turned away and glowered.

Please don't come over here; please don't come over here...

A man approached to my left.

Please don't be the politician; please don't be the politician...

"Scotch and soda, and a glass of ice for my face, please," said the polished voice.

Damnit.

The bartender gave him a dishcloth along with his order. He smoothly wrapped up the ice and placed it painstakingly upon his swollen eye. I stared straight ahead, my mind racing to find a way to bag the Dickhead to my right before the politician to my left could get a chance to open his lying mouth. I wasn’t quick enough.

"Bit of a dangerous place here, isn't it? How do you survive?" the politician said as he leaned so close that I could smell his high-end lobbyist-infused musk.

I responded in the most patronizing manner my innocent ovaries could concoct. "If it’s too much for you, sweetie, the door is over there." I cocked one eyebrow and sucked on a slice of lime. "Anyways, I might ask the same of you and the crowd you run with." I may have been a rookie in the stripper world, but I knew how the political world functioned; if he was going to try to start a conversation, he was going to get an earful.

He turned to me. "You know who I am?"

I scowled. "Everyone knows who you are. Why do you think the vultures descended?"

He laughed. "So that doesn't happen to everyone, does it?"

I didn’t really know how to answer that one so I simply rolled my eyes in lieu of saying what I really wanted to: I don’t like politicians. Ergo, I don’t like you. Go away. I stared down into my shot glass, wishing it could magically replicate into five or six more.

"So why didn’t you fly on over to join the vultures?" He cocked his head to the side. "You don't like me?"

"We all have rules." I tipped back the shot, recalling Mia’s lecture on setting standards and sticking to them. "’Never entertain a douchebag politician’ is my first one."

His face flattened. "I can see why my colleagues don't come to this particular establishment often."

"You don't look like you get out much at all, Sugar Daddy. Is this your first time playing with girls who don't wear pencil skirts and tennis bracelets?"

"Well, it certainly will be my last." He gulped the rest of his drink and threw some cash on the counter, drumming his fingers against the hard wood counter as he waited for the bartender to make change.

To my relief, Dickhead finally made his move. "Okay, sweetheart, you goin’ with him or me? If that body is as sharp as your tongue, I can spare ten bucks for a lap dance."

I grimaced. What cheap bullshit. I could make that in a short hour as a checker at the grocery store. I glanced around to find an excuse to escape, but my only out was the politician, an even less appealing proposition.

Dickhead stood before I could push away from the bar. "Come on, baby." He leaned into my ear. "I'll throw in an extra fiver if you show me your pussy."

I shouldn’t have been insulted. I shouldn’t have even been fazed. Both Mia and Randy warned me about this. Shitty lowball offers and pussy peek-a-boo requests were a daily affair in this line of business. But I still hadn’t habituated myself to such degrading insult, so instead of smiling and flirting my way into a higher bid like Mia would have, I jumped to make a hasty exit. But before I could so much as pull my ass off the bar stool, Dickhead had me by the arm.

“Not so fast,” he slurred, “I’ve got something special no other guy can offer.” He dipped his other hand into his pants.

Before I could rip my arm from his grasp, the politician was at my side, shoving him against the bar counter.

"She said no, asshole. Leave her alone."

I turned on the politician like a charging bull. "Back off," I seethed, wedging myself between the two of them like a lame ass peewee football referee. "I don't need you standing up for me like one of your cheap escorts. I can handle my own shit."

The politician glowered and stepped backwards.

I turned to Dickhead, readjusting my top and contemplating my next move. I shored up my insecurities and repeated the exact phrase I’d heard Crystal say earlier that evening. "Fifteen bucks, no pussy, and keep your goddamn hands to yourself."

He nodded with a sick smile.

"No, fuck that," the politician cried defensively.

I could barely make out the look of derision on his face amidst the smog and glaring lights.

"You don't have to do that. I'll pay you five-hundred dollars to get out of here and go somewhere nice with me."

It should have been a tempting offer, but the insinuation behind his words caused rage to explode across my face. "I'm not a whore, fucker.” I gave him my most menacing glare. “The hustlers that sell out to you and your bribing friends hang out on the Strip." I turned to back to Dickhead. "Let's go. There's a private room over by the stage."

I grabbed his hand and stormed off. I chanced a glance backwards, delighting in the look of utter insult and failure on the face of the politician. Though not the ideal first night as a stripper, at least I’d accomplished something: I’d always wanted to leave a man speechless.

The sullen politician's face, the heavy beat, and the shining lights fade from my imagination and the reality of the crowded, arid, white-walled airport comes disappointingly back into view.

Remember that goddamn wooden bench I mentioned earlier? My ass is still glued to it. It’s admittedly not a great perch for musing, but my memories of that first night as a dancer just six months ago are all too vivid as people hustle and bustle through the airport with all the energy of the strip club and not a hint of the pizzazz.

I wish I were stripping right now. At least it would keep me busy. Shitty airport peanuts, drinking fountain water, and the cold sting of potential rejection are just not the cascade of roses I had imagined them to be. A few people who arrived here after me have already boarded and taken off on their planes – a shitty reminder that I’m still here, still alone, and still potentially insane.

A lovey dovey couple walks by pulling matched luggage and a designer handbag behind them as they canoodle with no regard for the passengers around them. I think I’m gonna barf. Of course, I’d love it if I were on the receiving end of that kind of affection. But circumstances being what they are, I fucking hate them.

You know, we’d better wait until I have a cold hard drink in my hand to swim any further down that rat hole. Let’s get back to the story; it’s a lovely distraction.

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