First Time for Everything

She smiled triumphantly as they clattered to the stage, then quickly scrambled up and tried to play it off by removing the feather boa around her neck. She tossed the thing into the crowd, but it only made it as far as the edge of the stage before limply slithering over the side and onto the floor.

Deok-su laughed as she forced herself to continue. Someone yelled, "Take it off!" and she stopped for a second, looked down at herself, looked back up, and then slowly rolled down a stocking. The resounding boo she received from the crowd made him chuckle.

She reached for the pole in the center of the stage, and spun herself around three times. Then she did a quick shimmy, a squat, and twirled again. But on the last go around she stopped, held one hand up to her face and sneezed.

The club went quiet as the woman teetered precariously on the stage, her face to Deok-su, eyes wide, arms flailing, lips parted, but she caught herself. He could hear the stripper's sigh of relief as she once again reached for the pole. But her nylon-clad foot slipped, and instead of catching the pole with her hand, she did it with her head. In an almost cartoonish display, she slammed her forehead into the pole, bounced off, and turned her body as she fell, arms flapping, with a slew of curses pouring from her lips.

Deok-su would have felt bad for the stripper—did feel bad—but a small part of him was excited too, because the woman fell right into his lap.




CHAPTER FOUR

I knew the instant I'd been right, and that stripping was the worst thing I ever agreed to. It was the same moment I fell off stage into a pervy guy's lap. Well, maybe he wasn't pervy, but any guy at a strip club wasn't the type to bring home to Mom.

"God, why did I do this?" I groaned under my breath, rubbing the forming lump on my head. I'd look like a unicorn in the morning, which would suck because I'd be looking for a new job.

"Are you alright?" the man whose lap I'd fallen into asked in perfectly enunciated English.

I pushed away from the guy, but my hand slipped from his chest and landed on his crotch. No! My fingers curled as I tried to snatch them away, and I felt him swell in response to the inadvertent caress. He was bigger than I expected.

Stripper and pervert. That's what my tombstone would read. "I'm so sorry!" I gushed, scrambling out of his lap and onto the cool, sticky floor.

Billy's meaty hand clasped my shoulder a second before I got a good look at the man I'd fallen into and assaulted. "Jesus Christ, Lauren!" my boss whispered angrily, pushing me back toward the stage. "Finish the number then get back into the dressing room."

Finish it? I tried not to think about what I was doing as I crawled back on stage. The music was loud enough to distract me from the boos and angry shouts from the audience, but not from Billy's disgruntled apology.

"She's new," my boss explained as I mechanically worked the pole and tried desperately to hold back tears. "Is there anything you need? Anything I can get you? How 'bout a lap dance on the house?"

"It is fine," the stranger assured, each letter in each word pronounced perfectly. "As long as she is all right, that is all that matters."

Thankfully, the song ended quickly and I was able to retreat to the curtains at the back of the stage. Red stood there, ready for her number, suppressing a grin. "You okay, Lauren?"

"I can't even—" I shook my head as tears leaked. Damnit, I will not cry! I swore to myself as I angrily dashed them away and smeared foundation all over my black satin gloves.

"Oh, sweetheart," Red soothed, wrapping her arms around me. I planted my face in her boobs—not that I had a choice—and took as deep a breath as I could. "It was your first time. It wasn't that bad."

"No, it was worse."

"I've seen worse, Lauren." She grimaced. "You didn't spill hot soup over some dudes crotch or kick another person in the face. Falling into some guy's lap doesn't even chart on my top ten worst performances."

I sniffed as Mikey voice filtered through the stereos, announcing Red's act. "Billy's going to fire me."

She scoffed, "No he's not. Trust me." The wailing of Crazy Bitch roared over the club, a signal for Red to get her ass on stage. She pulled back and clapped my shoulders. "I gotta go. But seriously, don't beat yourself up. We'll have a drink later, laugh, and you'll see it's not that bad."

I watched her stride on stage in six inch heels and black leather, arms raised, a brilliant smile on her face. "This night could not get any worse," I muttered before I could think better of it. My parents were firm believers that telling the universe it couldn't do something was just asking for trouble.

"Red's right, you know." Mikey came around the sound board, slung an arm over my shoulders, and started to navigate me back down the steps to the dressing room. "Billy's not going to fire you."

"Billy fired Angelica for getting a Tom Collins mixed up with a Shirley Temple."

"No. He fired her because she was an idiot and tried to sleep with his son."

"Daniel? The sixteen year-old?"

"You mean, Daniel the football player who's graduating high school way early and going to college on a full ride because he's smart and athletic."

"It's still gross."

"Never said it wasn't."

I knew that Mikey was trying to distract me from the hot mess I'd fallen into, and I appreciated it. But I also knew that it was only a matter of time before Billy came marching down the hallway to chew my ass out. Last week he told Sapphire, "I don't care if you have to suck him 'til his balls turn blue. Fix it!" and all she'd done is pop the cherry in her vagina into some dude's eyes instead of his mouth.

Mikey stopped at the entrance to the dressing room and leaned against the doorjamb. "Thinking's always the worst, Lauren."

"Pretty sure the hearing someone yell at you part is the worst." I plopped down on the seat in front of Sparkle's station and glanced at myself in the mirror. Part of my makeup was smeared, and most of it was melting off. But at least my face wasn't bruised. I hadn't hit the pole nearly as hard as I thought I had. Turning in my chair, I made a shooing motion at Mikey with my hands. "Go on. I have to change."

He held up his hands in surrender as he walked away. "I'm going. I'm going."

Once he was gone I turned back around and busied myself with tidying up. I wiped off my face with a makeup removing cloth, straightened Sparkle's station, and checked the damage on the satin gloves. It was what I'd done when I'd found out about Durrell and my sister and the baby. The milk was spilled, dripping on the floor, soaking into the floor boards. It wasn't ever getting back in the cup, and crying and screaming about it wasn't going to change anything. So I stayed busy, except overworking had its pitfalls too. My body had settled into a rhythm and detached from my mind, letting my thoughts roam free. And that's where the real problem lay. Thoughts turned to fantasies, fantasies to "I wish-es," "I wonder-es," and "what ifs." Where would I be right at this moment if Durrell hadn't gotten my sister pregnant and married her?

We might be married, have had our biggest fight already and survived it, found out I was pregnant, celebrated him finally getting a promotion, maybe taken a weekend off to the Poconos. Six months of normal bliss, instead of crappy reality. A reality where I lost my job, ended up waitressing (and stripping) at a gentleman's club because no one else would hire me, and strained an already tenuous relationship with my parents for refusing to talk to my sister and my ex-fiancée who was now her husband.

"Lauren!" Billy burst through the door, making me jump out of my seat and mental pity party.

Scrambling up from the chair, I met him face-to-face. If he was going to fire me, he was going to look me in the eyes as he did it. "Yeah."

He scowled. "Where's your makeup? You're doing a lap dance."

My face paled. "No, I'm not."

"Oh, yes, you fucking are," he growled, dabbing at his brow with an already drenched handkerchief. "No bargaining this time. Put on some makeup and head to the Cognac room."

"I don't fuck—"

"I don't care what you do and don't do, Lauren!" Billy yelled, spittle flying out of his mouth and hitting my chest. "Now hurry the fuck up!"

In that moment I cursed the universe and every single deity.

***

"Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God" had been my chant for the last minute as I paced around the small dressing room.

Lap dance? I couldn't even strip! Worrying my lip between my teeth, I wondered if it had something to do with me accidentally grabbing his crotch. Did he think I was making a pass at him? That I wanted to fuck him?

The thought of having some perverted dude's cock near me made me gag. Physically, violently gag.

"What the hell happened?" Red asked as she strode into the room, sweat glistening off her flushed skin. "Are you sick? Uh-uh. Go to the bathroom, Lauren. Don't throw up here."

I sobered down to mild dry heaves, then rattling hiccups and glared at her. "Little—hiccup—help would be—hiccup—nice."

Blowing out a sigh, Red squatted down next to me and rubbed circles over my back. "Billy really did fire you."

I shook my head as I closed my mouth, pinched my nose, and tried to starve the hiccups out.

"Then what happened?"

After a count of fifteen and no hiccup, I slowly let out the breath. "He wants me to do a lap—hiccup." I swore viciously and held my breath again.

Red's hand stilled on my back. "A lap dance?" she asked incredulously.

I nodded.

She removed her hand and climbed to her feet. "See, you're not fired and you got off easy."

"Easy?"

"Yeah," she said as she sat in her chair and began to take off her make up. "Easy."

"I think our definitions are off. 'Easy' would be cleaning the cum off the dining room chairs. This is the definition of hard."

She shrugged, totally unconcerned with my plight. And why should she be? This was her job. A day she wasn't giving some pervy dude a lap dance would probably be something new.

The thought only made me feel crummy and over-privileged. Pushing up from the ground, I awkwardly rubbed my arms and watched her meticulously take off her makeup. "Is there something I should do for the lap dance?"

"Not really."

Biting my lip, I tried again. "I mean is there something you'd—"

"It's fine, Lauren," she said, cutting me off. "I know you don't respect what I do and I'm fine with that. You walk around here like you're better than this place. I thought stripping—seeing how the other half lives—would make you different. It didn't. That's fine. Let's move on."

"Hey! I do respect you."

Her movements were jerky, angry. "Save it."

She was right. There was a part of me that wondered why she did it. She was smart and could get a job somewhere else. Why here? Why was I here and why was she here? And did being here make us failures?

The questions always loomed close to the surface—especially when I was around my family. All I could think about was Durrell and the life we could have been living instead of coping with the life I had and being grateful for it.

"I'm sorry." I took a step toward her when she didn't immediately respond. "I'm serious, Red. Dick move on my part, I get that. You're awesome. You dance in six inch stilettos while men throw money at you and make it look effortless. If I had half your guts I wouldn't be so insecure in my own skin."

She paused in taking off her makeup and I held my breath. I couldn't believe I'd just said that. It was all absolutely true, but I'd never told anyone about my insecurities, much less admitted them out loud. But this night was a strange one, and I was suffering from a cold that was kicking my ass seven ways to Hell. The world wasn't exactly operating on all its axes for me right now.

Red set her makeup remover cloth down gently and turned to face me. "I think that's the first genuine thing you've said all night."

"Maybe all week," I admitted.

She smiled softly and crossed her long legs. "I do make it look effortless, don't I?"

"Completely."

A smile skirted across Red's lips before she pushed back her shoulders and zoomed in on me. Moving her finger, she said, "Give us a twirl."

Smirking, I did as she wanted, adding a curtsey at the end. She nodded appreciatively. "You've got a fat ass, use it. Grind on him as hard as you can. When you face him, try to push your breasts together and up, it'll make them look bigger than they really are. Don't make too much eye contact, just enough to let him know you like him looking at you."

"And if I don't?"

"Stripping is a performance like any other art form. You're not Lauren when you're on stage or working some guy's lap. You're whoever he wants you to be. Watch his expressions, stay tuned to those subtle nuances."

She made is sound way harder than I thought it'd be. "Okay. So minimal eye contact, lots of grinding, and figuring out his fantasy."

"Pretty much."

Someone banged on the door, causing Red and me to jump. "Today, Lauren!"

***

Wasn't Hell supposed to be lined with glitter and gold? I wondered why my path was lined with condom wrappers, years-old gum, and mystery puddles. As Billy led me to the Cognac room I had about a million tiny heart attacks, and every how-do-I-get-out-of-here thought. Pull the fire alarm. Trip and break my ankle. Faint.

The walk was too short though and I wasn't able to enact any of my plans. Billy turned on his heel and looked me over. "Christ! Didn't I tell you to fix yourself?"

Fix myself? "I look fine."

"Ya look like shit."

I glared at him, the Lauren before she'd fallen off stage coming back in full force. "You want me to go in there and give a guy a lap dance or what? I'm pretty sure he won't be looking at my face."

"That mouth, Lauren," Billy said with a head shake, his Brooklyn accent thickening until it was almost indiscernible, "is what's gonna get you somewhere you really don't want to be someday."

"And I thought my dream was to give lap dances in the back of strip clubs." I pushed past him and opened the door to the Cognac room. Sex on Fire poured through the speakers of the dark room, bouncing off the brown leather sectional pushed up against the mahogany paneling, absorbing into the red velvet drapes all around the room. It took my eyes a second to adjust, and when they did, I noticed a man sitting in the corner booth, back straight, eyes fixed on me.

You can do this, Lauren, I told myself. You just stripped. You can do this.

With far less nerves than I had on the stage, I sashayed into the room, realizing at the last second I was shoeless with only one stocking. No Problem there. When I was within distance of the booth, I placed my foot right between the man's legs and started to roll down my lone stocking. He flinched at the action.

"Mercy?" he asked tentatively.

Stripper name. Right. "Yeah," I purred, swallowing the cough itching its way up my throat.

"How are you feeling?"

The question threw me way off guard and my foot slipped and knocked into his thigh. "Sorry!"

"It is fine."

Nodding, I straightened and smoothed my hands down the front of my corset. "So, you want a lap dance?" I mentally rolled my eyes. No, he wants some pie.

There was a long pause before he spoke again, "Not particularly."

Oh. "Oh."

"The owner said you were new," he started, gesturing to the space beside him. "Is that new to the club or to the profession?"

Letting out a sigh I hadn't realized I'd been holding, I sat down beside him. Not close enough to touch, but just enough to feel his heat and catch a whiff of his cologne. I crossed my legs, trying to sit as if I had on an ankle length dress instead of a nipple tassles and a pair of nearly see-through undies. "Actually, I'm just a substitute. One of the girls was sick tonight and I'm the only one who fit into her costume. I'm a waitress at the club."

He shifted his body toward me, and folded his hands in his lap. "Have you been doing it long? The waitressing, I mean."

"Nearly three months." I shrugged. "I was fired from my last job because of personal issues."

"What was your last job?"

A conversation was the last thing I'd expected to have, especially not in the Cognac room. What was the guy's game? "I was an event planner. Specifically, a marketing event planner."

His eyes widened, but I couldn't see his other facial expressions in the dim light. "Marketing event . . . planner," he said slowly.

"Yup."

"Can you give me an example?"

Okay, now I was getting seriously weirded out. This felt a lot more like an interview than a lapdance, and it wasn't like I'd been the top event planner in New York or something. I'd been at a small firm that catered to family owned businesses looking to revamp their image with a large party and a lot of nonprofits who'd wanted to raise money.

"I'm sorry—and correct me if I'm wrong—but you did request a lap dance, right?"

He leaned away and shifted defensively. His accent thickened, "That is correct."

"But you don't want one?"

"I would not mind one," he began, "but it is not . . . expressly the reason I wanted you back here."

That sounded a little too serial killer for me. I rose and started to move away from him. "Look, whatever sick game you want to play, I'm done. Stalkers aren't my thing."

He rose a second after me as if drawn up by a string. "Excuse me?"

The darkness was annoying me. I couldn't see his features. Striding across the room, I flipped on the light switch and blinked rapidly as the room came into view. Ugh, no wonder the lights were off; someone desperately needed to clean up. Chancing a glance up, I looked at the man and nearly choked. He was hot and . . . Asian.

Silky black hair was cut close to his head with a small cowlick in the front that fell over his left eye. Strong chin, defined cheek bones, tilted eyes that were slightly bigger. A suit stretched over his body, navy blue and crisp, accessorized with shiny black oxfords and cufflinks. The jacket was open, revealing a pressed white shirt that reflected minute silver stripes in the light. He didn't wear a tie, and a patch of smooth, pale skin was displayed. The guy wasn't skinny or super short. If I'd still been in my heels we'd probably have been eye level, but as it was, I had to tilt my head to look at him.

"Something you want to say?"

My eyes snapped to his, a pretty shade of brown with a flare of beige close to his iris. Everything about the guy appealed to me, and considering I'd 1) sworn off men because of Durrell or there was a second coming of Jesus Christ, and 2) Asian men had never particularly interested me, that said a lot.

"Your face." No wonder I graduated cum laude, I was brilliant! "What I mean is you don't look like what I'd thought you'd look . . . like . . . ." The sentence trailed off, spinning with my other inanities in the world.

Forcing my eyes closed, I squeezed them tight and thought about where I was, what I was wearing, and why I'd been called here. He hadn't paid for conversation but a lap dance, and even if that wasn't what he wanted, I'd feel a hell of a lot better if that was all we did.

"Lights on or off?" I asked, eyes still closed.

There was a scuttling sound, and I think he moved closer to me. "I am sorry?"

I forced my tone to sound professional, "I understand that you would like to talk to me, but you paid for a lap dance. I'm not inclined to give you anything more than that."

"What I paid for," he said slowly again. I got the impression it wasn't because he didn't understand what I was saying, but rather he was figuring out his response.