The Billionaire's Command (The Silver Cross Club) Read Free

need to do her makeup, she can absolutely go on stage looking like something the cat dragged in!
    Workplace politics: even strippers had to deal with them.
    Fresh Meat was right where I had left her, sitting on the couch with that deer in the headlights look. “If you’re really that terrified, maybe you shouldn’t work here,” I told her, too annoyed for tact. I opened up my bag and dug out my toiletry kit.
    “I’m not terrified,” she said. “That’s just my face.”
    “Your customers like you scared?” I asked. “Sweet little girl, all alone in the big world?”
    “Basically,” she said.
    I laughed. Maybe there was more to this girl than met the eye. “I really need to get in the shower,” I said. “Five minutes. Then we’ll talk. I’ll come up with a better name for you.”
    “I’ve already got one,” she said.
    “Tawny sucks,” I said.
    “Not that,” she said. “I mean I’ve got a different one.”
    “Okay, lay it on me,” I said.
    “Tempest,” she said.
    The girl didn’t look like a storm to me any more than she looked like a Tawny, but whatever. It was better than Tawny, and it hit the right note: the clients liked trashy names because it made them feel like they were doing something naughty. “That’ll do,” I said, and went to get in the shower.
    I didn’t linger: a quick scrub, some conditioner in my hair, and I hopped out and pulled on my robe.
    Fresh Meat was still sitting on the couch, clutching her enormous duffel bag.
    “I hope you’ve got a change of clothes in that thing,” I said.
    She nodded.
    “Cool,” I said. “Let’s go get pretty.”
    I led her into the dressing room and we sat in empty chairs at one end of the long counter. A few of the primping dancers gave us curious looks, obviously wanting to know what was up with the stranger, but I ignored them. No time for introductions now.
    I opened up my makeup kit and slathered lotion on my face. “So, Germaine already covered the boring money stuff, I guess.”
    Fresh Meat unzipped her duffel and took out a small zippered case, which she opened to reveal a butt-load of makeup. Good. “She explained all of that to me, yes.”
    I rubbed on a thin layer of primer and dug out the rest of my makeup while I waited for the primer to dry. “I’m assuming this isn’t your first time stripping.” Nobody worked at the Silver Cross without at least a year of experience on stage.
    “I was at White Elephant for a while,” she said.
    “Not bad,” I said. “You’ll do fine, then. Same clientele here, basically. Some of them are a lot richer, but they don’t flaunt it. The only difference is—”
    “The private rooms,” she said. “Germaine told me. I’m on board.”
    “Decide now what your limits are,” I said. “Not when you’re already in there with a client.”
    She turned to face the mirror, using a sponge to apply her foundation. “What are yours?”
    “Anything they want, as long as they keep their pants zipped up,” I said. “Works for me.” I used my fingers to apply my own foundation, blending carefully along my jawline so that it looked natural. “You can do whatever you want on stage. Pole dancing is fine if you want to do that. I don’t. You’ll watch tonight and see what the other girls do.” I set my foundation with powder and started on my eye makeup. “What’s the first rule of stripping?”
    “Don’t get involved with the clients,” she said.
    Our eyes met in the mirror, and I smiled. “You’re going to do just fine, baby.”
    The rules of stripping were flexible, and every dancer had her own list, but the first rule was always the same: don’t get attached.
    My list went something like this:
    Rule 1: don’t get involved with the clients.
    Rule 2: don’t get involved with the clients.
    Rule 3: do not, under any circumstances, get involved with the clients.
    Some of them didn’t make it easy. They were rich, charming, handsome—everything a girl could ask for. But we were