Paper Princess (The Royals #1)(3)

I sit on the side of the bed and try not to cry out of frustration and anger and okay, yes, even fear. I allow myself five minutes of self-pity and then get on the phone. Screw the universe.

“Hey, George, I’ve been thinking about your offer to work at Daddy G’s,” I say when a male voice answers the call. “I’m ready to take you up on that.”

I’ve been working the pole at Miss Candy’s, a baby club where I strip down to a G-string and pasties. It’s good, but not great, money. George has been asking me to graduate to Daddy G’s, a full nudity place, for the last few weeks. I’ve resisted because I didn’t see the need. I do now.

I’m blessed with my mother’s body. Long legs. Nipped-in waist. My boobs aren’t doubleD spectacular, but George said he liked my perky B-cup because it gives the illusion of youth. It’s not an illusion, but my identification says I’m thirty-four and that my name isn’t Ella Harper but Margaret Harper. My dead mom. Super creepy if you stop to think about it, which I try not to.

There aren’t many jobs a seventeen-year-old can actually do part time and still pay the bills. And none of them are legal. Run drugs. Turn tricks. Strip. I chose the last one.

“Damn, girl, that’s excellent news!” George crows. “I have an opening tonight. You can be the third dancer. Wear the Catholic schoolgirl uniform. The guys are gonna love that.”

“How much for tonight?”

“How much what?”

“Cash, George. How much cash?”

“Five hundred and any tips you can make. If you want to do some private lap dances, I’ll give you one hundred per dance.”

Shit. I could make a grand easy tonight. I shove all my anxiety and discomfort to the back of my mind. Now isn’t the time for an internal morality debate. I need money, and stripping is one of the safest ways for me to get it.

“I’ll be there. Book as many as you can for me.”





2





Daddy G’s is a shithole, but it’s a lot nicer than some of the other clubs in town. Then again, that’s like saying, “Take a bite of this rotten chicken. It’s not as green and moldy as these other pieces.” Still, money is money.

Callum Royal’s appearance at the school has been eating at me all day. If I had a laptop and an Internet connection, I would’ve Googled the guy, but my old computer is broken and I haven’t had the cash to lay out for a replacement. I didn’t want to trek to the library to use theirs, either. It’s stupid, but I was scared if I left the apartment, Royal might ambush me on the street.

Who is he? And why does he think he’s my guardian? Mom never once mentioned his name to me. For a moment earlier, I wondered if he might be my father, but those papers said my dad was deceased, too. And unless Mom lied to me, I know my dad’s name wasn’t Callum. It was Steve.

Steve. That always felt made-up to me. Like, when your kid says, “Tell me about my daddy, Mama!” and you’re on the spot so you blurt out the first name that comes to mind—“Uh, his name was, um, Steve, honey.”

But I hate to think that Mom was lying. We’d always been honest with each other.

I push Callum Royal out of my mind, because tonight is my debut at Daddy G’s, and I can’t let some middle-aged stranger in a thousand-dollar suit distract me. There are already enough middle-aged men in this joint to occupy my thoughts.

The club is packed. I guess Catholic schoolgirl night is a big draw at Daddy G’s. The tables and booths on the main floor are all occupied, but the raised level that holds the VIP lounge is deserted. Not a surprise. There aren’t many VIPs in Kirkwood, this small Tennessee town outside of Knoxville. It’s a blue-collar town, mostly lower class. If you make more than 40K a year, you’re considered filthy rich. That’s why I chose it. The rent’s cheap and the public school system is decent.

The dressing room is in the back, and it’s full of life when I walk inside. Half-naked women glance over at my entrance. Some nod, a couple smile, and then they refocus their attention on securing their garter belts or applying their makeup at the vanity tables.

Only one rushes over to me.

“Cinderella?” she says.

I nod. It’s the stage name I’ve been using at Miss Candy’s. Seemed fitting at the time.

“I’m Rose. George asked me to show you the ropes tonight.”

There’s always one mother hen in every club—an older woman who realizes she’s losing the fight against gravity and decides to make herself useful in other ways. At Miss Candy’s, it had been Tina, the aging bleached blonde who took me under her wing from moment one. Here, it’s the aging redhead Rose, who clucks over me as she guides me toward the metal rack of costumes.

When I reach for the schoolgirl uniform, she intercepts my hand. “No, that’s for later. Put this on.”

Next thing I know, she’s helping me into a black corset with crisscrossed laces and a lacy black thong.

“I’m dancing in this?” I can barely breathe in the corset, let alone reach in front of me to unlace it.

“Forget what’s up top.” She laughs when she notices my halted breathing. “Just wiggle that bottom of yours and ride Richie Rich’s pole, and you’ll be fine.”

I give her a blank look. “I thought I was going on stage?”