Rock Chick Reawakening (Rock Chick 0.5)(5)

“She danced with the other girls for about a week,” Smithie told him. “Before I put her out there, saw it during her audition. Still had no idea how much of a stir she was gonna cause due to her talent. Don’t need the bullshit it was gonna bring, all the boys shovin’ their cash in Daisy’s strings, the other girls get screwed since she’s outshinin’ ’em by a mile. If I clear the stage for her, she works the boys on her own, got no bitches workin’ my nerves, whinin’ about their tips. Four sets, three songs each, she gets her take and then some. The other girls get a good break to re-oil or whatever and the boys are primed and motivated to keep the goodness flowin’ after she leaves the stage.”

“Three sets, two songs, and no lap dances,” Marcus stated.

“Say what?” Smithie asked.

Marcus turned to the man.

He was black. Big. In his day he’d been fit, never lean, a powerhouse. His body had gone somewhat soft with age, but Smithie hadn’t gone soft. He was sharp, shrewd, educated, and street smart. His life had been bumpy, not as bumpy as some, but bumpier than most. He’d stood strong through it making smart decisions, wise alliances, and not many enemies.

“Three sets, two songs, and no lap dances,” Marcus repeated.

Smithie’s brows shot together as understanding came to him. “Thought we had an agreement.”

They did.

Over a year ago, Smithie had hit some hard times with his family, one of his four women’s brother finding trouble. He needed money to help him out. He’d taken it out of his business and to keep that business functioning, he needed a partner but would only take one who was silent, left the running of the club to Smithie, was open to a buyout when Smithie was back on his feet, kept his nose out of it, and simply took his cut every month.

The brother, with Smithie and his woman’s help, found his way back to the straight and narrow.

And Marcus was more than likely going to be offered a buyout sometime soon.

But now, he was in.

“We did,” he confirmed.

“Then, respect, Marcus, but I’m not sure where you’re comin’ from with that shit,” Smithie remarked.

“An additional set and an additional song keeps the other girls off the stage,” Marcus pointed out.

“Daisy’s been headlining for five months, and so far, they got no problem with it.”

“They’d have less of a problem if they had twelve more minutes on the stage to get tips.”

“Sure they would but then Daisy’d be out and she’d be out a whack, man. Gotta have three bouncers go out right after she leaves the stage because a lot of ’em don’t bother with shoving it in her string. They’re in such a tizzy, they just throw those bills right on the stage.”

“And the lap dances?” Marcus asked.

“It’s double to get Daisy and they’re only private. She doesn’t work in the room.”

“You got eyes on that?”

“Fuck yeah, Sloan,” Smithie bit out, losing patience and not the kind of man who had trouble showing it, even to the kind of man Marcus was. “You’ve seen my setup. Got cameras everywhere. No one f*cks with my girls.”

“I don’t want her doing lap dances.”

“Man, a bad night, she could bring in five hundred, a thousand bucks on private dances. A good night, she’s goin’ home with two G’s cash in her purse from lap dances alone.”

Marcus looked back to the window, a feeling on the back of his neck like it was stinging just at the thought of that woman gyrating in some stranger’s lap.

“You wanna explain this interest to me?” Smithie requested.

Marcus studied the headlining stripper at Smithie’s.

Platinum hair and a lot of it. Petite frame, her ribs and waist trim to the point they were delicate, she also had slim hips and a narrow ass.

Her breasts were huge, however. Obviously augmented, nevertheless, she’d clearly had them seen to by a genius. They somehow fit her frame, worked with the rest of her, drawing attention away from her height and her slight build, which could be seen as vulnerabilities, and giving her presence, potency, power.

But her face.

Her face was stunning. Wide smile. White teeth and a good deal of them. Big eyes. Elegant nose. Soft cheekbones. All of this she highlighted with the expert use of makeup from what was clearly a gift of superior genes into something that shone like a Hollywood starlet.

A starlet of a stripper who looked a good deal like Dolly Parton, who also likely got home the night before, earliest, three in the morning, and was right then, only hours later, back on the stage helping another girl by teaching her some moves.

“Marcus, brother,” Smithie’s voice came at him. “You got a problem with the way I do business, and I give you reason to have that problem, then we have a talk. I don’t give you that reason, we don’t have conversations like this one. That’s our deal.”

Marcus listened to him while he watched Daisy talking to the other girl and then she ran across the stage, doing it gracefully in platform sandals, her stone-washed jeans tight on her ass and hips and all the way down her legs. Still, after she ran the four steps, she launched herself high, grabbing on to the pole at least three feet higher than she was, her body swinging around by just her hands.

When the swing ended, she climbed up the pole, hand over hand. Doing this quickly, taking herself up another four feet, she flipped her bottom half over, wrapping her skinny legs around the pole. She dropped back, her hair flowing down, and with her only hold on the pole being her legs, she arched her back and slid down slowly, somehow circling the pole as she did it.