The Auction (Club Indulgence Duet, #1)(4)
Since I was little, all I've wanted to do was sing and write songs. My parents used to think it was cute, but then I entered high school. That's when the comments from my father that I needed to focus on what was important started.
Once I turned twenty-one, I couldn't take it anymore. My parents began inviting men to our house. They claimed they were eligible for me to marry. The last thing I wanted was to get hitched, especially to one of the stuck-up guys they deemed appropriate.
When I moved home after graduation, my future became clear. The only way to follow my dreams was to leave. So I moved out.
At first, I stayed in contact with my mother via phone calls. My father wanted nothing to do with me, stating he would speak to me when I returned home and chose to follow his wishes.
My mother would call and beg me to return, telling me about different committees she wanted me to join or what was happening at the country club. She'd always have a list of their social committee events and try to convince me to sign up to plan them. I always refused. Then one day, my father sent two of his men who run security during our parties to bring me home. It took me by surprise when they showed up at my apartment, and I went kicking and screaming.
My father locked me in my room for a week, reiterating every night how my behavior was embarrassing to him. Toward the end of the week, he came in and told me to get dressed. A team of makeup artists, hair stylists, and a fashion designer came into my bedroom. They fitted me into a cocktail dress, spent an hour on my makeup and hair, and reported to my father I was ready.
He ordered me to go downstairs, and I've never felt so sick. Six men were waiting for me, each drooling to get access to my father's fortune. He took me aside and demanded I pick who I wanted to marry.
It was horrifying. As the night went on, and my parents drank more, I managed to escape. I grabbed any cash I could find in my room, packed a small backpack of clothes, then hid in the catering van until the next morning.
I spent a few nights on the street. I couldn't return to my apartment and finally found a shelter. I showered, went to several bars and lounges looking for work, and finally ended up in front of Cheeks.
A strip club wasn't where I anticipated working, but they had a server position open, and I was desperate to find work. The manager tossed me a black leather thong and a blingy black bra. He told me to put them on and then come to his office.
It was the most embarrassing job interview I'd ever had. Three men assessed every part of my body. And I don't consider myself a tiny girl. Sometimes I feel as if everyone in L.A. could be a cover model. While I'm not fat, I'm more voluptuous, which doesn't make me fit in with the skinny standards of the city.
They discussed my body parts, tossing out phrases like "thicker thighs,” "nice rack," and "round booty." Their comments made me believe they would send me on my way, but they offered me the job. So I filled out my paperwork as Blakely Fox, which I had wanted to use for my stage name since I was a child. And since my parents weren't ever super active in raising me—leaving the nannies to deal with me while I grew up—I've never told them what I wanted to call myself. So I figured it was safe to use.
When the manager asked me for my documentation, I tried to bluff, telling him I was mugged and didn't have any. He called Troy to the room, who helped secure me a fake ID and social security card. I've been using Blakely Fox ever since.
Then, I stayed in the shelter until I could afford an apartment with several women I met at work. Slowly, I secured some lounge gigs singing during the day or early evening.
Now, Cheeks is like a second home to me. Nothing shocks me anymore. I'm used to hustling around the club half naked, seeing the strippers do all sorts of things my sheltered life kept me in the dark about, and fending off comments and offers men make.
The naive girl I walked into Cheeks as is no longer in existence. And not a day goes by that I regret leaving my cushy old life behind. I may not be the definition of successful yet, but I'm living my life in a way that makes me happy. The people around me are real. And every time I get to take the stage and sing, it refuels my desire to keep going.
And I could earn more, but I can't seem to bite the bullet and take the management up on their offer to change my position. I don't judge the strippers. I admire their ability to do what they do. They excel at it, and I don't believe I could. I may wear barely any clothing during my shift, but it still gives me a thin layer of protection.
"Blakely, can you handle two sections tonight? Cindy called off again," Savannah, the night manager, asks in an irritated tone.
"Sure," I reply, happy to be offered the extra tables. I'll have to work my butt off, but it'll pay off at the end of the night when I'm counting my tips.
"Thanks." She pats me on the shoulder and cries out, "Phoenix! What are you doing?"
The bartender freezes in the middle of pulling a fifth out of a new case. "What did I do now?"
"We have six open. Did you check the cabinet?" she questions.
"Oops," she says.
"Yeah, oops," Savannah mimics.
I go into the dressing room, toss my purse in my locker, then remove my jeans and top. I've found it's easier to wear my Cheeks clothes than take the time to get changed. The sooner I get on the floor, the more I can earn. I exchange greetings with several girls, then go to the main room.