02- Sippin’ Strippin’

The night at Sippin' Strippin' was busy as usual; business was booming, and the crowd was electric. The dim lights made everything feel like a hazy dream, and the music was so loud it vibrated through every cell in my body. I pushed through the crowded room, the smell of perfume and booze hanging heavy in the air. It was overwhelming, but weirdly, it felt like home—Sean, with his chiseled features and kind eyes, always looked out for me. I started working at Sippin' Strippin' six months ago, and it's been a wild ride ever since—trust me, it wasn't the most exciting job, but the pay was great; at least it was better than Campbell's.

"Ally, some guys need you over there," John, the bartender, said, pointing toward a group of friends at the far end of the club. The secluded part, V.I.P.

"Sure thing, handsome," I flirtatiously teased him, accepting the tray of drinks from his hands. His eyes twinkled in amusement, ignoring my flirtatious ass—it wasn't a new thing to him. Some days, he flirted back, and other days, he ignored.

As I made my way to the V.I.P. section, I caught numerous glances from the horny dogs in the rowdy room. Their attention was nothing new, but it still made me uncomfortable. But it was just right, though. Sippin' Strippin' was a strip club, located at the heart of New York City. It was just about famous, in other words, a celebrity club. Exquisite. Professional.

When I joined months ago, the manager wanted me to join the pink pussies, the strippers. He was adamant that I should strip, strongly disapproving of my choice to wait tables instead. In Sean's words, I had a body that would greatly benefit me; moreover, I used to be a gymnast in high school.

I despised him at first; I thought he was a highly disturbed pervert who needed my body as a fix, but he never asked me out. He was respectful towards me, and gradually, we became close.

One day, I finally mustered the courage and asked him why he was so persistent that I should apply for a stripping job. In his defense, he said he had read my file and saw that I had a pile of medical bills to pay, and stripping was a quick way to make money.

From there on, I regarded him as someone important, someone who considered my problems as his, or maybe I read too much into it. Either way, I regarded him as a brother. Still, everything ends at work. A relationship outside of work isn't my forte.

"Howdy, lass," an older man with a thick Southern drawl said, staring at me like a topping on his ice cream. I groaned out, biting my lips tightly to avoid saying the wrong thing. His gaze crawled over me, making my skin prickle. "What's a pretty thing like you doing in a place like this?" I forced a polite smile. "I'm just doing my work, sir. If you'll excuse me, I have drinks to deliver."

I hurriedly took my leave before he could say more.

"Eh... em," I cleared my throat. The three young men stared at me, seemingly lost in their thoughts. Two minutes passed by, and they were still staring.

"Excuse me," I snapped, tapping my fingers on the table loudly. This seemed to pull them out of their trance. The dark-haired man among them scratched his scalp awkwardly, and color rose on his cheeks.

"Sorry?" He said, his voice barely above a whisper, sounding more like a question than a genuine apology.

"Ally," I replied. I picked up the first cocktail and handed it to him. He looked pleased, smiling like he had just won the lottery.

Boys.

"Why does Desmond get to take the first drink?" The blonde one, and no doubt the youngest among them, cried out.

"Uh, because he apologized." I retorted, ignoring his childishness.

My statement seemed to catch the attention of the last boy in the group; he glared at me in anger. "What's that supposed to mean, waitress?" He spat out, venom hidden in the background, waiting for the right moment to prance out.

I ignored his question. I grabbed the next drink, reached over to the blonde boy, and dropped it on the table.

Noticing I deliberately ignored him, Mr. Brunette, a.k.a., the third pretty boy, cursed out, "Fuck you, bitch."

I see he's got a dirty mouth, with a dirty attitude to match.

"What the fu—"

"Freduardo, calm down. She's right," the only mature one in the group came to my rescue. I was tempted to splash Mr. Brunette's drink on his stupid, arrogant face.

His behavior reminded me of a certain egomaniac I had met earlier; the only difference was that the billionaire was a 100/10, and the brunette was 6/10.

"What now, D? You're supporting the waitress, unbelievable, man!" Mr. Brunette yelled out.

"Waitress, you do know I can get you fired, huh?" The childish Blondie drawled out after being quiet for a long time.

His words sounded familiar—like I had heard something similar before—but I decided not to strain my pretty brain.

"That's if you're the owner, which you aren't," I shot out, taking a pause to calm the fire brewing within me. "Brunette, when you are ready to have your drink, you can pick it up yourself. By the way, you need to wash your mouth; it stinks of your foulness. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have other things to attend to." My words hung in the air, and for a moment, Mr. Brunette's face turned beet red. Then, his expression twisted into a snarl. "You think you're clever, don't you?" He sneered. I stood my ground, meeting his glare with a steady gaze.

My words were rude, but he was no saint—worse, even. To hell with the idea that 'customers are always right' because he wasn't even, in the slightest bit, right. He was dead wrong.

Mr. Brunette stood up in a frenzy, blocking my way before I could dash out of the room. "Not so fast," he smirked, no doubt with hidden meaning.

"Wait, who are you? Care to tell me? If I want to leave, I will—now, get your ass out of my way," I whisper-yelled, careful not to attract an audience. That wouldn't be too good on my résumé.

Shoving him off, I proceeded to leave his front. This angered him more, and he pulled my arm back.

He grasped my arm tightly, his fingers digging into my skin. "What's your deal, man?" I yelled, forgetting I had a reputation to uphold.

"Stop creating a scene," Desmond, the only sane man among them, tried to caution the lunatic before me.

"This is none of your business, D. It's between me and this ugly bitch, so stay out of it." He sneered at the poor man.

Ugly? As if. I chuckled.

"Frankenstein, who are you calling a bitch? If I were one, then I'd have to look like your mama."

"Did you just call my madre a bitch?" He roared at me, his body vibrating in anger.

I remained speechless, securing my smart mouth to stay silent. My silence infuriated him further; he withdrew his fingers from my skin, holding my wrist tightly with his other hand.

He raised his free hand; I watched as it inched closer to my face, expecting the painful sting. Just as Freduardo's hand was about to make contact, someone grabbed his arm, holding him back. I stumbled backward, gasping in relief. Freduardo's eyes blazed with fury, and he struggled against the stranger's grip.

A shudder coursed through me at the thought that I almost got slapped by a man with serious anger issues. It was a narrow escape.