When Corden Nash took over as the crime lord of New Jersey, he swore he'd never fall in love. His one goal in mind has been to burn Rafino Rossi and everything he's ever built into the ground after murdering his father. But when Carmen Abdullahi sho...
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The most common misconception of an exotic dancer—stripper, to some who enjoy derogatory terms, is that we do this for attention. Men assume we have daddy issues or have had a horrible upbringing to the point dancing was our only option, but what they don't understand is the release dancing can bring.
When sliding down a pole, I'm not concerned about issues going on outside of this club. All of my focus has to be concentrated on each muscle group to ensure I don't fall, yet I also have to retain the fluidity of a natural dancer.
A pole dancer, exotic dancer, stripper... Whatever you want to call it, it's an art form, and I'm damn talented at it. Talented enough to be dancing at one of the most coveted and secretive clubs on the Upper East Side.
Disguised as a business tower, executive officials, politicians, and anyone with a semblance of power come to The Harbor to delve into their dirty work. Whether they're coming for a night of pleasure or to dabble in lucrative deals, they know this place will keep it on the down low. It's an unspoken threat, but if what's said in The Harbor leaves The Harbor? You're practically begging for trouble to find you.
I've only been dancing here for a month, but I've learned a lot in that short amount of time. I've learned not to ask questions even if they're warranted. I know to collect my cash quickly so I don't waste time from the other girls here. I've learned to steer clear of the men others have warned me are slimy with hands that are too touchy.
With a handful of cash, I'm exiting the stage when Jaz, a cute and petite brunette grabs my arm excitedly. "Guess who just made a thousand bucks in the Red Room?"
The Red Room, otherwise known as the room where many high ballers pay to have a private dance. I've never asked what goes on in the Red Room, but judging from the way Jaz's lipstick is smeared, I can only assume it's more than dancing.
"A thousand is a lot," I tell her, stuffing the wads of cash into my neon green bra. In the lowlights of the club, they hit Jaz's glimmering silver one-piece suit, which hugs her curves in all of the right places. "Who asked you to go in there?"
She jerks her thumb over to the bar where floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the city. "Cal Thorpe. He's running for mayor this year."
"Impressive. Think he'll invite you there again?"
She shrugs. "He's a regular, so I don't see why not."
Buck, the owner who has the build of a lumberjack, steps up beside us and points a meaty finger towards the stage. He has a mustache that looks like it belongs in a circus, and his black hair is always slicked back with far too much product. "Less talking, more working ladies. This club isn't going to run itself."
"Sorry!" Jaz quips, wobbling slightly in her stilettos. She scurries off to another member waving her over, leaving Buck and me alone. Jaz has been here far longer than me, so she has regulars who come specifically to see her. I, on the other hand, don't enjoy speaking to members. I don't need the money given I own a flower shop with my best friend that does extraordinarily well. I dance to feel sexy. I dance as a form of release. I dance because I love it, not to go to the Red Room to do unspoken things.
