You The Shit, Karma.

~~Karma3

“…And in the VIP Lounge,” one of the DJ’s announced over the intercom around seven-ish after I’d finished a routine in the public room, “Is the ever-lovely Karma, you may not wanna fuck with her!” That was my stripper name and the moment I heard that I took a deep breath before waltzing out from the bar, grabbing two trays of drinks the VIP’s had ordered, and waltzing to the back of the club where the elite room was.

I’ve only been in the VIP room once, and that was on cleanup duty, never for work. This guest must be very important. As I hip-checked the door open, I wondered who my target was. I knew I was going to have to get down and dirty.

The VIP lounge wasn’t that big, kind of the size of two master bedrooms put together? The walls were painted this deep purple, the ceiling black and matching carpet. There were tables placed all around the rooms, leather couch-like booths circling the tables with tall, fancy hookahs placed in the center. The more regular tables were placed around tall gold poles set up on small platforms. There were speakers in each corner of the room, big ones with bass that made the hookahs tremble on the tables. Strobe lights sliced through the air in dark colors, making the weed smoke that filled the air change colors like a trippy, X-rated nightmare while two strippers worked a couple poles, money being flung there way, clothes falling off.

The men in here were young, around the age range of eighteen to twenty-eight. No creepy old men in sight, which was a plus; it made me feel a little more confident.

Swaggering into the room, I went from table to table, delivering drinks, bending over more than necessary, gaining a couple of bills in my bra and in my stockings. I was coming around with the last couple of drinks to the last table with one of the biggest hookahs in the room, that was the Hot Seat Tony had explained to me. Big payers paid for the good weed (a secret business that Tony ran), the good drinks, the good seats, and the best strippers. This meant my target was here..

“Hello, boys,” I said in a husky, breathy voice, fluttering my eyelashes expertly at the six men sitting in the booth as I put my ass up on their table and leaned back slightly, peering at each one as I balanced the last tray with all the drinks on it on my forearm. “I’ve got four Coronas, rum, and six vodka shots,” I said, looking at the drinks before looking up at each of them from underneath my eyelashes.

The men looked young, maybe about twenty-one, twenty-two? Not that old and each one was very nice looking. But for some reason, my eyes kept gliding over to the boy taking a big hit from the hookah—someone was looking to get mega faded. He wore a blue Addidas sweatshirt, his hood up so his face was thrown into shadow as he leaned forward, full lips to the hose of the hookah. I saw smoke blow from his slightly crooked nose as he put the hose down and sat back, looking at me with a glazed expression. The first thing that struck me was the color of his eyes, they were the most striking blue I’ve ever seen, almost neon, and they stood out against his smooth, mulatto skin and long, dark lashes underneath brows that rose slightly at my ass on the table, a piercing glinting around his left brow as a strobe light flashed over his face.

“We’ve got the Coronas, beautiful,” a boy with blond dreads and mocha skin said, raising two fingers and motioning to the other three guys sitting around him.

I flashed a flirty smile as I passed out the drinks and said, “Who’s got the rum?”

The only white boy there raised his hand and I handed him his glass, my fingers brushing his as I looked shyly at him—innocence always got the most money.

And then finally, I murmured, “And the vodka shots?”

“Those,” Dread-Boy said, “Are for my bro Alex.” He flicked his chin in the direction of the blue-eyed boy still staring dazedly at my ass.

“You drinkin’ all these by yourself, Alex?” I wondered, his name sounding foreign on my tongue.

His pretty blue eyes flickered at his name, but didn’t really move as he shrugged a shoulder and said, “Yupp, tha’s my shit.”

Tough guy, I thought, won’t be hard to break him down.

I leaned over the table to him where he sat in the middle of all his friends in the booth, then began to arrange the shot glasses in front of him. “Well drink up,” I said with a small smirk, looking up at him from underneath my lashes. “You look like you need some alcohol in you.”

Once again he shrugged a shoulder before his hand slipped out from under the table, grasped a shot, and brought it to his full lips. In a moment he’d thrown his head back, downing the liquid like water. By the way his lips twitched as he swallowed, I knew it burned.

“Well, boys,” I said, straightening up, “I’ll be back soon to entertain.”

“Entertain?” Dreads asked.

“Mhmm,” I said, smirking. “I’m your stripper for the evening.”

“But how old are you? Fifteen?” he said incredulously.

“Sixteen and it’s my job,” I snapped rather rudely. “Just sit back and watch.” With that I strode from the room, something making me want to stay, but instinct telling me to leave before more questions were thrown at me.

When I’d completely exited the VIP lounge, I ran into Tony. He steadied me as I tripped over my heels.

“Have you met the guests?” he asked, eyes sparkling.

“Stoned fella in a blue hoodie?” I wondered. “Alex?”

“Yes ma’am, so you did?” Tony inquired excitedly, I knew the business’s growth depended on me tonight and the way Tony was looking at me with confidence, I knew I couldn’t fuck this up.

“Oh yes I did,” I breathed. “He’ll be easy to break down.”

Tony grinned proudly. “Great,” he laughed, “Now c’mon! Go shake your ass for him.”

Rolling my eyes, I said, “I’m going to freshen up, let them get some alcohol in them, then start, ‘kay?”

He nodded eagerly before bounding away. I sighed, looking out over the club. It was in full swing, lights going, music blaring, dancers stripping, broken hearts trying to heal on the dance floor, fucked up lives in need of repair spiraling around the poles in five-inch heels and fishnet stockings filled with measly ones and fives.

Some lives just sucked, I thought as I headed to the dressing room. Mine included.