Becoming a Jett Girl (The Bourbon Series)

Becoming a Jett Girl

Book One of the Bourbon Series

Meghan Quinn

Published by Meghan Quinn

Copyright 2014.

Cover by Meghan Quinn

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All characters in this book are fiction and figments of the author’s imagination.
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Chapter One

“Work Bitch”

Goldie

“Where the fuck are my titty tassels?” Lyla announced, as she dug through her locker.
 

She was always losing her tassels. To be honest, I didn’t know why she used them to begin with; they were more eighties porn than New Orleans strip club, but she swore they drove the men crazy. I wouldn’t know, since I was always stuck on drink duty, but that wasn’t my choice.
 

“Seriously, Goldie, have you seen my tassels? I’m on in five,” Lyla pleaded.
 

“I haven’t. Maybe you should try something other than mini curtains hanging off your tits, huh? Maybe wear…oh, what do they call it…a bra?”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Lyla asked, as she shimmied her naked tits in my face and I tried to smack her jugs away.

There was a reason why Lyla, my roommate, was center stage at Kitten’s Castle every night. She was drop-dead gorgeous. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t get a little lady wood every time she was up on stage. She was one of those mixed breeds who lucked out by having parents with perfect genes. Her skin was a deep brown color, her eyes were light green, and her hair was pitch black. Exotic could be a word to describe her, but I would also say fuck-me-in-the-ass beautiful. Yeah, that pretty much described her.
 

Lyla gave up on the search for her tassels and threw on a white cropped T-shirt over her naked breasts.
 

“I’ll just do my wet T-shirt routine tonight. There’s a bachelor party out there that has a lot of money to spend,” she said, while wiggling her eyebrows.

“When is there not a bachelor party out there?” I responded. “It’s New Orleans for fuck’s sake and we work at one of the most premier spots for men to get away with murder when they’re away from their own personal finger huts. You know, since the lighting is pretty much non-existent in here.”

Lyla crinkled her nose at my statement. “Hey, I like the fact that the lights aren’t very bright in here. I’d rather not have a spotlight shining up my Britney while I’m dancing on stage.”

“Easy for you to say; you’re not the one delivering drinks in the dark. I swear, Marv is trying to kill me out there.” I slammed my hand on the vanity and said, “And when the hell am I going to get my chance on stage?”

“Down girl. You get paid well.”

“Yeah, but I get groped every time a pass a hairy and horny man and, as we know, that’s pretty much every guy in this dump.”

“You got to work it, bitch, if you want to get the hell out of here, so stop complaining and put your garter belt on. We have some willing customers out there with some fat wallets.”

I huffed and waved Lyla off as she raced out to the stage to get ready for her act.
 

I looked into the mirror and studied the reflection that looked back at me. Ugh, I hated that my life had become an uphill climb of trying to pay off bills and debt that were, unfortunately, not even mine, but that of my dead parents. Every day, I have to practically sell my soul to skeezy men just to make sure I don’t go hungry and I can pay off the stack of bills that are piling up on my counter.
 

I’ve spent the last nine years of my life trying to climb back from the hole that Hurricane Katrina put in it and it hasn’t been easy, especially since I have no degree and no job experience.
 

That’s why I’m currently sitting in front of a rusty old vanity with piss poor lighting, outlining my azure colored eyes with cheap-as-fuck eyeliner and praying that only one man tries to stick his thumb in my ass tonight. It was a common occurrence amongst the pervs.

Kitten’s Castle, the premier location for any bachelor party, was located right on Bourbon Street, where sins were committed every night, but washed away by the most fantastic sanitation crew the next morning.
 

This will be year nine that I’m working as one of the kittens and year five that I’m still working the floor, which is the worst of all the kitten jobs. When I first started, I was the girl at the entrance, enticing all the male customers to come take a peek at the naked girls in the castle. I would shimmy at them, flaunt my ass and make obscene gestures. It was rather entertaining to see tourists pass by and judge me for wearing next to nothing and begging customers to come try our very own grenades while the kittens strutted their pussies up and down the stage.
 

Then Marv pulled me inside and made me work the floor. He said I was more valuable as a waitress because of my petite frame, but voluptuous assets. I had to admit, I had a good rack and a sweet ass, which was why I was the money-maker out of all the waitresses. I was able to get the men good and liquored up, run their tabs up, and make excellent tips. If only I didn’t have to split my tips with the rest of the whores I worked with, then I would have been off of Bourbon Street and living far away from the sin that encased me every damn night of my life.
 

Marv came into the dressing room; he never knocked, the pervert, and said, “Goldie, we need you out there. There’s a huge bachelor party and they’re ready and willing to get drunk.”

“I have five minutes until my shift, Marv. Cool it.”

“Get your ass out there. Don’t make me ask again,” he said, while looking me up and down and picking his teeth with a toothpick.
 

The man was a cretin. Picture someone who would own a strip club on Bourbon Street, creepy, fat, and balding…with a small dick. Yup, that was Marv. I didn’t actually know if he had a small dick, but by the pattern of his receding hairline, the mole that protruded off his nose and the amount of hair poking out of the back of his shirt, it all added up to me assuming the man had to have a small dick. No questions asked.
 

I put my mascara in my makeup bag, fluffed my caramel-colored hair and shoved my shit in my locker, right before I adjusted my garter belt.
 

“I’m getting paid for these extra five minutes,” I said to Marv, as I started to walk past him.
 

Marv grabbed my ass and said, “Make me some money, beautiful,” just as his thumb slipped deathly close to my asshole.
 

Count it, one thumb-slip for the night; I’m completely sunk.
 

***

The beat of a Britney Spears song beat through the speakers as I made my way past a couple of women who found it funny to watch women who were “below” them strut their bodies across the stage for horny-ass, drooling men. Frankly, I couldn’t blame them. It was quite entertaining if you sat back and watched.
 

Lyla was up on stage with a thong only covering her girly bits as she moved her body up and down the main pole on stage. The girl had moves and raked in the dough, which she was able to keep all to herself.
 

One of the reasons I wanted to get up on stage was because that meant men weren’t allowed to touch me and it was also because I’d be able to keep all the money I earned, rather than sharing it with the pot smokers I worked with who took a damn break to get stoned every fifteen minutes. The only reason the waitresses shared tips was because Marv’s stank-ass girlfriend was a waitress and, for her to earn a tip was like a witch’s wart trying to get fucked; it was practically impossible. The girl was a beast of epic proportions and all the men in Kitten’s Castle knew it, which was sad because they were drunk off their asses ninety-nine percent of the time.
 

I swayed my hips as Britney’s sound beat through my body. I couldn’t help but move to the musical stylings of the pop goddess; she has some good jams. As I felt the beat through my veins, I delivered a round of grenades, New Orleans’ most popular way to get drunk off your ass, to a table of men, who tipped me by slipping cash right into the cup of my bra.
 

“Thanks, sweetheart,” the man said with a creepy-ass smile.
 

I smiled politely, but kept on walking.
 

Work Bitch, I repeated in my head.

I went back to the bar to get more drinks when I saw Lyla spread her legs for the world to see as she slid down the pole upside down. Her finely-toned muscles held her in place, as men practically chucked their cash at her. Lucky bitch.
 

“Goldie, a new table sat down over in the corner,” Carlos said, as he placed drinks on my tray. “After you drop these drinks off at eleven, make sure you take their orders.”

Carlos was a Guido to the max. If he didn’t sleep in a tanning bed at night, I’d be surprised. His muscles rippled under his black tank top, which was a staple in his wardrobe, as he worked around the bar. He had black slicked-back hair and barbell tattoos that wrapped around his biceps, which were such a cliché in my book, but he thought he was hot every time he flashed them off to girls. It was kind of embarrassing when he did it, but then again, he was practically my bodyguard when I got off my shift, so I never told him. If it wasn’t for the fact that the brawny man preferred a dick over a vagina, I probably would have found myself in his bed a couple of nights because he was kind of hot. Unfortunately, he wasn’t necessarily out of the closet, given the fact that he was a male stripper in his down-time and wanted the girls to fall head over heels in love with him. So, he kept his little secret to himself…for the most part. I understood his reasoning, but felt bad that he couldn’t live his life the way he should.
 

“Earth to Goldie, take the drinks. Come on, we’re busy tonight, girl.”

I snapped out of my thoughts, grabbed the ready tray and dropped the drinks off to a bunch of men who must have just gotten out of a business meeting because they were all wearing loose ties and their suit jackets were laid across the backs of their chairs.
 

“Here you go, gentlemen. Please remind me, who got the dry martini with two olives?”

“That would be me, sweetheart,” said the middle-aged man with a decent-sized erection poking through his trousers. Good job Lyla, I thought, as I handed him his drink with a smile and a show of my cleavage.
 

“Do you give lap dances, sweetheart?” asked the man next to him, who was slightly balding and had a nice case of rosacea scattered across his cheeks.
 

“I don’t, handsome, but I can get one of the girls to come over and give you exactly what you want,” I said, as bile threatened to come up my throat. I hated acting like I was the least bit interested in these disgusting men.
 

“What if I want you?”

“You’re going to have to take that up with my manager, then. If it was my choice, I’d be on your lap in a heartbeat,” I winked at him as I dropped off the last man’s drink and then headed toward the table in the corner to get their orders.
 

As I walked away, a strong hand wrapped around my waist and pulled me down onto a very excited lap. Cringing from the blatant chub that was poking me in the ass, I turned around and smiled at the red-faced creep and started to get up.
 

“Where you going, sweetheart? I just wanted a little dance from the hottest girl in the joint,” he said, as the garlic he had for dinner ran off his tongue and straight into my nose, singing off any nose hairs I might have had.
 

“You know, sir, as much as I would love to gyrate your dick to explosion, I’m going to have to ask you to let go of me so you can go to the bathroom to take care of that chunk of basil that is nestled between your teeth.” I tossed a toothpick from my miniscule apron on the table and got up.