Authors: Nia Arthurs
Tsea
Tsea
Nia Arthurs
COPYRIGHT
First published in Belize, C.A. 2016
Copyright © Nia Arthurs
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be circulated in any writing of any publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This book has been produced for the Amazon Kindle and is distributed by Amazon Direct Publishing.
To my cousin, Francis.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
The pole was cold beneath my fingertips, the metal slippery from hours of sweat. My feet were sure despite the thin length of my six inch heels. The clack of plastic against steel rang louder than the raucous laughter weaving beneath the heavy bass thump of the dancehall song.
The club was filled to the brim tonight with men – and even a few women – eager to blow their pay on a night of fantasy and pleasure. I blocked them out, focused beyond their hands touching my body, their fingers slipping two dollar bills into the waistband of my costume. What mattered was keeping my hold, wrapping my thighs around the mast, and making more money.
Slowly, I slid against the pole, my legs spread apart in a move that I’d created two years ago. The crowd went wild. Men pressed to the front. A flutter of Belizean dollars rained down like confetti, happily released from the onlookers standing around me. The loud whistles of approval pierced through the noise. My stands would once again rake in the highest bids tonight. I could feel it.
Manuel would be pleased.
The thought paraded across my mind, saturated in a mixture of longing and regret. For the first time, I pulled my attention to the club. My eyes swept the throng of men gathered around the raised platforms upon which I, and the other Mickey Girls, danced. The red, blue and white spotlights cut across the floor and the scent of sweat, beer, and smoke swirled in a fragrance that belonged to the night.
When I found him, when my eyes connected with his, I felt it. As surely as the tide belonged to the moon, I – Jade Hunter – belonged to Manuel Carinna. He sent me a slow, sensual wink and I did an extra dip just for him. His attention made the entire performance. It suddenly meant more than a sexual display for the consumption of men. It was an intimate dance. Just me and Manuel.
I thought about the day we met. Desperation and hopelessness had led me to
Mickey’s
, the most elite strip club in San Pedro. The wooden chairs had been upended on the round tables. The bare walls and empty podiums had seemed extra lonely beneath the bright rays of the morning light and yet the bar – in the farthest corner – was swathed in darkness.
“
We’re closed
,” a raspy voice had warned while I’d stepped deeper into the room of shadows.
“
I’m here for a position
.”
“
We’re closed
.”
I’d felt the panic crowd around my throat and spoke three bonding words. “
I’ll do anything
.”
It was then that Manuel revealed himself. He’d stolen my breath with his dark chocolate eyes, his sexy muscled arms, and his broad shoulders. He’d invited me into his world and into his bed. For the past two years, I’d been in and out of both. I admit, I was drawn by the challenge of conquering him once and for all.
While I danced, a girl sidled up to Manuel, pulling on his arm and severing our connection. I scowled for a moment but quickly brought myself back. I couldn’t break character now. This business was built on illusion, well illusion and sex. Slapping a sultry grin on my face, I bent low – all the while keeping my eyes on the pair by the bar.
When the sweat cleared from my eyes and the spotlights slammed into her form, I recognized her. Her name was Essence. She had been drafted recently by Manuel to replace April, an Old Guard that had quit last month. Essence was small and petite with a long nose and large grey eyes. Because of her innocent face, she was my biggest competition in sales. It looked like she planned on competing for Manuel too.
I barely restrained my scoff. He’d probably given her the usual newbie speech about being ‘his’ girl and now, she thought that she could move in on him. I’d seen her flirting and touching him, even when the customers were gone and there was no need to curry his favor. The girl irritated me. I’d worked my butt off to be where I was with Manuel. I didn’t plan on stepping back so some new chick could wreak havoc now.
“Lap dance! Lap dance!” A boisterous group of foreigners pushed a scrawny, white man with square glasses onto my platform. The man rocked unsteadily, clearly inebriated. I waited for an incentive and when it was finally delivered in the form of hundred dollar American bills, I advanced.
“What’s your name, sweetie?” I asked, allowing the tip of my tongue to flicker against his ear when I spoke.
The white man in the polo shirt and dark blue jeans leaned over and yelled, “John.”
Of course his name was John.
I smiled and glanced back at Manuel who had his head dipped way too close to Essence for my comfort. Straightening my shoulders, I stalked over to John and extended my hand for the wooden backed chair that I kept next to the stage for these moments. Aggressively, I pushed his shoulders and he landed in the seat.
“Just sit back, honey,” I purred.
John was far from the first white guy that I’d entertained. San Pedro was one of Belize’s most beautiful destinations. Tourists were drawn to the beautiful beaches, the Barrier Reef, and the rich marine life. But when the tour groups dispersed and the sun went down, the hottest commodity could be found in places quite like this.
What I liked about
Mickey’s
was its selectivity. Not just anyone could get in. Ours was a hush-hush gathering reserved for the elitist who were looking for a night where fantasy met reality. I’d danced for local and international celebrities, senators, and government officials alike. Discretion was prized right along with the favors Mickey Girls extended. I glanced at the white man beneath me. John and his crew had to be rolling in
something
– whether money or connections – to even be here.
By the time I was done with my routine, John sat limply against the chair and his buddies stepped onto the platform, physically carting him off. Tired, I caught the eyes of the Borden Twins, Lila and Leah, on the next podium over. They were Old Guards like me, girls that had stuck around
Mickey’s
for quite a while.
When I caught Lila’s eyes, I jerked my head toward my pole. Lila abandoned her post and hopped over to my podium to relieve me. I did a little shake with her to excite the crowd and then hopped off, heading toward the bar.
The scent of debauchery and looseness filled every crevice of
Mickey’s
. The girl he had in his sights wore a bright red dress that barely covered her buttocks. Her long, black hair fell down to her shoulders, falling over her exposed breasts – holding on to a sheer top for modesty. She flaunted her body for the world to see. It sickened him.
She was a dancer here. The display was an obvious effort to receive the attentions of men and lead them down the path of unrighteousness.
Just as his mother had.
Stoker followed behind her at a safe distance. As he watched her hips swaying in the tight outfit, his mind ran over the information that he knew of her. She was twenty one years old. No parents. No family. A prime candidate.
The girl went over to the bar and leaned over the edge. Her dress rode up and caught the attention of several patrons around the counter. She flung her hair over her shoulder as she spoke to the bartender, further emphasizing her revealing outfit.
The sight made Stoker want to vomit.
His finger itched to lead her from the path of darkness and rescue his brethren. He calmed himself. All in good time. Tonight, he had other plans. Belize needed to see past the shadows and admire the light of his handiwork. It was time to be heard.
Mickey’s
had a clubhouse feel with an open floor plan. The podiums and poles were at the front of the large hall while the bar ran along one length of the entire wall. Except for the VIP lounge which was boxed in with velvet ropes and clear glass, there were no backrooms or private halls. It wasn’t a whore house. If a girl wanted to be paid for any services that
Mickey’s
didn’t offer, she’d have to do it on her own time.
My decision to become a dancer had been born of desperation but I truly loved this gig. I enjoyed the rush of the beat, the feeling of the bass thumping against my heart,
becoming
my heart. The attention of strong, influential men all on me was thrilling and the constant adoration was an intoxicating blend that I had no idea I’d needed.
I knew what people thought of Mickey Girls. I’d heard the words to my face.
Whore, slut, prostitute.
These phrases did not define me. I had never slept with a man outside of Manuel since coming to
Mickey’s
. I was an entertainer, a dancer, a bringer of happiness. Men had needs and I met them in my own way in exchange for money. It was basic economics.
Disgruntled wives, girlfriends, uptight women of society refused to acknowledge the truth. If there wasn’t a demand for girls like me, then places like
Mickey’s
wouldn’t exist. Few were willing to hear that little dose of wisdom, so I simply ducked my head and took all the comments with a grain of salt. I really didn’t care what anyone thought.
“Can I get a beer?” I leaned over the counter, my hands playing over the stained wood, and winked at the brawny man busily mixing drinks. He wore a tight black shirt and dark jeans held around the waist with a brown belt.
“It’s ‘
may
’ I get a beer.” The man easily corrected as he uncorked a dark, brown bottle and slid it down the counter. I caught it in my grasp and saluted the tall, handsome bartender with a thick head of dark hair and pale skin.
“Right silly me. Thanks, Carlos.” Carlos Fuentes held a Bachelors degree in English from a fancy American school. He worked as a teacher at the primary school during the day. Carlos kept us on our p’s and q’s, correcting our colloquialisms and our broken English under his breath.
I was the only one that encouraged him to chastise me. I thought it was sweet and adorable, given how scary he could be. His upright carriage and mild manners completely opposed his linebacker shoulders and fierce expressions. He always used his mass for good. Carlos was intensely protective of all the girls, probably more than Manuel. Few people got in his way when he asserted himself.
“What do you think of her?” I tilted my head toward the end of the bar where Essence was leading Manuel unto the dance floor.
Carlos took a break from his duties to speak to me. “I think she’s someone that’s used to getting what she wants.” He shot me a broad grin, “You’re not jealous are you? Because she has nothing on you, Jade.”
I took a swig of my beer. Carlos and I had a tight friendship but sometimes I wondered if he wanted more. The tone of his voice held a hint of something that I couldn’t quite put a finger on. He’d only been with us for a few months, so perhaps I was reading too much into nothing.
Carlos was a man of mystery. He kept to himself and he never,
ever
spoke about his home life. All I’d managed to get out of him was that he wanted to help people someday and bartending was the closest he could get to the people who needed him most. It was a strange thing for an English teacher to say but anyone who knew Carlos, knew he spoke the truth.
I leaned over the counter, feeling the sheer material of my top slide lower and lower. Carlos’s eyes dipped and then his gaze quickly climbed back up to my face. I withheld my smile. That’s what he did. Every time.
I didn’t mind if he looked. I was proud of my body – a product of exercise, healthy eating, and good genes. My hair was naturally long and curly, though I put a lot of effort into keeping it from frizzing. I had dark, almond shaped eyes and thin lips. My skin was a mocha shade, a balance between dark and light. I found that American men, especially, enjoyed my ‘exoticness’.
Of course, men of every color, nationality and religion found my body to their tastes. Carlos was the only guy that I knew who tried his best to avert his eyes when I, or any of the other girls, danced. It wasn’t innocence that kept his gaze away. The guy was ripped. He carried himself with a hardness that belied his academic pursuits.
No one quite understood how Carlos Fuentes worked. I longed to be the first to figure him out. There was something about mysteries that begged for my attention. And Carlos Fuentes was one of the biggest puzzles I’d ever encountered. He was quiet, yet firm. Strong, yet kind. Muscled like a body builder (a fact I’d discovered when a drunken patron slammed his shirt with whiskey and Carlos plucked the sodden material off), yet extremely respectful to every Mickey Girl.
He never spoke rudely to us or asked us for favors, though many of the girls would do anything he asked for free. It was strange, but no one questioned it. I, however, liked to tease him. Carlos reacted the way he always did, with a working jaw and tapping fingers. The way he was right now.
I opened my mouth to joke about paying for the beer with a dance, when a
crash
blasted through the room. The sound was loud enough to combat the music blaring from the speakers. People screamed as glass rained unto their heads. The girls dancing on the platforms ducked and covered their faces. I was roughly tossed to the ground as another shout sounded and shards continued to fall.