Species Interaction (4 page)

"Please, baby?"

"But I've never stripped before, and besides, I stink at dancing."

He grinned widely. "I'll teach you. Meat's Express Course. You'll be a hit."

I gawked at him. "You know Baby in the movie
Dirty Dancing
had a whole week to learn a dance routine. You're only giving me five hours!"

His dimple popped out. "This is slutty dancing, not professional. Anyone can do it. Besides, if you're a good girl and dance well, I'll take you to bed afterward."

I did the guppy thing with my mouth opening and shutting with no sound emerging. "But…"

"Isn't that what Baby's reward was in that movie?"

I groaned, lowering my head in defeat. "It had better be your best performance ever."

He chuckled. "I haven't gotten any complaints thus far." Grabbing my hand, he tugged me out of the kitchen and into the living room. "Come on. Lessons start now."

Why me?

* * * *

Five hours and thirty minutes later we stood at his club for men's night.

"What am I going to wear?" I glanced down at my jeans and tennis shoes. Not what customers probably wanted to see.

He grinned wickedly. "Well, there is that pink tutu that you so smartly found on your first visit to my dressing room."

I propped my hands on my hips, immediately defensive. "Oh, I don't think so, buster. I'm not going out there as a ballerina."

He opened the door to his dressing room, nudging me in. "No worries. We'll find something. If not in my closet, then the other closets will have ladies' apparel. After all, the women dance once a week."

"Ewwwwwww. I'm not wearing some outfit that other women have worn, especially without panties. I mean, women don't even try on new bathing suits without panties. That's just icky."

He shook his head. "They're washed in between sets."

I headed to the wardrobe. "Uh huh. How do you know that for sure?"

"Well…" He shrugged and shut his mouth.

I fiddled through the clothes on hangers, eyes widening as I pictured myself in a few of the outfits on stage and in public.
It so wasn't happening
.

"Can't you just put me in a nun's habit again?"

He smiled widely. "As much as I might like that, I think that's a bit too many clothes for this randy group. But that gives me an idea."

Uh oh.
His ideas never boded well for me.

Sure enough, twenty minutes later, I stood on the wings of the stage, biting my lip nervously. Come to find out, amateur night really was pretty dismal tonight with only a handful of women taking the stage. I drew the last dance. Afterward, they would turn the club over to the professional male dancers and let all the hot to trot women in to see the show.

"Don't worry. You'll be a hit," Meat whispered against my ear, giving my temple a quick peck.

I glanced down at my Catholic school girl's outfit and shuddered. Knee length skirt, white starched button-down shirt, complete with tie, knee-high socks, and of course, three inch heels. I shifted weight and nearly toppled over. Meat grabbed me in the nick of time before pulling me back to a standing position.

I tried to argue that school girls in uniform wear saddle shoes, not high heels. He countered that men didn't want to see saddle shoes on strippers, high heels were mandatory.
No matter the stripper might break her neck in them.

"I don't think I can do this."

He spun me around to face him, leaning nose to nose. "You can do this, Shyanne. I promise." Looking over my head, he took my hand and dragged me forward. "Just imagine you're doing this for me at my house. We're alone, and you want my undivided attention."

I snorted. "I would just hit you over the head with one of these neck breaker shoes."

He laughed, gave me a quick nuzzle and kiss. "You're on."

Looking around wildly, I sought his gaze. "Where will you be?"

"On the floor with the other men. I have the scent of the guy I'm looking for. It's just a matter of singling him out."

I nodded. "You sure he's out there?"

His head bobbed. "Jack the Ripper-Offer wouldn't miss this night for the world. He loves nothing more than watching women take their clothes off, and he never misses a show. If I can catch him now, it'll save another woman or three from potentially losing her assets to the jackass." He spun on his heel and was off.

Jack the Ripper-Offer? That baboon was using me as bait for Jack the Ripper-Offer?
Well, technically he only used women and stole. Ripped them off. Still, he should have changed his name. Would have made me feel all the better.

My music started. Of course, Meat chose "Hit Me with Your Best Shot". Good selection considering I really wanted to hit him at that moment, upside the head, with this blasted high heeled shoe, and maybe follow with the second.

Nervously, I forced myself to walk on stage, nearly falling over four times in the process.

A sea of men sat before me, all hollering, drinking, and making such ribald comments that a whole tub full of soap wouldn't be near enough to wash their mouths out.

Blushing scarlet, I started to move as Meat had shown me earlier. A little hip action here, a pirouette there. One more turn and I listed heavily to the side, waving my arms to keep balance and not land flat on my face in front of the crowd.

The men started cat calling and yelling for me to take it off. Grudgingly, I recalled the sole job of a stripper: removing clothing while lust-filled eyes watched.

Taking a second to decide what article to start with, I opted for those dang shoes. Yeah, Meat told me they had to stay on as men liked to watch women in high heels and how those shoes made their legs and butt look better. However, considering I was going to end up in ER before the song was over, I decided it was worth the risk of boos and bad reviews.

A pole in the center of the stage drew my attention. I hopped over, turned away from the crowd, and used the pole for balance, as I bent over at the waist and unlaced first one shoe then the other. Groans and moans came from behind me. Not to mention a few wolf whistles. Judging by their vocal reaction, the audience didn't seem to mind my being shoeless after all. I kicked the heels off and leaned over once more to pull up a sock.

"Damn. She's even got on little girl white panties."

I jerked up straight with that comment. The flush returned in force when I realized I just mooned a room full of horny men, who obviously knew what little Catholic girls wore beneath their skirts.
Jeez. Where was my nun's habit when I needed it?

Frantically, I glanced across the room, unable to spot Meat anywhere. Maybe he had the man captured already. I sure hoped so. No way on this planet would I let him lasso me into another episode of stripping. Not in public, at least.

I glanced at the pole and decided I could use the sturdy device to buy time in order to get to the end of the song faster with more clothes on than off. I swung around like it was a Maypole, pulling off my tie in the process, tossing it out to the crowd.
This can't be that hard, right?
Lots of women take classes on how to do this in a sexy, sensual manner.
What is that move they do? Jumping on the pole, then hanging upside down? I bet I could do that!

Gathering my energy, I grabbed the pole and leaped. I made it onto the pole, for all of three seconds. Then gravity kicked in. With a small yelp, I landed flat on my back at the base of the pole, my skirt over my head, and spread-eagled in front of the masses.

The noise level of approval escalated from my unsuccessful attempt to perform such a difficult trick. Or, it could have been something much more basic, like the free look at my cotton panties that they cheered for.
Perverts.

Pulling myself up, I rubbed my stinging hiney and decided to try a bit more Maypole dancing. Safe, easy, and less bruising on the rear. The clamoring for "take it off" increased.
Good grief.
How long was this song after all? On the radio, it's like two minutes. On stage, why is it lasting twenty? I glanced down at my clothes.
What to remove next?
I quickly unbuttoned the first two buttons on my shirt then a better idea struck. Looking down, I reached for my socks.

Personally, I would rather head back to the dressing rooms and crawl into Meat's wardrobe and hide. Even as the men standing at the edge of the stage beckoned me closer, I made sure to stay out of arm's reach. No way were they sticking their dirty paws in my undies. I had no idea how Meat tolerated such night after night, but maybe men saw the whole donation business differently than women. Less persnickety when it came to cleanliness and hygiene matters.

I spun around and caught a glimpse of the stage manager. He frantically motioned for me to take off the rest of my clothes. I rolled my eyes. That was the last thing I wanted to do, equivalent to waving a raw steak at a den of hyenas.

Grumbling, I unbuttoned a couple more shirt buttons, which gave the group a glimpse of my bra.

"Holy shit. She's got one of those little girl bras on, too!"

The talkative guy needed some dental help and fast. His black teeth didn't appear healthy or appealing, and I sure as heck didn't want to get close enough to smell.

What is it that Meat told me?
Just picture the audience in their underwear? Ewwwww. I so didn't think so. That image alone would make my therapist a whole lot richer.

Distracted, I stepped a bit too close to the front of the stage. A sweaty hand grabbed my skirt; the other caught hold of my shirt and pulled hard. The material gave way, leaving me naked except my underwear.

Yikes!
I scurried up and back. Where were those bouncers when you needed them?
Oh, yeah. There they are, watching the show with the rest of the drooling mob. Good grief.

Finally, I maneuvered back on the stage, edging ever so slowly toward the exit. Enough was enough. If Meat hadn't tracked his target after this amount of time, then he'd just have to try something else.

The music stopped, and I fled, running down the first corridor I could find, slamming through the end door. A couple of beats passed before I realized I zigged when I should have zagged, which landed me not in the dressing room as I planned, but outside the back door of the club. Swiftly, I spun, pulled on the handle, and pounded to get back inside. Too dang cold to stand outside in next to nothing.

A few curses later, when the door stubbornly remained firmly shut, I sucked in my pride, turned, and started around to the front of the building. I didn't have any money stashed in my undies to pay the cover charge, but maybe Melvin the Mountain would take pity on me. An ironic thought raced through my mind. If I had let those men tip, then I would have more than enough to get back inside.
Some days it simply doesn't pay to get out of bed.

"Not so fast."

I glanced up to see two uniformed cops blocking my path. "Oh, excuse me." I tried to push past them, to no avail.

One blocked my way, catching my arm.

"Hold it a minute. We need to speak to you," the taller, dark haired one said. He released me, resting his hands on his large belt.

"Huh?"
What did I do? Was it Meat? Had something bad happened?

The shorter blond must have read my face. "Nothing bad. We just have a couple questions for you."

"Oh."

"Do you have a license to strip?"

I blinked up at them. "You need a license?"
Funny, Meat never mentioned anything about that.

"That answers that question. Now, do you work here?" The tall one pushed forward.

"Ummmm. No. I was told… well, it's amateur night, you see." What was I to say?
Meat asked me to dance so he could catch a bad guy?

"I see." The shorter one walked behind me, grabbing one arm, pulling his handcuffs out at the same time.

I tugged and struggled. "Wait! You don't understand."

A bright light and camera appeared. "I'm filming this for
Life of a Cop
." The cameraman glanced at me briefly before aiming his video tool directly my way.

Sure, I told him to go away and turn the camera off, but I guess once you are in handcuffs, your wishes no longer matter. All my friends and co-workers will now see me decked out in cotton underwear in the middle of winter on national TV
. Wonderful.

"Understand what? You were stripping without a license, and you aren't employed here. That makes you also guilty of public indecency."

I looked down at my undies. "Yeah, well, I've seen women at the gym wearing less than I have on." My chin went up a notch as they snapped the cuffs shut.

The blond shook his head. "Those are workout outfits, not underwear. Big difference."

I began to panic, realizing that my hands were locked into place. "But my boyfriend said if I danced well for him, he would… errrr… never mind."

They stared down at me. "You're a prostitute too?"

"What?" I blinked and choked. "No, no, no. He doesn't pay me for sex."

They started pulling me along behind them as they headed for the exit. "Can't I at least get my clothes? It's cold out here, you know."

"It'll be warm enough in the patrol car, although I hear jail is chilly." He took a moment to check out my attire before continuing. "Some of those cell mates are a bit deprived. I bet you'll be plenty warm if you keep on the move."

"Very funny, Barney," I grumbled under my breath.

His face scrunched into a frown. "What did you call me?"

Oh, good grief
. "Nothing. I swear. Nothing at all."

"Tell it to a judge, honey," the blond replied.

"Shy. My name is Shy." I ambled along behind them, trying to avoid meeting the eyes of those that stared.

The cops both snorted. "Great stripper name. Especially considering your innocent school girl outfit."

I stumbled. "But it's my real name!"

"Yeah, right."

Dropping my head, I obediently slid into the squad car, wondering how in the world I would get out of this mess.

Once we reached jail, a lady tossed me a pair of gaudy gray striped scrubs. At least they were clean and covered more than what I arrived in. After all the processing, I begged for my phone call.