Hate me

Knox

“What can I get you?” the busty girl behind the bar asks. 

“Coke.” 

Pursing her shiny red lips, she gives me a flirty wink.  “Are you sure you don’t want something a little…harder.” 

I don’t miss the obvious double entendre, but I’m not interested. There’s only one person I came here to see tonight, and she sure as fuck isn’t it. 

“Just the Coke.” 

Disappointment illuminates her face as she slams a glass on the bar and fills it with soda. 

I’m about to tell her to go ahead and spit in it because I have no intention of drinking it. I only bought it because the club recently instituted a bullshit two-drink minimum for guests. 

As if the Bashful Beaver is some kind of upscale, sophisticated establishment. 

This place is a goddamn shithole and Aspen shouldn’t be working here. 

The chick slides the glass toward me. “Enjoy the show.” 

Irritation catches the back of my throat as I take it and search for an empty seat.  

I’ve only been here twice and both times it was damn near empty. 

But not tonight. Tonight, there’s only one open seat, and it’s all the way in the back, which suits me just fine.

The fluorescent lights dim and the hip-hop music that was playing comes to a stop before the DJ’s voice emanates over the speakers. “Gentlemen, please give it up for Ms. Ginger.” 

I grit my teeth as I plop down in a chair and the chatter around me comes to a halt. Everyone’s attention turns to the stage that’s illuminated with a dark purple haze as the first few bars of “Hurt” the Nine-Inch-Nails version begins to play. 

A second later, Ginger saunters out on stage. 

Only it isn’t Ginger…it’s Aspen. 

I’ve been to a few strip clubs before and the girls always come out in some sexy get up aimed to entice us. 

But Aspen isn’t wearing a sexy costume tonight. She’s wearing a buttoned-up white cardigan, a pair of black jeans, and her trademark pearls. In other words…her regular clothes. 

She’s also not wearing her mask. 

What the fuck is she doing?

Slowly, she trails her hand up the length of her arm, then up the side of her face until she reaches the white ribbon secured around the bun in her hair. She gives it a swift tug and long red locks spill down her back in a mess of silky waves, causing some guys to cheer. 

She moves methodically—like a predator advancing on its victim—as she approaches the pole in the middle of the stage. 

Only, she doesn’t grip it right away—she teasingly runs a hand up and down—stroking it. 

“Damn, baby,” the guy next to me shouts. 

I clutch my glass tighter, unable to take my eyes off her. 

Keeping her movements unhurried, she coils her body around the pole like a snake before lowering herself onto the floor. 

She looks like she’s in a trance as she slips a hand down the front of her cardigan and touches her breast. 

“Hottest thing I’ve ever seen, beautiful,” some asshole calls out. 

She then lies on the floor, jutting her hips—writhing. Moving her body like a goddamn serpent. The hem of her cardigan rises up, showcasing her flat stomach as her delicate fingers walk down her torso before dipping inside the waistband of her jeans. 

Jesus fucking Christ. 

I expected some meaningless booty shaking and a few clumsy spins around the pole. 

Not this. 

However, the shit she’s doing is working, because the men are throwing money on the stage hand over fist.  

My dick thickens when she unzips her pants and slips them down her hips, revealing a white G-string. 

The move has my fingers tightening around the glass, and I want to kill a motherfucker when she begins unbuttoning her cardigan and it falls open, baring her white cotton bra. 

She stands up then, stretching the length of her body against the pole before placing it between her perky tits. 

“Fuck me,” the guy in front of me says. “She’s so hot.” 

I’ve never been the jealous type, but the thought of other men watching her do this has my blood fucking boiling. 

Ginger belongs to them…

Aspen is mine. 

She does one leisurely turn around the pole, slipping her sweater off her shoulders in the process. 

Closing her eyes and gripping the rod, she tips her head back. I sit, hypnotized as her free hand finds the hook of her bra and she unfastens it before spi

She raises her arms over her head—swaying her pert ass—before she turns to face us again, her perfect tits on full display. 

Glass cracks under my fingers and liquid streams out over my hand and onto the table, but I don’t give a fuck. 

She does one gradual—deliberate—walk around the pole as the song begins to fade before coming to an end. 

Aspen comes out of her trance, and as if realizing she just showed these assholes parts of herself they didn’t deserve to see, she quickly picks up her clothes and clutches them to her chest before sweeping all the money into a bag. 

I’m already out of my chair by the time she runs off stage.