Miss Belief: A Fake Relationship Romance (The Miss Series Book 3)

Stripping wasn’t something I enjoyed, but I’d always been a good dancer, so it came quite naturally. But even I’d had to up my game when it came to dancing at the Scarlett Letter. There were a number of women from all over the world working there, many of whom were beyond striking and could work a pole as though their lives depended on it. Considering the entry fee was ten grand, and it cost five hundred for ten minutes in the back room, we had to perform at a high caliber for the rich men who came into the place.

I didn’t make friends at the club—other than Chloe, who I’d known before bringing her in. None of us got cozy with each other. It was better that way given we were all breaking the law in a foreign country. We all had our reasons for taking the risk. Some of the women had worked here only a few months, others had been doing it a year or more. There were only a handful of times the club had been shut down because of the possible risk of discovery, but it was always a threat.

It was rumored the club was funded by someone in the royal family, but I’d heard it also had American ties.

There were some regulars, but mostly we had rich men who came in groups from out of town. To protect our identities, we wore masks. In addition, I donned a long red wig to cover my hair. It was easier than arranging my hair every night, and it also lent to my stage name of Ruby.

Going into the club later that night was a somber affair. I wasn’t ever overly excited to go strip, but at least when Chloe had been here, we’d been in it together and could picture the McDonald’s run at the end of the evening. She had an obsession with cheeseburgers, and I could hoover a Big Mac and large fries any day.

Some nights were better than others. This Friday night wasn’t one of the better ones.

“No touching on the floor, sir,” I said for the second time while giving a suit a lap dance.

My eyes hit those of the nearest bouncer. He was a large, scary man, ready to pounce if I flashed the signal.

The stranger’s hot, tequila-infused breath hit my ear, making me shiver from disgust. “Let’s go to a room.”

I had a rule about working the rooms in the back, a pact Chloe and I had made while she’d worked here with me. But the thought of the extra money was hard to pass up. The sooner I earned the cash to pay the sixty grand owed in medical debt and save for a better apartment for my niece and sister, the sooner I could quit this job.

What was the worst that could happen? There were cameras in the room, and I got to call the shots.

“Let’s go.” I stood up, about to lead him to the private rooms. But suddenly Reid’s face came to mind.

I shook my head, trying to ditch the thought from my head. Although I’d been crushing on my boss for almost a year, he’d never entered my brain while I was at the club. It was as though I had a hard limit against inviting the two ideas together. But now we’d been spending so much more time in each other’s company.

Before work, we’d been meeting at the gym every day. Though we mostly did our own things, it turned out becoming gym buddies was not exactly quelling my crush. If anything, it was intensifying it.

And if I’d needed a reminder of why it couldn’t go beyond a crush, all I had to do was look down at the meaty paw grasping my wrist as though I was his new plaything. The man’s grip was a cruel reminder I was just a stripper and definitely not girlfriend material. Shit. Bringing this stranger back to a private room had been a mistake. I wasn’t in the right head space.

But it was too late now. I’d give him a spectacular private dance, and hopefully then he’d be on his way.

As soon as we entered the room, however, the man with a thick Russian accent was on me. A tongue was shoved into my mouth, and I nearly choked on the taste of tequila and cigar smoke.

“No,” I shouted, trying to pull away. But he wasn’t having it. I flashed the peace sign, the club’s signal for distress and hoped the cameras weren’t just for show.

Finally, I was able to jerk away, my lungs heaving hard at the assault, but I didn’t want to cause a scene. Although the bouncers were here to protect the girls, I had to remember customer service always came first. To the club, money was king.

“There’s no kissing.”

“Bullshit. I pay. I want whore.”

“Sir, I’m afraid you misunderstand—” I didn’t see the hand fly toward my face until it was too late.

Holy shit, he’d slapped me. The tang of blood hit my mouth at the same time the bouncers came through the door.

Bouncer number one, known as Toby—short for something the girls here couldn’t pronounce—said, “Come with me, sir, and we can see to your needs.”

For the right price, they’d probably take him next door to the hotel where they ran an escort service. The thought of some poor girl, probably even more desperate than I was for money, getting slapped around by this man all night made me sick to my stomach.

Luckily, the suit followed Toby out the door without protest, leaving me with Rahoul. He was a large, burly man who hardly spoke a word but carried a large knife strapped to his thigh. “You okay?”

My palm pressed against my throbbing jaw. “I think so.”

“Go take ten minutes and put makeup on to cover it, then return to the floor.”

He didn’t give me an opportunity to ask for more than the ten minutes offered. This was a business. And I was a commodity. Period.

The next morning I woke up with black and blue dotting my jaw. The blood had come from me biting my tongue, which was the silver lining since I didn’t have a cut lip. But the incident left me shaken. I had the next weekend off for the wedding, but there was no doubt now. I wanted to quit.

I’d search for a legitimate second job once I returned from seeing my sister in Los Angeles. My niece was in remission, and although it might take years to pay down the debt and save up for a better apartment, I needed to get out of stripping. My sister had already said she’d understand.

Then why was I crying? Maybe because last night had reminded me of exactly how I was valued in society. As a meth head’s daughter. As a foster kid. As a high school dropout. As a stripper. As Cheese Whiz.

I sucked in a deep breath. Per usual, my insecurities circled back to Reid. Dammit. Agreeing to become his fake girlfriend was messing with my head. It called attention to the ways I was lacking, and all the reasons I could never be his real girlfriend. This was the problem with thinking for a moment my crush could ever be anything more.

It was time for a new plan. A plan to put this crush behind me once and for all.