Free Ten Tiny Breaths by K.A. Tucker

ceiling around the perimeter, allowing sleek
alcoves for the bars, shiny black high top tables, and a hallway to
the V.I.P. rooms. Apparently Cain is strict about what happens back
there. Nothing illegal, he tells all the girls. “I don’t go back
there,” Storm says with a serious look that says “don’t go back
there, Kacey . ”
    On a raised stage in the center, the girls
dance. There are three dancing at all times, each with their own
little stage jutting off the main one to accommodate the group of
leering men in front row. A blue light shines down over the entire
space, creating a mystical ambience. The rest of the place is dark,
the air heady with booze and testosterone and lust. Music throbs
through my body, its beat guiding the dancers every move on
stage.
    Storm and I joke and chatter casually back
and forth as we serve, and I can’t help but start to relax around
her. The place is busy, but people aren’t climbing over each other
at the bar to get a drink like the night clubs I’ve been to. She
introduces me to three girls who she promises me I’ll like. Ginger,
Layla, and Penelope. They’re all drop dead gorgeous, giggly, and
friendly. Everyone there seems to be gorgeous, giggly, and
friendly, and I can’t help but wonder for the hundredth time why
Storm would think I’ll fit in here. But I say nothing, nodding to
them all, making sure I’ve got two full hands so I avoid all
contact. No one seems to notice.
    I get a bunch of “new girl” comments from
customers who are obviously regulars, but I ignore them. I keep my
head down and I work hard so Cain doesn’t have any reason to expand
my job description to lap dances and V.I.P. room customer support.
I take orders, I make drinks, I collect money without touching
anyone’s hand. In that order. Still, I feel eyes on me—drifting
over my curves, sizing me up, even with plenty of flesh to look at
in this place. Asshats.
    The bar is my fortress. I am safe behind this
half wall.
    ***
    “So, how are you making out so far?” Storm
asks during a two minute lull late in the night. “Think you can
handle bartending in a strip club six nights a week?”
    I shrug. “Yeah, no big deal. Just a lot of
boobs and ass cheeks and I avoid the stage so I don’t see …” My
attention drifts to the stage where an Asian girl wearing nothing
but a piece of silver floss wraps her legs around her neck. “That!”
I jerk my head away. “How can she do it?”
    “That’s Cherry. She’s into hot yoga.”
    I roll my eyes. “No, I don’t mean how. I mean
… how !”
    “Everyone’s got their price,” is Storm’s only
response as she dispenses another round of Jim Beam.
    “I guess so,” I mutter, silently wondering if
Storm has set a price.
    “Okay, so now that you’re familiar with the
bar, Kacey,” Storm begins, “you can start smiling any time. You do
know that if you smile at the customers, you’re likely to get
bigger tips, right?”
    I smirk. “Why would me smiling make them give
me more money when they can save it for the person humping their
leg? Are they idiots?”
    “Just … trust me.” She sighs patiently,
moving back to serve a customer, hollering over her shoulder,
“You’re the shiny new red-haired toy and you’re forcing them to use
their imagination.”
    Great. That’s what I want to be. Some guy’s
wet dream.
    To prove her wrong, I give the next three
customers the widest grin my face can handle without splitting in
half. I even wink at one. Low and behold, the tips double. Hmmm.
Maybe we’re on to something. If only smiling wasn’t such a
drain.
    A middle-aged cowboy with an oversized hat
and Wrangler jeans leans forward over the bar, his mouth twisted
like he’s chewing on a piece of straw, but there’s nothing there.
“Ain’t you a pretty sight, all toned and natural,” he says,
lingering too long on my cleavage. Why, I don’t know. I look like a
ten year old boy next to every other female in this place. When he
sneers,