Chapter One
Janelle Pearson scurried into the elevator of one of Beverly Hills’s finest hotels, turning to watch the mirrored doors slide shut. Her reflection staring back at her, she smoothed her hair back with steady fingers. Traced her index finger along her bottom lip, making sure her red lip gloss was in place.
She didn’t want to do this. Yet again her sister called, begging her to bail her out. And yet again, she couldn’t tell Ginger no. She never told her no, she was always there to protect her younger-by-four-minutes twin.
Glancing down, she studied the nondescript khaki trench coat she wore, thankful for its complete coverage. Purchased over three years ago from a discount store, she remembered wishing it was a Burberry trench. But a poor girl couldn’t afford to fork over eight hundred dollars for a freaking coat. So she made do.
She always made do.
Though discreet, the coat contrasted oddly with the four-inch, black patent leather stilettos she wore, accented with frilly white lace-trimmed socks. Man, she hoped no one would join her in the elevator. If they did, she really hoped they wouldn’t notice the shoes. They’d give her away for sure.
Glancing at her phone, she sighed and shuffled her feet, her instep aching already. Nearly fifteen minutes past when the job started, and she hated being late. Other girls were participating tonight, so it took a lot of the pressure off. But still. Being late was so unprofessional.
Janelle grimaced. Now that was a laugh. Her sister was the most unprofessional person she’d ever met. Right up there with their mother, who never could keep a job for long.
The elevator stopped at the eighth floor and she held her breath, waiting to see who joined her. The doors slid open, revealing no one waiting on the other side and she exhaled loudly. Dealing with the odd glances, the subtle lift of noses when strangers saw her in costume hurt, made her feel cheap.
And she hated feeling cheap.
Yes, this definitely needed to be the last night she performed in Ginger’s place. She’d already told herself this a thousand times before. But her sister always called at the last minute, always when Janelle felt broke, which was most of the time. Ginger would beg for her help, tell Janelle how much she needed her and Janelle always caved.
Determination filling her, Janelle pressed her lips together and shook her head, the ends of her hair from her high ponytail brushing against her neck. Becoming her own person and standing up for herself would be the best thing, she knew this. Lots of people started over at twenty-five. An entire personality change wouldn’t be difficult, would it?
Whether it was difficult or not, she was doing it. Miss-I’ll-bail-you-out-no-matter-what-Janelle was no more. Successful-woman-on-her-own-Janelle needed to emerge and blossom. Thrive. Survive.
The doors slid open at the penthouse floor and she exited the elevator, heading straight for the double doors marked Penthouse One. The muffled bass tones of a hip hop song sounded from within, accompanied by lots of deep male voices shouting appreciative cat calls.
Sounded like the party was in full swing.
Janelle rapped on the door. Slipping her hands in her pockets, she waited, tapping her foot to the music, nerves bouncing in her stomach. She was always nervous at first. It never really stopped, and she hadn’t done this in a long time.
The door flew open, the music smacking her like a wall of sound and she took a step back, startled.
A man with a silly grin on his face and a beer bottle in his hand opened the door wider. “Hey, we’ve got ourselves another babe!”
The group of men within the suite cheered at his words. Straightening her shoulders, she put on her best game face and strode inside.
There had to be at least thirty of them crammed into the suite. The music pounded so loud it hurt her ears, and the booze was freely flowing. Empty beer bottles littered the floor and half-full bottles of various hard liquors were scattered along any available table top surface.
Janelle wrinkled her nose. What a bunch of slobs.
“Hey baby, you’re overdressed!” This came from a drunken reveler sitting on an overstuffed loveseat, a beer clutched in his meaty hand. One of the three girls already at the party was gyrating on his knee, her lithe tan body clad in a baby blue mesh thong—and nothing else.
“Come on, Ginger, you’re late. Help us out. These guys are ready to party.” The half naked woman waved a hand about the room, thrusting her ass into the man’s face. He groaned appreciatively, slapping one bared cheek.
“Sorry I’m late.” Janelle glanced around. Where were the other girls?
“Join us, sweetheart,” the man murmured, both hands now firmly planted on the woman’s butt cheeks. “Tanya’s lonely.”
Tanya smiled appreciatively and gave him an extra wiggle.
Janelle took a step back. “Sorry, I don’t think so.” Yeah okay, she took off her top and danced in a thong, though she hadn’t done so in forever. But no way was she interested in any girl-on-girl action.
“Prude,” he muttered, turning Tania
around and bringing her close so he could kiss her smooth belly.
Rolling her eyes, Janelle meandered through the messy suite, slowly unknotting the belt at her waist. She hoped for extra good tips tonight, needing the money and wanting proper compensation for helping out Ginger. Stripping was a part of her old life. Something Janelle had done years ago, when she was young and stupid, believing she lacked the skills to get a normal job.
Since she’d determined tonight was the last time she did this, she needed to go for it. Go out with a bang. And a big fat tip would be a great way to end this part of her life for good.
“Okay boys, whose feeling neglected tonight?” Janelle shed her coat, laying it carefully on the floor behind a couch that butted up against the wall. Hopefully no one would spill beer on it.
Lots of whistles and “hey baby’s” rang through the air. Her costume was what Ginger called ‘the schoolgirl’. White button up shirt with most of the buttons undone, the ends of the shirt knotted below her breasts. A black satin and lace bra peeked out of the open neckline, and she wore a short, pleated black, green and blue plaid skirt. Plus the Mary Jane’s and lace trimmed socks.
Innocence and sin, just the thing to drive men wild. Ginger always said the outfit was a surefire way to get the party started.
“Anyone need a little pick me up tonight?” She sauntered around in a circle, surrounded by a gathering group of men, her gaze lingering on each one’s eager face. They all looked to be in their late twenties, early thirties. The majority of them handsome, dressed well, expensive watches around their wrists, some with shiny gold bands on their fingers.
Figured. Married men looking to cut loose and get wild without their wives around. She could understand a little fun, but this party looked like more than that.
It looked like a lot of trouble.
Thirty minutes. Smile and shake your money maker for thirty minutes and then get the hell out of here.
The men whooped and hollered all together, and she realized they were shouting one name in particular. Cupping her hand around her ear, she cocked her head, making them laugh.