Becoming a jett girl the.., p.1
Becoming a Jett Girl (The Bourbon Series), p.1Meghan Quinn
Becoming a Jett Girl
Book One of the Bourbon Series
Published by Meghan Quinn
Cover by Meghan Quinn
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All characters in this book are fiction and figments of the author’s imagination. www.authormeghanquinn.com
“Where the fuck are my titty tassels?” Lyla announced, as she dug through her locker.
She was always losing her tassels. To be honest, I didn’t know why she used them to begin with; they were more eighties porn than New Orleans strip club, but she swore they drove the men crazy. I wouldn’t know, since I was always stuck on drink duty, but that wasn’t my choice.
“Seriously, Goldie, have you seen my tassels? I’m on in five,” Lyla pleaded.
“I haven’t. Maybe you should try something other than mini curtains hanging off your tits, huh? Maybe wear…oh, what do they call it…a bra?”
“Where’s the fun in that?” Lyla asked, as she shimmied her naked tits in my face and I tried to smack her jugs away.
There was a reason why Lyla, my roommate, was center stage at Kitten’s Castle every night. She was drop-dead gorgeous. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t get a little lady wood every time she was up on stage. She was one of those mixed breeds who lucked out by having parents with perfect genes. Her skin was a deep brown color, her eyes were light green, and her hair was pitch black. Exotic could be a word to describe her, but I would also say fuck-me-in-the-ass beautiful. Yeah, that pretty much described her.
Lyla gave up on the search for her tassels and threw on a white cropped T-shirt over her naked breasts.
“I’ll just do my wet T-shirt routine tonight. There’s a bachelor party out there that has a lot of money to spend,” she said, while wiggling her eyebrows.
“When is there not a bachelor party out there?” I responded. “It’s New Orleans for fuck’s sake and we work at one of the most premier spots for men to get away with murder when they’re away from their own personal finger huts. You know, since the lighting is pretty much non-existent in here.”
Lyla crinkled her nose at my statement. “Hey, I like the fact that the lights aren’t very bright in here. I’d rather not have a spotlight shining up my Britney while I’m dancing on stage.”
“Easy for you to say; you’re not the one delivering drinks in the dark. I swear, Marv is trying to kill me out there.” I slammed my hand on the vanity and said, “And when the hell am I going to get my chance on stage?”
“Down girl. You get paid well.”
“Yeah, but I get groped every time a pass a hairy and horny man and, as we know, that’s pretty much every guy in this dump.”
“You got to work it, bitch, if you want to get the hell out of here, so stop complaining and put your garter belt on. We have some willing customers out there with some fat wallets.”
I huffed and waved Lyla off as she raced out to the stage to get ready for her act.
I looked into the mirror and studied the reflection that looked back at me. Ugh, I hated that my life had become an uphill climb of trying to pay off bills and debt that were, unfortunately, not even mine, but that of my dead parents. Every day, I have to practically sell my soul to skeezy men just to make sure I don’t go hungry and I can pay off the stack of bills that are piling up on my counter.
I’ve spent the last nine years of my life trying to climb back from the hole that Hurricane Katrina put in it and it hasn’t been easy, especially since I have no degree and no job experience.
That’s why I’m currently sitting in front of a rusty old vanity with piss poor lighting, outlining my azure colored eyes with cheap-as-fuck eyeliner and praying that only one man tries to stick his thumb in my ass tonight. It was a common occurrence amongst the pervs.
Kitten’s Castle, the premier location for any bachelor party, was located right on Bourbon Street, where sins were committed every night, but washed away by the most fantastic sanitation crew the next morning.
This will be year nine that I’m working as one of the kittens and year five that I’m still working the floor, which is the worst of all the kitten jobs. When I first started, I was the girl at the entrance, enticing all the male customers to come take a peek at the naked girls in the castle. I would shimmy at them, flaunt my ass and make obscene gestures. It was rather entertaining to see tourists pass by and judge me for wearing next to nothing and begging customers to come try our very own grenades while the kittens strutted their pussies up and down the stage.
Then Marv pulled me inside and made me work the floor. He said I was more valuable as a waitress because of my petite frame, but voluptuous assets. I had to admit, I had a good rack and a sweet ass, which was why I was the money-maker out of all the waitresses. I was able to get the men good and liquored up, run their tabs up, and make excellent tips. If only I didn’t have to split my tips with the rest of the whores I worked with, then I would have been off of Bourbon Street and living far away from the sin that encased me every damn night of my life.
Marv came into the dressing room; he never knocked, the pervert, and said, “Goldie, we need you out there. There’s a huge bachelor party and they’re ready and willing to get drunk.”
“I have five minutes until my shift, Marv. Cool it.”
“Get your ass out there. Don’t make me ask again,” he said, while looking me up and down and picking his teeth with a toothpick.
The man was a cretin. Picture someone who would own a strip club on Bourbon Street, creepy, fat, and balding…with a small dick. Yup, that was Marv. I didn’t actually know if he had a small dick, but by the pattern of his receding hairline, the mole that protruded off his nose and the amount of hair poking out of the back of his shirt, it all added up to me assuming the man had to have a small dick. No questions asked.
I put my mascara in my makeup bag, fluffed my caramel-colored hair and shoved my shit in my locker, right before I adjusted my garter belt.
“I’m getting paid for these extra five minutes,” I said to Marv, as I started to walk past him.
Marv grabbed my ass and said, “Make me some money, beautiful,” just as his thumb slipped deathly close to my asshole.
Count it, one thumb-slip for the night; I’m completely sunk.
The beat of a Britney Spears song beat through the speakers as I made my way past a couple of women who found it funny to watch women who were “below” them strut their bodies across the stage for horny-ass, drooling men. Frankly, I couldn’t blame them. It was quite entertaining if you sat back and watched.
Lyla was up on stage with a thong only covering her girly bits as she moved her body up and down the main pole on stage. The girl had moves and raked in the dough, which she was able to keep all to herself.
One of the reasons I wanted to get up on stage was because that meant men weren’t allowed to touch me and it was also because I’d be able to keep all the money I earned, rather than sharing it with the pot smokers I worked with who took a damn break to get stoned every fifteen minutes. The only reason the waitresses
I swayed my hips as Britney’s sound beat through my body. I couldn’t help but move to the musical stylings of the pop goddess; she has some good jams. As I felt the beat through my veins, I delivered a round of grenades, New Orleans’ most popular way to get drunk off your ass, to a table of men, who tipped me by slipping cash right into the cup of my bra.
“Thanks, sweetheart,” the man said with a creepy-ass smile.
I smiled politely, but kept on walking.
Work Bitch, I repeated in my head.
I went back to the bar to get more drinks when I saw Lyla spread her legs for the world to see as she slid down the pole upside down. Her finely-toned muscles held her in place, as men practically chucked their cash at her. Lucky bitch.
“Goldie, a new table sat down over in the corner,” Carlos said, as he placed drinks on my tray. “After you drop these drinks off at eleven, make sure you take their orders.”
Carlos was a Guido to the max. If he didn’t sleep in a tanning bed at night, I’d be surprised. His muscles rippled under his black tank top, which was a staple in his wardrobe, as he worked around the bar. He had black slicked-back hair and barbell tattoos that wrapped around his biceps, which were such a cliché in my book, but he thought he was hot every time he flashed them off to girls. It was kind of embarrassing when he did it, but then again, he was practically my bodyguard when I got off my shift, so I never told him. If it wasn’t for the fact that the brawny man preferred a dick over a vagina, I probably would have found myself in his bed a couple of nights because he was kind of hot. Unfortunately, he wasn’t necessarily out of the closet, given the fact that he was a male stripper in his down-time and wanted the girls to fall head over heels in love with him. So, he kept his little secret to himself…for the most part. I understood his reasoning, but felt bad that he couldn’t live his life the way he should.
“Earth to Goldie, take the drinks. Come on, we’re busy tonight, girl.”
I snapped out of my thoughts, grabbed the ready tray and dropped the drinks off to a bunch of men who must have just gotten out of a business meeting because they were all wearing loose ties and their suit jackets were laid across the backs of their chairs.
“Here you go, gentlemen. Please remind me, who got the dry martini with two olives?”
“That would be me, sweetheart,” said the middle-aged man with a decent-sized erection poking through his trousers. Good job Lyla, I thought, as I handed him his drink with a smile and a show of my cleavage.
“Do you give lap dances, sweetheart?” asked the man next to him, who was slightly balding and had a nice case of rosacea scattered across his cheeks.
“I don’t, handsome, but I can get one of the girls to come over and give you exactly what you want,” I said, as bile threatened to come up my throat. I hated acting like I was the least bit interested in these disgusting men.
“What if I want you?”
“You’re going to have to take that up with my manager, then. If it was my choice, I’d be on your lap in a heartbeat,” I winked at him as I dropped off the last man’s drink and then headed toward the table in the corner to get their orders.
As I walked away, a strong hand wrapped around my waist and pulled me down onto a very excited lap. Cringing from the blatant chub that was poking me in the ass, I turned around and smiled at the red-faced creep and started to get up.
“Where you going, sweetheart? I just wanted a little dance from the hottest girl in the joint,” he said, as the garlic he had for dinner ran off his tongue and straight into my nose, singing off any nose hairs I might have had.
“You know, sir, as much as I would love to gyrate your dick to explosion, I’m going to have to ask you to let go of me so you can go to the bathroom to take care of that chunk of basil that is nestled between your teeth.” I tossed a toothpick from my miniscule apron on the table and got up.
The guy covered his mouth as the other men at the table slapped his back and laughed hysterically.
“Hey,” one of the guys called out to me, as red-face ran to the bathroom to take care of his revolting food chunk. He handed me a twenty dollar bill and said, “That’s for making my night. That actually made my week. That cocky SOB thinks he’s the shit and you put him in his place in a matter of seconds. Thank you.”
I smiled and said, “Anytime. If you boys need anything else, besides lap dances, let me know.” I gave them a wink, pocketed my twenty that I would have to split with the other whores and headed toward table eleven.
Table eleven was one of the exclusive tables that high-priority people usually got. Thanks to the lighting, you never really got a good look at who was sitting in the curved booth, but from their vantage point, they could see everything. It was one of the attractive things about Kitten’s Castle that businessmen appreciated. They could be total horn dogs in the back and never be seen…by anyone.
As I approached, all I saw were two dark shadows of men, one sitting taller than the other. They both had broad shoulders and what looked like full heads of hair. A vast difference from the men I usually got to take orders from.
“Hi, can I get you two something to drink?” I asked, while looking at two dark shadows, desperately trying to make out some features. I was always curious to find out who chose the blackout booths.
“I’ll take a Guinness,” came the voice on the right hand side. It was deep with a bit of a rasp. Just from the rasp alone that caressed his voice, I could tell he was packing a good-sized dick.
“Alright, and you sir?” I asked, while looking to the left of the booth.
“Bourbon, no ice. Your most expensive.”
At that moment, I was pretty sure I creamed my pants. The smooth voice of a southern gentleman erupted from the left side of the booth, making me feel weak in the damn knees. It was as if his voice injected itself into my veins and turned everything warm from the smooth timbre rolling off his tongue.
“Sounds good,” I responded weakly, “I’ll be right back with your drinks.”
I was just turning around when the voice dripping with sweet molasses spoke up. “Were those men bothering you?”
I turned around and looked into the dark, trying to catch a glimpse of any feature that matched that gorgeous voice, but no such luck.
“Nothing I haven’t come across before, but thanks for your concern.”
Not wanting to hear a response, I turned on my heels and went back to the bar to fulfill their order.
I leaned over the bar and got Carlos’ attention. “Hey handsome, did you see those two men walk into the bar?” I asked, while nodding toward the blackout booth I was just visiting.
“No, I didn’t. Marv just informed me they sat down. Why? Are they giving you trouble?”
“No. Just curious.”
I told Carlos their order and watched him pull down our top shelf bourbon and place a generous amount in a small glass for the dark and mysterious man in the corner, with a voice that literally melted my panties right off.
“You’re never curious about our customers, so why the interest?”
Blowing out an exasperated breath because I knew Carlos wouldn’t let my curiosity go, I said, “When he spoke to me, I think I climaxed on the spot. The man has a voice that will make your thing-a-ding grow to epic proportions.”
Carlos looked over my shoulder and tried to eye the mystery man. “Really? Well, now I’m intrigued. Maybe I should take them their drinks.”
Carlos started to move out from behind the bar, but I pushed him back. “Don’t even think about it! These men are mine.”
“Just as well…I bet you they have warts all over their faces.”
I grabbed the drinks, placed them on my tray, and walked back to the blackout booth, while avoiding ass grabs by multiple men. I should be in some sort of waitressing Olympics, with the maneuvers I had to do in three-inch heels.
“Here you go, boys,” I said, as I placed the drinks down on their table.
“Thank you,” was all they responded.
I don’t know why, but I was kind of expecting them to strike up a conversation with me, maybe about my outfit like other men did, or how plentiful my ass was, or possibly a compliment about my tits…but nothing.
I was dismissed.
“Take it off”
The musical stylings of Ke$ha blared through the speakers as a blonde shook her bare tits at all the male patrons that lined the stage in the shitty hole-in-the-wall we were sitting in. They all made a grab at her nipples, while trying to decorate her miniscule thong with one dollar bills. Cheap Fucks.
I shook my head at the disappointment I had for my own kind. We were a bunch of horny bastards whose end goal in life was to be fully satisfied with our dicks, no matter how we got it. I couldn’t lie, the blonde was working it, but not to the point where I would throw my self-respect to the wind and pant like a dog in front of a crowd while I saluted everyone with my dick.
Instead, I watched the waitress with the soft caramel hair take orders and deliver them to all the scumbags in the joint. She was a favorite amongst the men and I couldn’t blame them. She was gorgeous. Tiny body with plenty of curves that would keep a man exploring for days. Although, her lingerie was something less-than-desirable. Clearly, she’d bought the ensemble she was wearing from Pleasure Palace down the street, where they specialized in cheap polyester scraps of fabric and plastic whips that were downright insulting to the lifestyle I led.
Becoming a Jett Girl (The Bourbon Series) by Meghan Quinn / History & Fiction have rating 4 out of 5 / Based on32 votes