He held out a handful of cash, and I didn’t bother to count it; he knew the prices. He’d had two lap dances and a backroom – for a normal girl they would be charging £200 for that, £50 for each lap dance and then £100 for backroom action. I slid the money into my pocket without looking at him. This was the part which made me feel dirty and a little used. This was the part which broke my heart every time.
He stepped closer to me, wrapping his arms around my waist, bending his head so I would meet his eyes. “I won’t see you next week; I’m going away again tomorrow. But I’ll see you in two weeks, okay?” he said softly. I nodded, not knowing what else to say. “I’m racing again next Saturday; maybe you could watch me on TV. I’ll wave to you in my leather jumpsuit if you want,” he teased, grinning.
I giggled despite the pain I was feeling inside. “I might flick the TV on as it finishes, just to see you in the outfit.”
He smiled and nodded. “Okay, here’s what I’m gonna do. When I win my race they’re gonna interview me after. You tell me a word or phrase and I’ll work it into the interview, just so you know I’m thinking about you.”
We’d done this once before and I had made it too easy for him last time – he was so in for it now. “How about you have to say two things?” I bartered.
He rolled his eyes. “You’re getting so demanding, Emma!” he scolded playfully. “What are the two things? It had better not be something like ‘I sleep with little boys’…” He trailed off, clearly worried.
“No, I’ll make it easier than that. Although, the ‘sleeping with little boys’ one is pretty awesome,” I joked, pretending to consider it. He dug me in the ribs with one finger, making me giggle and pull away from him. “Okay, okay, fine. You have to say Zip-a-dee-do-da, and fried chicken.” I shrugged. That was the best I could come up with at short notice. I was pretty sure I would come up with way better things than that while I was crying in bed tonight.
He laughed and nodded. “Done and done.” Dipping his head he kissed me softly, pulling me closer to him with one hand gripping the back of my neck, his fingers tangling into my hair as the kiss deepened. He pulled away when I was a little breathless and our eyes locked. Everything seemed to disappear when he looked at me like this; all I could see was him.
“I’d better get going; it’s almost closing time,” he murmured.
I nodded, feeling my heart sink because my night with him was over. He turned, opening the door before taking my hand and pulling me close to his back as we walked back to his friends. The club was starting to empty, and I was definitely more than ready to go home now.
Bradley, one of Carson’s friends, smirked at us as we reached them. “Wow, you two took your sweet time. Making up for three weeks’ worth of pent-up sexual frustration, Carson?”
Carson frowned, throwing him a death glare before slapping him on the back of the head. “Shut it, dipshit!”
Pent-up sexual frustration? What was that about? How could he be frustrated? I’d seen him in the newspapers lying on a yacht with a Playboy Bunny and two other girls who were wearing bikinis so small there was barely enough material for you to be able to name the colour of them. There was no way Carson Matthews had been frustrated about anything! I hated to see those pictures of him like that: coming out of a club with a girl draped all over him, him fooling around with girls on a beach, the stupid ‘MotoGP cheer squad’ strutting their little outfits in front of him while he smiles. Those pictures broke my heart a little, but he wasn’t mine to be jealous of. I had no right to feel like this about him. To him, I was just a lap dancer at a club who he liked to screw when he was in town. However, I’d never let myself think about him like that. He would always be my first love.
“No fighting, boys. You take it outside, or I’ll be forced to kick all your arses,” I joked, collecting their empty glasses and bottles.
“Em, I’m gonna take off. I’ll see you in a couple of weeks and I’ll make sure to sit in your section next time. Tables one to six, right?” Carson called as I headed to the bar with the empties.
“Yep. See you then, Mr Matthews,” I confirmed.
He winked at me and then turned to leave with his friends. Sighing, I watched his back until he was out of sight. Just 2 weeks. 14 days. 336 hours, and then I’ll see him again. It felt like an eternity.
When the last client left, I pulled on jeans and a hoodie over the top of my uniform, slipped on a pair of worn-out trainers, and then headed out of the club. It was almost two-thirty in the morning now; I had just a fifteen-minute walk to make and then I could crawl into bed and sleep.
As I walked toward the block of flats I called home, I gripped my pepper spray in my hand, keeping it hidden in my pocket. I was always careful. This wasn’t the nicest part of London, after all. It was stupid for me to be walking the streets at this time of night, but I didn’t have the money for a taxi, so I had no choice.
Thankfully, the journey was uneventful. By the time I made it up the seven flights of stairs and stopped outside my front door, I was exhausted.
I sighed and headed inside, making sure to secure the three locks we had on our door. When we were safely locked in, I sighed and immediately headed to the fridge to see if there was anything in there for me to eat. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast and my stomach hurt. I knew I hadn’t bought anything, but I was hoping something would magically appear in there to make my hunger pains subside.