Kade's POV
I hated this fucking job.
The music was too loud, the lights too bright, and everywhere smelled like beer and cheap body spray. I stood backstage wiping sweat off my chest with a ratty towel, already dreading the next set. My back hurt, my knees were bruised, and every muscle in my body was aching. Twenty-four years old and I felt fifty.
All I wanted was the money. Stack it, get out, disappear somewhere nobody knew my face or what I did to survive. But nights like tonight made me wonder if I'd ever actually leave.
"Kade!" Marco's voice came from behind. He was my boss, a greasy bastard who thought owning a strip club made him God. "VIP lounge. Table 7. Some rich prick watched your last set and asked for you specifically. Go."
I didn't even look at him. "Not tonight. Send Ricky or one of the new kids. I'm tapped out."
Marco stepped closer, lowering his voice so the other dancers couldn't hear. "You don't get to be 'tapped out', smartass. You still owe me for covering your ass with those cops last month, don't make me pick up my phone. So get your blasian little ass in there before I assign you to the bachelor party in the back. And trust me, you would wish you had died instead."
I clenched my jaw so hard it ached. For a second I considered telling him to go fuck himself. Tell him to call the feds, call whoever. Let them take me. At least in jail I wouldn't have to fake a smile while strangers groped me.
But I didn't say it.
Instead, I threw the towel on the floor and started pacing, voice low and venomous.
"Fuck you, Marco. Fuck this club. Fuck every rich asshole who walks in here thinking money makes them entitled to whatever hole they want. Fuck these lights, fuck this music, and fuck me for still showing up every night like a goddamn idiot. Fuck everything."
Marco just smirked. "You done throwing your little tantrum? Good. Now fix your face and get in there. Table 7. VIP. Don't make me say it again."
I stopped pacing. Took a slow breath. Then I forced the fakest smile I could manage, the one that made my cheeks hurt. The second I pushed open the door to the private VIP lounge, the sarcasm and rage vanished. Replaced by the structured, empty version of me that paid the bills.
"Hi, Daddy," I said sweetly, stepping inside.
The man sitting alone on the leather couch looked like he belonged on the cover of Forbes, not in a sleazy club like this.
I walked closer. "You asked for me? Must be my lucky night. Most guys just stare from the main floor like cowards."
"Sit," he commanded.
I dropped onto the couch beside him, leaving a small gap between us. My bare thigh still brushed the expensive fabric of his slacks.
I kept the sweet smile plastered on. "Long day? You look like you could use some stress relief. I can dance for you… or we can get straight to it. Whatever you want, handsome."
He took a slow sip of his whiskey, eyes never leaving my face. "I don't do men."
I let out a tired laugh. "Yeah, I've heard that one before. Usually right before they're begging me to swallow."
His jaw flexed.
I leaned back, crossing one leg over the other, still keeping that fake-flirty tone even though I wanted to roll my eyes into next week. "Look, I'm not here to push. You paid for private time, so I'm here. But if you just wanted to stare, you could've done that from the stage for a lot less money. So what is it? You want a lap dance? Want me to talk dirty? Or are we just sitting here awkwardly until your mama comes to rescue you?"
He set the glass down with a soft clink. For a long moment he said nothing.
Then he spoke, voice low and even.
"I need a bodyguard."
I blinked. The smile slipped for half a second. "Come again?"
"My current head of security is retiring in two weeks. I need someone who can stay close to me at all times. Someone who doesn't ask questions and doesn't talk."
I stared at him, confusion mixing with disbelief. "And your first choice is a half-naked stripper who just called you Daddy? That's either genius or completely insane. I don't carry a gun, I don't know how to fight. I throw tantrums not punches. You sure you didn't hit your head on the way in here?"
He didn't smile. Didn't even blink.
"I watched you on stage," he said. "You move well under pressure. You read rooms. You're not intimidated by money or status—you mock it. That's useful."
"Useful for what?" I shot back. "Being your human shield while you close deals? I'm a dancer, not security."
"I need someone discreet. Someone who already lives off the grid. No real paper trail. No one will question a new hire who used to be nobody."
I snorted. "So this is charity? Poor stripper gets rescued by the billionaire?"
"No. This is business. You need money. I need loyalty that doesn't come from a paycheck alone."
I rubbed the back of my neck. "I still don't get it. Why me? There are actual trained people out there. Ex-military, ex-cops, people who know what they're doing."
"Professionals are loyal to money," he said flatly. "You're loyal to the exit door I'm offering you. That makes you predictable. Controllable."
I laughed, short and bitter. "So I'm a dog you're buying a leash for?"
He didn't react to the jab. "Two hundred thousand a year. Housing in my building. Full benefits. You live on-site. You travel with me. You keep your mouth shut about everything you see or hear. And you never mention what you used to do here. Ever."
Two hundred thousand.
The number hit me like a brick. Enough to get out. Enough to disappear. Enough to never step foot in this hellhole again.
But nothing in my life had ever come that easy.
I stared at the floor for a long moment, mind spinning.
"So what's the catch?" I finally asked. "Because rich married guys don't offer life-changing money to strippers out of the goodness of their hearts. You want me close so you can fuck me whenever the mood hits? Is that the real job description? Your wife not giving you what you need, so you're buying convenient mouth and muscle in one package?"
His expression remained blank. Completely unreadable.
"My personal life is none of your concern," he said. "This is a professional offer. Protection only. Anything else would be unprofessional."
The way he said it sounded rehearsed. Like he'd practiced the line in his head before coming here.
I didn't buy it. Not for a second.
But the money…
I let out a deep breath. "I don't even know how to be a bodyguard. I can barely protect myself from my own bad decisions."
"You'll learn. My team will train you. Starting tomorrow if you accept."
I stayed quiet for a long time. The bass from the main floor thumped through the walls like a headache that never stopped.
Finally I looked up, voice low and tired. "If I say yes… I'm not sucking your dick again. Not in bathrooms. Not in cars. Not anywhere. I'm not your whore. I'm not your secret toy. If that's part of the deal, then the answer is no. I'd rather keep dancing than be bought like that."
He gave one single nod. "Understood. The job is protection. Nothing more."
I didn't believe him. But the alternative was another year in this club.
"I gotta pay Marco first," I said. "I can't just walk out. He'll come after me."
"I'll take care of Marco."
I raised an eyebrow. "Just like that?"
"Just like that."
I ran a hand through my damp hair. "Fine. One hour. I'll pack whatever little shit I own. Then I'm yours. But if this turns into some twisted game, I walk. Money or no money."
He stood, towering over me. "My driver will be waiting outside in exactly one hour in a black SUV. Don't be late."
He started for the door, then paused.
"Kade."
I looked up.
His voice dropped. "If you breathe one word about this conversation or anything that happens from tonight onward to anyone, I will make sure you disappear. No one will ever find you. Do we have an understanding?"
I gave him a tired, sarcastic half-smile. "Crystal clear…."
He left without another word.
I sat there alone in the VIP lounge, staring at the wall, heart hammering. Two hundred thousand a year. A way out. But my gut was screaming that I'd just traded one cage for something far more dangerous.
I pushed myself up, and headed backstage to grab my stuff.
One hour.
I stepped out the club's back exit, already pulling out my phone to call my roommate and tell him I was done with this place for good. The alley was dark, lit only by a flickering streetlamp.
That's when I felt it.
The cold barrel of a gun pressed against the back of my head.
My entire body froze.
"Move and I blow your brains out," a low, rough voice growled behind me.
"I promise, I didn't fuck your wife, I'm gay!" I said, my voice shaking.
"Shut up! Damien Voss thinks he can just replace us?" the man hissed, against my ear. "Tell your new boss his old security team sends their regards. You're the first message."
"Night night, stripper bitch."
Before I could even open my mouth, he flipped the pistol in his hand and smashed the heavy metal grip straight into the back of my head.