Chapter Text
Out of all the places Beca had expected to be on the evening of her birthday, a strip club was not one of them. In fact, it is not even anywhere near the top of her list: that spot is (always) reserved for her bed at home with a nice cold can of beer and an episode of her favorite trashy tv show. And yet, here she is, being reluctantly dragged by her uni friend, Fat Amy, through an alleyway that smells distinctly like urine and trash to stop by a dark entrance being manned by a scary-looking bouncer.
The sign above his head reads “The Nightingale”, in big loopy neon letters, with a little bird tacked on the side, a more fitting name for a second hand bookstore than a place where creepers (like Beca now, apparently) go to ogle off pretty ladies just doing their thing and making a little money.
Amy pays the cover fee for the both of them, while Beca grumbles petulantly off to the side. She only uncrosses her arms enough to hand the bouncer her ID, getting right back to it once they are given the signal to go in.
A remix of a Britney Spears song pumps loudly through the speakers echoing off the walls, the first thing that Beca notices. The beat seeps quickly into her body from the floor up. Disco colored lights reflect off the room, discreetly skating over the darkness covering the many booths and tables and chairs and bar to focus on the center of everyone’s entertainment tonight: a rectangular space fenced off in the center of the room, complete with twin poles where two very scantily dressed women are dancing, for the crowd seated in plastic armchairs around them.
Beca fully expected Amy to lead them to one of those armchairs surrounding the stage but (surprisingly) she didn’t, leading them instead to a two-seater leather couch adjacent.
“We literally could have just gone to a gay bar,” Beca gripes, plopping down onto the firm padding. She makes a point to not look at the two brunettes spinning around on their poles.
“So… what? You can just sit around and mope like a sad bitch?” Amy’s accent and delighted demeanor at the whole situation makes the insult seem almost amusing. “Nah, Shawshank, you’re getting laid tonight whether you like it or not.”
“Um, I don’t think they do anything more than lap dances, Ames.”
Amy stares at her like Beca’s grown two heads. “Well, that’s because you’ve got no game, Beca.”
Beca’s jaw slacks open, feeling a flush burn hotly up her neck. Damn, there was no need to attack her like that. “Whatever.”
Amy, seemingly satisfied, walks up to the bar to order drinks. In the brief moment in which Beca is left alone, she shifts uneasily, crossing and uncrossing her legs and trying to find the best position to rest her arm. She’s honestly a little embarrassed– and anxious –that Amy’s convinced her here; she’s never been to a strip club before, and based on the fact that she can not even step into a Victoria’s Secret store without blushing at all the lingerie on display, Beca is worried that she will do something awkward and make a fool out of herself. In front of everybody here. And on her birthday , no less.
She allows herself a peek at the strippers. The brunettes are still there. One still has their bra on, while the other is bare, save for a black thong. She flaunts her bare breasts dancing to the bridge of the song, and Beca can tell what the dollar bills are meant for when they flutter to the floor of the stage from hasty hands. She’s tall, with a model-like figure, and a confident smirk on her lips that lets anyone who cares to notice realize that she actually enjoys this. Beca accidentally catches her eye when she glances up from her hair flip and body roll, quickly turning away when it morphs into a wink.
“Here’s your whiskey.” Beca could not be more relieved with the timing of some well needed alcohol. She gulps down a couple mouthfuls before settling it in a cup holder.
“Thank you.”
Amy grunts, returning to her spot beside Beca. She sips her pink cocktail thoughtfully, watching the performance on stage. There was silence between them for a handful of seconds. “You wanna move to the front?” She jerks her head to the crowd ogling the women. “That is where all the action happens, y’know. You don’t get to put your money in an ass way back here.”
Beca cringes. “I think I’m good for now.” And in response to Amy’s raised eyebrow, she adds, “I’m just gonna watch and see how people do the whole money thing. Don’t want to do anything stupid or inappropriate when I do join them, y’know. Wouldn’t want to be kicked out.” She smiles half-heartedly.
Because even though Beca is anxious and would still rather be in the warm comforts of her home, it is her birthday, and Amy had wanted to treat her. They have been friends for such a long time that over the years Beca had grown used to Amy’s unique ways of showing affection and care, and she just knows that this evening is one of those times where Amy has her best intentions at heart, even if her methods are a little… unconventional.
They sit for a while longer. Watching the strippers twist and twirl and crawl, using their bodies to their full advantage. Beca observes how the people interact with them and learns that you are not allowed to touch the women’s skin when they are dancing, outside of the minimum amount needed to place the cash in their underwear. Speaking of, you are also not supposed to put your money in their lingerie unless they let you, with a subtle nod or verbal encouragement. Absolutely no pictures or recordings either.
Which is… not bad, Beca concludes. Consent is nevertheless a thing, despite what it may seem like from the lascivious environment.
The song ends and a staff member from the sidelines (the DJ, possibly) announces, “And that was Sparrow and Raven from the Night tonight! These sexy ladies will be back for another dance if y'all stick around, but next let’s welcome Crane and Jewel!”
The women swiftly retrieve the cash lain on the floor, stuffing it into a small bucket. They cover everything that needs to be covered and then stalk through the opening in the short fence that separates themselves from the rest of the club.
“I think I’m ready now,” Beca says, getting to her feet. She takes another gulp of her drink to calm her nerves.
Amy grins. “About time.”
*****
Chloe gives her bra one last tug in the employee dressing room. She turns this way and that, making sure that the back is securely fastened with a delicate knot in the mirror. The door swings open and she glances past her shoulder, smiling at the sight of her coworker already counting her earnings from that last performance.
“You did good, Stace.”
Stacie, or Raven , her Nightingale name, just smirks in response. She’s one of the more self-assured dancers out of all of them (and there were nine), the affirmation that Chloe needed that being a stripper was a dignified job. “Of course, birdie.” She finishes counting her tips, chuckling when it’s past the hundred. “Cha-ching.”
Aubrey, their bartender (slash manager slash Stacie’s girlfriend), gives her a kiss before handing over a beer. “Did anybody ask you for a dance?”
Stacie shakes her head. “No, though there was this one girl that I would’ve totally done for cheap.” She peers at Chloe with this sparkle in her eye. “She’s clearly new to the scene. Flusters easily. I think you would like her, birdie.”
Chloe didn’t get the chance to voice her curiosity and ask Stacie what she was talking about, because “favorite” by Isabel LaRosa, her cue, started playing on the speakers. She fluffs up her hair, joins Crane by the exit, and takes in a deep breath, stepping back out onto the stage.
*****
S ay my name, I want the neighbors to hear it
Want your body to feel it
It’s strange how Beca never really paid attention to songs that have a strong underlying tone of sex in public. Yes, it’s true that most of the clients she works with has songs like that for her to produce, but in those moments Beca only cared for the beats of the music and the harmony of the vocals, not the actual lyrics or the meaning of them as a whole; and when she would go to a club or bar or something of that variety where family-friendly songs were deemed too tame, Beca always thought that they were so overplayed that she would tune most of them out.
This one, however, she pays attention to. Maybe it was the women- or rather, woman - dancing to it, but Beca can feel her mind listening, mouth drying at the words crooning from the speakers up above.
Boy, you know if there's a heaven, I'm near it
Yeah, I promise, my dear, it's
Only you who has my body and heals it
Her red hair looks ethereal in the disco lights, moving with her body like it is one giant wave that demolishes everything in its path. The DJ had introduced her as Jewel, and honestly Beca can see why as she – and most of the people in the crowd – are transfixed in the way that she moves.
I'm the one, can you feel it?
(I'm the one, can you feel it?)
Her hand strokes the pole like it was alive, Beca practically hearing the groans that the men around her release. Jewel smiles as if she can hear them too, and then slowly starts touching herself, dragging her fingers down her chest and abdomen and the sinful v of her hips, only to teasingly stray to the side. Her lingerie is so skimpy that Beca wonders if she’ll even bother to undress, and yet it is still too much as her skin is so smooth and seemingly soft it is a shame to have them covered up at all.
Darlin', can I be your favorite?
I'll be your girl, let you taste it
I know what you want, yeah, just take it (Take it)
Beca somehow finds herself making eye contact, Jewel in the middle of an elaborate spin around the pole. It could just be her imagination but Jewel’s smile turns more coy. Her gaze lingers for a fraction too long, her teeth sink briefly into her lip, and Beca feels like she might die because she suddenly gets the (absurd and utterly impossible ) feeling that the song and dance and lyrics are meant for her.
She would like nothing more to answer that main question in the chorus.
(And taste it.)
Darlin', can I be your favorite?
Want you to tell me you crave it
My name's whatever you make it (Make it)
“Damn, I guess we chose the right time to move forward, huh?” Amy shakes Beca out of her reverie. She breaks the stare (which was a relief because it was starting to get weirdly intense) and looks at her friend. Amy has a smug expression on her face, mouth curving around the straw in her drink. Which reminds Beca that she needs to finish her own before it continues sweating all over the thin counter that serves as the top of the fence surrounding the stage.
“I guess.” Beca tries to be nonchalant. The whiskey burns the back of her throat on its way down, quickly alleviated by the sweetness of the soda chasing its tail. She sets the empty glass aside when she’s done.
“Here.” Amy pushes some cash into her hands. “For you to stick in her ass. Or boobs if you’d prefer that.”
“Oh my god, Ames, you’re so- I’m not-”
A glare shuts Beca right up. She swallows, turning back to the performance. The strippers are now circling the edge of the stage, bending and molding their bodies to the ardor of the chorus. Jewel is – conveniently – on Beca’s side, while her companion takes the other. Beca tries not to act too excited as she folds a couple dollar bills into tents, so that they stand on their own on the counter, tucking the rest of them into her pocket. She hopes Jewel will take the invitation and stop by to allow her to meet her tonight.
Darlin', can I be your favorite?
I'll be your girl, let you taste it
I know what you want, yeah, just take it (take it)
*****
Stacie was right. Chloe does like her, and she hasn’t even interacted with her yet.
This girl’s eyes follow her every movement, dark blue (or grey? With the multicolored lights Chloe is not too sure) and intense and focused, as Chloe makes her rounds. They’re not nearly as leery as some of the others watching her – more… admiring, than anything else – and Chloe feels more confident, more sultry, by the minute the more they latch on. It inclines her to put on a show. She’s glad Crane had taken the hint that she wanted this half of the crowd first, seeing as how she wanted to make a quick stop at her favorite client of the evening (to satisfy her curiosity) before progressing further.
Chloe languidly moves her body. She rolls her belly and shakes her curves in a way that she knows is attractive (those years of dance classes and training for this club weren’t for nothing after all), collecting all the cash gestured her way with a subtle swipe to the floor or a gentle smile to the person itself. She spends a second or two longer entertaining those who offered more, as part of the job, before swiftly moving on.
She never takes her bralette off however. Chloe is saving that for later if a certain someone does decide to ask her for a private dance. She does have her limitations.
And… prize. If you will.
Because none of these people had ever caught her attention like she did tonight, none of them had been anything more than a blur until Chloe glanced over and noticed her slacked jaw.
*****
Darlin', can I be your favorite?
Want you to tell me you crave it
My name's whatever you make it (make it)
Holy shit.
Jewel is on the floor fucking twerking her ass off in front of all these people. And Beca thinks it’s kind of hot.
Okay, really hot, she amends, if the unconscious uncrossing and recrossing her legs is any indication.
She’s closer now, less than five feet away. Beca shifts in her seat, nervously fidgeting with the money set in front of her, ignoring Amy who is quietly snickering at her anticipation.
There is a dollar bill Jewel didn’t quite catch, stuck in the band of dark lace on her hip. Beca isn’t sure if it was meant to be intentional or not, directing everyone’s awareness, but if it was, Beca’s certainly hooked, seeing as how it is getting increasingly difficult tearing her gaze onto something else.
Not that she’s complaining, of course, because it is a beautiful thing to look at, and especially when there are far worse – and offensive – things to be staring upon.
I swear you're heaven, but boy, you're no angel
You take me places only we go
You're so pretty, God, I swear that it's painful
(So painful indeed.)
Jewel’s suddenly an arm’s reach away. Beca blinks, dragging her attention up to meet the redhead’s once more. Fuck her eyes are so insanely pretty, she thinks, just as they crinkle in a smug but lazy grin.
“You can put that in here, love,” Jewel says, gesturing to the monetized tents. Her voice is buttery, and (purposefully) low, and so resembling those belonging to the singers that Beca works with, that she almost chokes in her eagerness to comply.
She grabs the cash and half stands, bending slightly over the counter to fit it in Jewel’s lingerie. Beca can actually feel her face burning but she forces herself to push through – because this is likely a once in a lifetime opportunity because Beca already wants to die of embarrassment, and nerves – pulling back the band of Jewel’s underwear and carefully wrapping the bills between the skin of her ass and the material of the lace outside. She softly lets it snap back into place, letting her fingers graze against the curve of Jewel’s waist, half-accidentally half-because-she-wants-to-and-might-as-well-since-they-are-already-so-close, and Beca bites her lip to swallow a sigh.
“Thanks, love,” Jewel murmurs, inches from Beca’s ear. Her breath is warm and her nickname is sweet and her voice is divine her breasts are in her face and Beca honest to god whimpers as Jewel traces a thumb and two fingers from her cheekbone down to her chin. Beca’s lashes flutter like she is fucking drunk, her heart pounding, and Jewel releases a small giggle at her reaction.
I whisper things only we know
Put your hands around my neck, make me faithful
Soy celosa, lo siento
(Soy celosa, lo siento)
“I like your tattoos,” she whispers, so that only Beca can hear, with a very brief brush on the side of her neck as if to prove her point, and then, too soon, her touch is gone.
Darlin', can I be your favorite?
I'll be your girl, let you taste it
I know what you want, yeah, just take it (take it)
Beca’s mesmerized when Jewel spins around. About faints when she bends at the waist with her back to her, cupping her hand between the apex of her legs in a move that Beca is positive is unique, never before done for anybody else.
Oh fucking hell.
Darlin', can I be your favorite?
Want you to tell me you crave it
My name's whatever you make it (make it)
*****
Chloe’s feeling like the Cheshire Cat when she saunters into the dressing room for her camisole. She dumps her earnings into the box in her cubby and quickly slips on the cover-up, rendering herself decent enough to head to the bar for something to drink.
(And be on the search for her favorite flustered client, if she’s being truthful.)
She scans the club as soon as she can, feeling disappointed when she misses the flash of pink cheeks. She does see the blonde friend that was with her though, but deems it too straightforward and creepy to ask her where her girl is.
Chloe sighs.
“So…?” Stacie asks her, a teasing tilt in her tone. “What did you think?”
“Eh.” Chloe tries to shrug it off. “She’s alright, I guess.” She signals to Aubrey for a vodka cranberry, settling into a stool.
“Oh please, I saw the whole thing.” Stacie’s snort is disbelieving yet amused. She’s still finishing off the beer that her girlfriend initially handed to her. Chloe raises an eyebrow at the hickey on her co-worker’s shoulder, a clear explanation as to what happened to distract her from her typical tendency to drain it in one go, and Stacie just mirrors her expression defiantly in lieu of a reply. “You might as well be fucking her right there on the stage.”
Chloe chooses to deflect, seeing as how Stacie isn’t really wrong. “Well, she didn’t ask me for a dance or anything so nothing’s gonna happen either way. And besides,” she nods in thanks as Aubrey slides the glass across the countertop, putting it to her lips immediately, “We’re about to be closed soon.”
“Still not too late.”
Someone taps on Chloe’s shoulder just as she’s about to answer: “Well go find me her then.” She tenses, fully expecting a man to be there for the following request, when a female’s voice says:
“Hey, do you do private dances? It’s just that it’s my friend’s birthday and I think she really liked you, so if you do, it would be cool if you can do one for her, yeah? I can pay.”
Chloe’s pleasantly surprised gaze doesn’t leave Stacie’s. “Not usually, but yeah, I can. For your friend. It is for a birthday after all.”