Cream-Pied (DTF (Dirty. Tough. Female.) Book 2) Read online

  Copyright © 2020 by Kat Addams

  All rights reserved.

  Visit my website at http://kataddams.com

  Cover Designer: Lori Jackson, http://LoriJacksonDesign.com

  Editor and Interior Designer: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing, www.unforeseenediting.com

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-7331523-5-8

  For the overcomers, the cycle-breakers, and everyone who has fought to rise above. Keep going.

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Epilogue

  Playlist

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  OTHER BOOKS BY KAT ADDAMS

  “Partly, I like a bad reputation. But I also want a reputation of being a good person.”

  —Joan Jett

  ONE

  Nikki

  Crowds gathered at The Steamy Clam every Saturday night since I’d made my debut onstage and twirled around the pole. I had made eight hundred dollars that night, and by the size of the audience tonight, I hoped I could make even more. I wasn’t entirely broke, but a string of bad boyfriends had left me in a mountain of debt that I’d been digging my way out of for years. For some reason, I attracted the laziest, trashiest, and brokest douche bags around.

  With my time pulled between working two jobs, I barely made it to my new passion, volunteering with disadvantaged youth at the cottage. Those kids had seen and lived some of the darkest moments imaginable. I wasn’t a stranger to that life either, so I did my best to help them through that. We would work on art projects, play sports, and do homework or anything else that came up. The most important gift I could give the children was my steady and positive presence in their lives. That was why I had been running myself crazy, working at The Steamy Clam at night. I planned on quitting after I paid off my debt and devoted more time to do the volunteer work that made me truly happy and fulfilled.

  Of course, my life as a dancer had been kept under wraps at the cottage. Not because I was ashamed of my job, but because most people found that depressing as hell. The stigma surrounding strip clubs always included blow and prostitution. But in my experience, it was all about women supporting other women and a judgment-free zone. Still, I couldn’t go around, telling children that. The kids at the cottage all knew me as the taco truck lady who had risen above her traumatic childhood and was making it on her own. Of course, I had also left out the fact that I was broker than shit because of my dumbass ex-boyfriends.

  At this point in my life, I was finally getting my shit together. I felt a calling to let the youth of the world know that they could rise above the shitty cards they’d been dealt too.

  I swiped a bold lipstick across my lips and readied myself in front of the mirror, carefully sticking red heart pasties over my nipples and adjusting my G-string. I shook my fingers through my hair, fluffing it up and out until it looked like I’d stuck my finger in an electric socket. Bigger was always better—with everything.

  The last dancer, Kiki, filed in, pulling money from her boots and G-string and winking at me. Kiki had taught me the ropes of the club not long ago. She had been working the pole for six years and helped me nail all of my spins, climbs, and inverted moves.

  “Those are the moneymaking tricks,” she had told me back when I was fresh meat at the club.

  Men loved it when dancers were facedown and ass up, gyrating on the pole. If I could hold myself upside down while booty-popping for twenty seconds, she had told me that I would earn double my usual payout per dance. I’d made a mental note to work on staying up as long as possible and slowing the blood rush to my head. The quicker I was paid, the faster I was gone out of here.

  Of course, no one back home in the trailer park I had grown up in would be surprised that foul-mouthed Nikki Vinco had grown up to become Crystal Cream Pie, Outer Fork’s most eligible stripper. At least, I didn’t have the ten kids and ten different baby daddies that everyone had expected in my future.

  I knocked on wood and counted down the days until my period as I left the dressing room and headed toward the stage. Babies wouldn’t ever be in my future. I still wasn’t even sure if I wanted a husband. My friends with benefits had worked well for me over the last few years, and now that I was twenty-eight, I still didn’t feel my biological clock ticking.

  I preferred working with older kids. The kids old enough to wipe their butts and blow their noses. I wasn’t at a point in my life where anything remotely like having a family was in my future. I had wanted the whole sit-down-around-the-dinner-table family dynamic when I was younger, but after living without it for so long, I had been disillusioned not to care. It was probably all fake anyway. I had seen more than enough wedding rings on the hands of men slipping dollar bills into my panties.

  I had no shame, working as Crystal Cream Pie. If I had to get my hands dirty to get where I was supposed to be in life, I would. Besides, stripping was only my side hustle. My full-time job was on board The Pink Taco Truck with my DTF crew. Dirty. Tough. Female. I couldn’t think of a better way to describe our girl gang.

  My friends had supported me throughout my string of bad men, and I’d done the same for them. We all had stories to tell and drama to air, but luckily, this year, things were beginning to fall into place for all of us. With steady money from the taco truck and my side gig of dancing, my debt grew smaller and smaller, which meant financial independence was quickly becoming within reach—finally.

  I sauntered out onto the stage and looked out into the crowd. My palm gripped around the pole, and I let myself fall into it and twirl before wrapping my legs around it and climbing up. The music echoed off the walls, drowning out the men catcalling me from the side of the stage. I winked at them all, blew kisses, and performed a few tricks in the air before crashing down into the splits. I humped my way across the floor in a move called The Snail Trail and made my way toward the guests shaking their money at me. I shoved my boobs in everyone’s faces and motorboated my way to a debt-free life.

  This is so easy.

  I pushed myself up to my knees and crawled back to the pole. My gig was almost up, and I needed to flip upside down, so these horny men would lose their control and throw all their money at me. I wrapped my legs around the cold steel and climbed to the top, looking out and into the crowd. A tall man with a lumberjack beard sat, watching me from a dark corner in the back. I had noticed him plenty of times over the last few weeks, but he hadn’t yet made his way close enough to the stage to stuff any money in my bra. He stayed in that corner night after night but never once asked me for a lap dance.

  I sat at the top of the pole, leaning back onto my hand and spreading my legs as wide as they could go before readying myself to flip over. I stared at the bearded man in the back, locking eyes with him. He reached up to stroke his beard and stared back, eye-fucking me from across the room. I began to slip as my palms and the rest of my body broke out into a sweat. I hel
d on as tight as I could, but it was no use. I couldn’t make my inverted moves. I couldn’t even hang on. When the song came to a stop, so did I—crashing down and landing so hard on my half-naked ass that the sound of my downfall echoed across the suddenly silent room.

  The tall, bearded man stood up, leering at me as if he had an internal conflict on making his next move. His hand clutched his heart underneath a flannel shirt.

  Kiki rushed to my side, helping me hobble offstage.

  “Are you okay? You didn’t hurt anything other than your ego, right?” Layla said after I told her and the rest of DTF about my fall at The Steamy Clam.

  “She didn’t even hurt that. Don’t you know Nikki by now? She doesn’t give any fucks. She picked herself up and moved on,” Betty said, shaking her head at Layla.

  “Well, I would have been mortified! I wouldn’t be able to show my face, or my ass, again at that club. Do you think it will hurt your Crystal Cream Pie career?” Layla asked.

  “First of all, it’s not my career. And most of those men were so drunk, they probably forgot about it before the night ended anyway.” I shrugged, hopping out of the taco truck to set up tables.

  A line already snaked out into the street, and we weren’t set to open for another fifteen minutes.

  “You sure you’re okay?” Rox said, following behind me.

  “Yep. I’ll manage. It wasn’t that big of a deal,” I sighed.

  “No. Come here. Look at me.” Rox reached out and grabbed my arm.

  “Fine. My ego was hurt a little. But just a little. And only because of this guy there.” I slumped my shoulders forward.

  Typically, men were easy for me to figure out, but my hairy stalker distracted me.

  “What man?” Rox asked.

  “This lumberjack guy. He is there every night, watching me. I can’t figure out if it’s creepy or flattering. Anyway, I think his stare made me lose my grip and crash. I don’t know. Can’t figure it out. He’s not my type anyway. I’ve never really cared for beards, and he was dressed in flannel.”

  “Beards and flannel, eh? Maybe he was about to go to a hoedown.”

  “Exactly. Not my type. No business suits, no making it rain on me, no spoiling me like how I deserve. You know I had a man pay me six hundred dollars for a thirty-minute lap dance the other day? That’s what I’m looking for—but on a regular basis. Someone who has enough money never to get me in debt.”

  “And you damn well deserve it. You’re worth that and more. Don’t settle for another broke loser,” Rox said before returning to our task.

  I watched her set the tables up as she smiled and hummed, dancing around the parking lot. The hot summer sun shone down on her in a way that lit her up like an angel. Though I knew none of us were angels, Rox would be the closest to anything spiritually positive. She was my hero. This time last year, none of us had been humming, smiling, or laughing. But today, Rox’s fresh attitude brought me back to my truth and the task before me of moving up and moving on.

  I clasped my palm around the iolite crystal that hung around my neck. When I had read that iolite increased financial well-being, I’d placed the crystal everywhere in my home. I always kept it around my neck as a reminder that I alone could take control of my situation and improve my life—even if that meant rolling around half-naked on a stage.

  “Come get your grub on!” Betty shouted out the window, ringing the dinner bell that Layla had recently installed on the truck.

  “Shit! I’m not ready yet!” I yelled. I threw the tables and chairs together as quickly as possible, aware of the customers rolling their eyes and tapping their feet around me.

  We were parked at the corporate park again today, which meant our customers were typically impatient buttholes—Bluetooth in the ear, no manners, no tips.

  DTF had asked me not long ago if I wanted to take charge of our new taco truck that frequented the other side of town, but I politely declined. I didn’t want to lose my friends. If I couldn’t come to work every day, laughing and being my inappropriate self, then I didn’t want to even go into work. Lately, my life had been heading slowly in the direction I was hoping for. I didn’t want to jinx myself. Besides, Mercury had been in retrograde when they asked me. That had been a big hell no from me.

  “Come on,” Rox said, pulling my arm back to the kitchen. “Jay is stopping by for lunch, and I need to work through this crowd, so I can catch a quick break when he gets here.” A mischievous grin played across her lips.

  “I swear you haven’t stopped smiling since divine intervention led you two together. I need that to happen to me. Think a rich, hot sex god will fall out of the sky and save me from making the same mistakes I did with the broke douche bags of my past?” I asked, climbing into the truck.

  “Nope. And if he did, you are still going to work your ass off to be an independent woman and not ever depend on a damn man,” Betty said, handing me an apron.

  “I hate to admit it, but Betty is right. I still have faith you’ll find your Prince Charming!” Layla gushed. Her eyes darted off dreamily into the distance.

  “Not sure I want a Prince Charming, but I’ll take a Lord of the Underworld. We can dress in leather, tie each other up with chains, and perform tantric sex under the full moon. Maybe throw some whiskey shots in there, and that would be my ideal night,” I said, nodding my head in agreement with the love life I had planned for my future.

  “Good Lord!” Betty shook her head.

  “Well, sex under a full moon sounds romantic at least,” Layla sighed.

  When I returned to The Steamy Clam on Saturday night, after I had literally busted a move during my last performance, I noticed the same bearded man at the same corner table, staring at me with the same intense gaze. I couldn’t shake his stare off of me the entire night. When my time to shine came up, I purposely avoided eye contact with him so that, hopefully, I wouldn’t slip and fall flat on my face. I tried to check in with my inner soul and figure out what the hell emotions she was feeling, but my inner soul had no answers either.

  I finished my routine and headed toward the back to clean the cream off my boobs. I cream-pied my tits at least once every night because, well, that was what the men—and some women—loved. Everyone loved to stick their face in a chest full of whipped cream—everyone but Beard Man. Not once had he come up to the stage. He only enjoyed a free show from the back.

  I huffily brushed a towel over myself, cleaning off the sticky residue from my chest—cream, slobber, and I didn’t even want to know what else.

  “Nikki! Someone wants a lap dance in the private room.” Kiki came running backstage, unbuckling her bra and throwing it to the side. She slipped the rest of her clothes off and began to squirm her way into a schoolgirl costume.

  “Who is it? A regular?” I asked, hoping it was the man who’d paid me the big bucks not long ago.

  I reached for the whip, remembering he liked it when I spanked him. He was married. He deserved to be whipped. He was an easy client.

  “No, I don’t know this one,” she called before scurrying off again.

  I checked my reflection in the mirror, making sure I didn’t have any hidden cream in my drawers, and made my way back out into the club and toward the back room. Our private room was the sleaziest room imaginable. We even had one of those leg lamps sitting on a corner table next to a leather couch. It had to be leather because whatever was left in this room after a private show would need to be wiped off. Not that I ever went that far with my clients, but some men were known to explode on touch.

  Kiki had told me, one time, she’d backed her ass up into a man and bounced so hard that he jizzed all over his pants and her. He left a wet spot on the leather that she had to clean up. She hadn’t been happy about that, but at least the man had shamefully tipped her more money than she ever made in one night.

  I opened the door to the private room, readying myself to bounce my ass clear up to the ceiling. I had only a few hundred dollars left to pay off on one of
my credit cards before I could cut it up and throw it out.

  I slipped inside the room and shut the door behind me.

  “Marry me,” came a gruff voice from the dark.

  When my eyes adjusted to the darkness in the room, I saw my bearded stalker, down on one knee and presenting me with a wedding ring—a ridiculously large diamond wedding ring. I held my breath while my mind raced as to how best to approach this creepy situation.

  “You can’t marry someone you don’t know! Get up! What’s wrong with you?” I spazzed out, straightening myself up to my full height of six feet. I was hoping, if this man was about to pull out a knife, he would get the point that I could be just as crazy, if not crazier.

  The man’s lips turned down as he shut the jewelry box and pulled himself to his feet, towering over me. The tip of his beard reached the tip of my head. He stood still, looking down at me without saying a word.

  “Hey! Earth to the Green Giant up there!” I yanked his beard.

  The man’s jaw dropped, and his eyes grew wide as he gasped. “You can’t treat Dan like that!” He clutched his chest.

  “Well, Dan, who refers to himself in the third person, I can’t marry you. Sorry! Now, did you want a dance or what?” I put my hands to my hips and my foot in the air, ready to kick him over and onto the couch so I could get this show on the road.

  “You’re not marrying Dan. You’re marrying me.” His brows furrowed as if I had offended him.

  “No, I’m not marrying you, Dan!” I huffed. This was getting ridiculous.

  “I know you’re not! It’s me! Weston!” he cried, shaking his head.

  “I don’t know a Weston! Where is Weston, Dan? Who is me?”

  At this point, even I was confused. I looked around the room but didn’t notice a Weston or Dan or whoever hiding in a corner.

  “I’m Weston!” Weston groaned, shoving the jewelry box in his pocket and taking a seat on the sticky leather couch.