All Folked Up, page 1
All Folked Up
GOOD FOLK BOOK #3
PENNY REID
WWW.PENNYREID.NINJA/NEWSLETTER/
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, rants, facts, contrivances, and incidents are either the product of the author’s questionable imagination or are used factitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead or undead, events, locales is entirely coincidental if not somewhat disturbing/concerning.
Copyright © 2024 by Cipher-Naught; All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, photographed, instagrammed, tweeted, twittered, twatted, tumbled, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without explicit written permission from the author.
NO AI TRAINING: Without in any way limiting the author’s exclusive rights under copyright, any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. The author reserves all rights to license uses of this work for generative AI training and development of machine learning language models.
Made in the United States of America
eBook Edition
Dedication
For my son. Make good choices.
Content Warnings for the Plot
Discussion of child abuse (in the past) including restricted calorie/food intake (might be difficult for anyone with an eating disorder). Many chapters focus on what happens at strip clubs (exhibitionism, lap dances, strip teases, crossing boundaries, etc.) Physical violence against men and women, gun violence in a law enforcement setting, bad guys ridiculing women.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Epilogue
About the Author
Other books by Penny Reid
Chapter One
*HANNAH*
“In all honesty, I’d enjoyed the horse ride more than the man ride. At least the horse had been a stallion. Looking back, my lab TA was more like a Shetland pony—hairy and small.”
― Jessica James, Truth or Beard by Penny Reid
Wet T-shirt contests, a tiki bar, limbo poles—the how-low-can-you-go type of limbo, not the religious-waiting-room-purgatory limbo—umbrellas in every drink, and a skimpy swimsuit on every dancer. New costumes were a major expense for dancers, but all my ladies already owned bikinis. I wanted my colleagues to make money on my party, not be forced to spend it. In case you hadn’t yet guessed, the theme of my retirement event was “Spring Break in September.”
I’d chosen it after the monetary success of an impromptu car wash we’d had over the summer. If tonight was my last night as an exotic dancer, I wanted to go out with plenty of buck for my bang, if you catch my drift.
“Goldie! Where are you going? You haven’t opened your present yet! It’s waiting for you in—”
“Be back in a minute. Just need to freshen up!” I lifted my voice without turning to check which of my co-workers had called after me. They’d all been teasing me for the last week about this present of theirs, dropping cryptic hints, giving each other knowing side-eyes. Basically, teasing me and making me batty.
But now was not the time. Jogging in my stilettos, I came to a stop just inside the hallway off the main floor. I needed to catch my breath and deposit the cash weighing down my string bikini. While a Jimmy Buffett dance remix pumped over the speakers, reverberating through the walls and in my bones, I plucked the ones and fives from my body and bundled them together, not bothering to count.
I never counted until the end of my shift and saw no reason to break tradition now. My life motto was: best to not have any expectations of tips, cats, or people. But I did dash down to the dressing room to store most of the cash, leaving just a few bills tucked into the front of my costume as inspiration for other customers to do the same.
The event, which was now in its sixth hour, had been rowdy for sure, but also, thankfully, uneventful. No one had broken any rules, no one had picked a fight, no one had been thrown out. Most of my regulars had shown their faces this last week, and handing them off to other dancers had struck me as oddly bittersweet.
But . . . so it goes.
Cash dropped off, bottle of water chugged, my breath finally even, I pushed myself into the right headspace, a task that had been surprisingly difficult tonight. I blamed the contingent of firefighters who’d arrived a few hours ago. Apparently, some of the fellas from the neighboring fire stations—“nice” guys I’d gone to elementary, middle, and high school with, but whom I’d never spotted at the Pony before—had all talked and, since I was retiring, they’d figured it was their last chance to see me nearly naked.
They were right. Tonight was their last chance.
I wouldn’t go out with George Padmar if the only other alternative was a rabid raccoon. A rabid raccoon would be a better conversationalist and likely have more self-control. That said, I’d let George and all his buddies look at my body to their hearts’ content tonight as long as they were stuffing bills in my bikini and keeping their mouths shut.
Two more hours.
Just two more hours and then I’d be finished, done for good. I liked my boss and I liked my co-workers, but after ten years of doing this job week after week, I was more than ready for a change.
Taking one last bracing breath, I lifted my chin and plastered a smile on my face, getting into character. This was my superpower, making folks believe I was not only unperturbed by any given situation, but actually enjoying myself and sincerely hoping they were enjoying themselves too. If there were a faking sincerity Olympics, I’d be the gold medalist every four years. That’s where my stage name came from. “Goldie” was for my acting skills, not at all related to the color of my hair, contrary to popular belief.
I’d just stepped out onto the floor when Kilby—aka Fantasia—intercepted me, gripping my wrist to hold me still. “Hey, your present is waiting, gorgeous. Louis is looking for you. Another lap dance in the champagne room, all bought and paid for.”
She winked, then altered course before I could respond, sashaying to one of my regulars—that is, one of my former regulars—and placing her hand on the back of his chair. Staring after her, I was careful not to frown.
My present is giving someone a lap dance in the champagne room? No. That couldn’t be right.
Dismissing the thought, I didn’t waste time watching what happened next between Kilby and my former regular. If someone had already paid for a dance from me and was waiting, I wanted to get it over with before another queue formed. Earlier in the evening, the line for a private dance with me had been ten-folks long. Doing three private dances back-to-back was tiring, but ten took the steam out of a girl real quick. My legs would hurt tomorrow like I’d been planting a field of turnips, make no mistake about that.
Careful not to engage in any lingering eye contact, I hopped up to the bar and waved Louis over. Louis was a fine bartender, especially considering his young age, but he’d never worked in a strip club until Hank had hired him three months ago. As such, he needed guidance and mentorship, both of which I’d be able to give him after tonight when my official role switched from dancer to club manager.
Smiling wide when he spotted me, his dark eyes warming, Louis wiped his hands on a towel and abandoned the drink he’d been making. He then jogged over to where I waited at the end of the bar. “Hey, Hannah.”
I tried not to grimace. “It’s Goldie. My name is Goldie on the floor.”
“Oh. That’s right. Sorry I keep doing that, boss.” He looked contrite. “It’s only you I keep messing up. Well, you and April.”
“You mean, me and Shimmer.”
“Yes. Sorry.” He huffed, giving his eyes a half roll. “I will stop doing that to you and Shimmer.”
Nodding, I leaned forward so he could hear me better. “Fantasia said I had a private dance paid for?”
“Yeah, about that.” Louis’s eyebrows pulled together and he braced his hands on the bar top. “It’s the blond guy near the front—don’t look yet, he’s, uh, kind of scary.”
I kept my eyes trained on Louis. “Okay.”
“He asked and I told him I’d have to check with you, but he purchased five private dances, all in a row. He said Tina—Adore—set it up ahead of time. Is five dances in a row allowed? I didn’t think it was allowed.”
“Uh, no.” Alarm had me automatically searching for this man who’d asked for five consecutive private dances.
Hank, the club owner and former manager, would lose his damn mind if we did that. Private dances lasted no less than three minutes but no more than five. Consecutive dances were not allowed, a bouncer was always stationed outside the door to the champagne room, and no customer could be alone with a
I stiffened.
Oh. My. God.
The words I’d been about to say died on my tongue and my train of thought derailed into a field of wildflowers and fantasy. The man hovering at the front of the club was absolute perfection. Six foot something, long beautiful body, piercing blue eyes, cliffs for cheekbones, and a granite jaw. Even the way his chin came to a rounded point felt perfect.
And I knew him.
And he was looking right at me.
Isaac.
A shock of thick, blond-white hair topped off his flawless-to-me façade, the locks now much longer than I’d ever seen them before.
Was this a joke? Or . . . is this my present?
In my haze of shock and thoughtlessly shameless admiration, I tried to remember the last time I’d laid eyes on the real Isaac Sylvester and not the Isaac Sylvester in my dreams.
He’d disappeared years ago, just after the motorcycle club he’d been pledging to crumbled. The Iron Wraiths were still around, but without their money man—on the run from the law—their president—currently on death row—and their second-in-command—rumored dead—they were a mere shadow of the powerful club that had reigned over Green Valley for decades.
My heart jumped to the spot in my throat where the words had died. Realizing that I’d been blatantly staring, I tore my gaze from the arresting intensity of Isaac’s inscrutable gaze and redirected it to the third button on Louis’s shirt, swallowing convulsively but managing to hold on to my polite smile.
“Goldie?” Louis asked.
What could Isaac be doing here, I wondered. Surreptitiously, I glanced around the floor, inspecting each of my co-workers in turn. Had they—did Tina call him? Louis had mentioned Tina. Is this—is he—some sort of going-away gift? Or a practical joke?
It was no secret among my co-workers that I had a mountain of a thing for Isaac Sylvester. In the past, whenever he’d arrived, they would tease me with quiet whispers and meaningful eyebrow raises. But as a customer, he’d never asked for me. Not once. He’d never spared me a glance either. Which, in retrospect, I’d considered a blessing. Other professional dancers plus conventional wisdom told me that developing a crush on a patron was a recipe for bitterness and a broken heart.
“Is that the man?” I croaked, then cleared my throat. “I mean, is that the—uh—the one in the leather jacket, blond hair? He’s the one who wants the dances? From me?”
“Yes. Like I said, the scary-looking one.” Louis sounded concerned. “But he mentioned Tina set it up, so I thought I should check with you.”
Every time he came in, Isaac used to buy private dances from Tina, multiple times a night, once an hour at least. And now what? Had Tina set this up as a present for me? Was Isaac the gift everyone had been teasing me about all week? My cheeks warmed at the thought. I didn’t know whether to be pleased or embarrassed or irritated.
“And he wanted the dances from me?” I licked my lips and tasted the cherry gloss I’d painted on earlier. “Are you sure?”
“He said he wanted you.”
I caught myself just before a frown pulled my eyebrows together. This was not like me, almost losing my composure like this. I forced a small smile. It felt shaky. “You’re absolutely sure? Are you sure he didn’t say he set up the dances for Tina? He didn’t ask for Tina? I mean, he didn’t ask for Adore?” Tina was out of town. If Tina was who he actually wanted, he’d be disappointed.
“Nope. Not Adore. He asked for you specifically. He even used your full real name, first and last.”
I stared at Louis without seeing him, my mind staging a riot, my heart beating at warp speed while I held my expression steady.
Each dancer I’d ever compared notes with readily admitted to having a mental stand-in, a fantasy person who took the place of the individuals who paid for a dance or stuffed a tip in their G-string. We relied on the pretend image to get through any given moment, imagining until reality blurred with fantasy. Customers who looked at us with desire or leered at us with lust were that fantasy person, and it helped. It helped a whole helluva lot to imagine that whatever person was in front of me was someone I actually wanted.
Tina/Adore’s stand-in was Duane Winston. Piper/Diamond’s was Benedict Cumberbatch. Everly/Nixie’s was her husband.
My stand-in was, and always had been, Isaac Sylvester.
I rubbed my forehead, not knowing what to do. The answer should’ve been obvious. Logically, reasonably, I knew Hank wouldn’t be happy if I did something so foolish on my last night dancing. I doubted he’d question whether I could take over as the club’s manager, but this would definitely make my judgment seem suspect.
And yet . . .
My gaze flickered to the beautiful man loitering by the front of the club, his eyes on the floor as he waited patiently for a verdict. Heat exploded like a firework in my chest, smoldering embers settling low in my stomach.
I’d never broken the rules. I’d never wanted to. I’d never been tempted. Lord help me, but right now? I was more than tempted. With each of those boys from my high school earlier, I’d pretended they were Isaac.
“Did you tell him we don’t allow consecutive dances?” I asked Louis, stalling. “Did you tell him there’s a five-minute maximum?”
“I did. He told me that I should talk to you and mention Tina setting it up. He said you’d know why so much time was required.”
My stomach dropped even as my head swam. If anyone would send me a man as a retirement present, it was Tina Patterson. She was a hot mess, but I loved her.
Louis leaned farther over the bar. “Should I tell him—”
“Tell him it’s fine,” I said, forcing the words out—albeit gently—before I lost my nerve. “Tell him . . . tell him I’ll meet him inside the room.” I smiled sweetly in an outward presentation of calm.
Louis’s disquieted frown became a fretful one. “That’s over fifteen minutes alone with one customer, up to twenty-five.”
“I know.” I tucked my hair behind my ears—a nervous habit I’d developed as a kid—but then realized what I was doing and shook my head to release the strands, scrunching the wild style back into place. “It’s totally fine. I actually know him. We grew up together, old friends.”
I didn’t know Isaac Sylvester. In fact, I’d never spoken to him, not once, but I’d looked at him plenty when we were in choir together growing up. He’d been a reader, always bringing giant books to choir practice at the church. If he wasn’t dutifully singing, his eyes were on the pages of his book. And that had given teenage me plenty of time to indulge myself in admiring him without the fear of being discovered.
“Goldie, are you sure?”
Giving Louis a sunny smile, I stepped back from the bar. “It’s fine. Like I said, we’re old friends. And remember, a bouncer will be outside the room the whole time. In fact, I’ll ask Dave.”
Louis looked like he wanted to argue, but a customer shouted impatiently for a drink. His attention divided, I darted to the side and around the back of the bar, hammering on the sunny expression more firmly to hide the knots twisting in my stomach. A regular waved me over and I winked at him. I did not stop.
I didn’t want to stop or chat. Determined to talk Dave into allowing me five back-to-back private dances in the champagne room with Isaac Sylvester, I sought out the big bouncer and formulated a plausible excuse for fifteen minutes alone with Isaac, pasting on my most convincing unconcerned smile as I approached him.
