It was considerably thinner than it had been. She'd known he would take a cut, of course, but she'd done pretty well with private dances – all but one, she amended with a grimace. And even though most of the notes that been tossed at her on stage were one dollar bills, there had still be a lot of them. The cash Benedict had counted out for her was less than half what she'd estimated she'd earned all night.
He shrugged, puffing on his cigarette and blowing smoke rings. “You know the deal here, sweetheart. Sammy gets his cut, then I get mine, then you get yours.”
“Yeah, but -”
“Listen, you don't like it, talk to the big man, okay? My hands are tied, doll.”
Freya chewed her lip, a knot forming in her stomach. It wasn't worth arguing and she definitely didn't want to talk to Sammy. She was aching from head to toe, she was sweaty, weary, and more than ready to go home. She took her cut silently and left without saying goodbye.
This is good, she told herself, searching desperately for a silver lining. The more money Sammy took, the quicker she paid off her debt. She wished her first private customer had paid up. Bitterness stole through her as she headed back into the club. He'd been hot as hell, unexpectedly so, with that messed-up dark hair and smooth voice. Watching him get off to her dancing had been a powerful aphrodisiac that she hadn't found with any of the other guys she'd performed for tonight.
But then the asshole had stiffed her, and because he'd said he was with security, she'd been too afraid to ask Benedict about the missing money. For all she knew, he could be one of Sammy's guys.