Warnings: Explicit language | Strip clubs | physical fights |Sexual content | Jealousy| toxic rivalry|
Summary: When Nero hires a new dancer at Diosa, business starts booming — and so does the trouble. Fierce, sexy, and untouchable, you own the stage and bring in the crowds, but not everyone’s happy about it. Jealousy brews among the other strippers, and when SAMCRO’s President, Jax Teller, sets his eyes on you, the stakes rise higher than ever.
Part One: Smoke and Starlight
Diosa had seen plenty of skin, sweat, and perfume before you ever stepped foot on its hardwood floors, but the first night you hit the pole, the air shifted.
Two weeks later, it wasn’t just the tequila or the scent of vanilla candles that had men stumbling through the door — it was you.
Dark hair swinging like a whip, eyes sharp as broken glass, body moving with a kind of liquid control that made grown men forget their wives’ names. You didn’t sell pussy — you didn’t need to. The stage was your kingdom, the pole your weapon, and every time you slid down, knees bent and lips curled into a dare, bills rained like confetti.
Even Nero noticed. Hell, especially Nero.
He leaned against the bar that Friday night, sipping whiskey, his eyes flicking between the packed floor and the sight of you hanging upside down, muscles flexing as you caught the spotlight.
Alvarez had given him shit about hiring another dancer — “Already got enough girls grinding on poles, homes.” But Nero knew better. You weren’t just another girl. You were heat and danger wrapped up in high heels and glitter.
“Club ain’t been this full since—” Venus started, perched on a stool, sipping something pink with a cherry.
Nero cut her off with a nod toward you. “Since her.”
That’s when Jax Teller walked in.
President. Blond hair messy like he’d just come off a ride, kutte hanging open, cigarette dangling from his fingers. He wasn’t here for pussy — at least not tonight. Diosa was business, a safe place for deals and distractions. But Jax had been running hot all week: club politics, guns, Tara’s ghost always clinging to his ribs. He needed something to take the edge off.
Not the bills stuffed in your thong, not the drunk bastard reaching too close. Just you. The way you arched, spun, and stared at the crowd like you owned every last one of them.
“Jesus Christ,” Jax muttered, low, dragging smoke into his lungs.
Nero smirked, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Told you, hermano. She’s the reason this place got fire again.”
Jax didn’t answer right away. His blue eyes tracked you as you dismounted, strutting down the stage with bills fanned in your hands like a queen holding court.
You caught him looking. Oh, you knew that look. You’d seen it a thousand times from men who thought they were predators. But this one was different. His stare wasn’t hungry — it was steady, curious, like he was waiting to see what you’d do next.
Winked. Bent low to scoop a crumpled twenty from the floor, ass swaying like you were born to tease. When you straightened, that smirk tugged at your lips.
Jax’s mouth curved into something dangerous. A half-smile, half-warning.
Later, in the dressing room, the air was thick with powder, sweat, and cheap perfume. Some of the other girls side-eyed you while peeling off sequins and counting cash. They didn’t like how the clients followed you around like dogs. Didn’t like that Nero treated you like his golden ticket.
Cherry — red wig, sharp nails, mean streak — slammed her locker. “Ain’t fair, the way you gettin’ all the shine. Some of us been here bustin’ ass for years.”
You snapped your gum and leaned back in the chair, tossing your wad of bills onto the counter. “Maybe if your lazy ass could actually climb the pole without looking like a drunk giraffe, you’d get more tips.”
The room erupted in laughter. Cherry’s face went crimson.
“Yeah,” you said, blowing a bubble that popped slow. “But I’m a rich bitch.”
She lunged, but Venus slid between you with a practiced hand. “Ladies, please. Ain’t no need to scrap unless there’s mud or oil involved. Save the claws for the stage.”
You didn’t need saving, though. You’d already risen halfway out of your chair, ready to swing. Fighting wasn’t foreign to you. Strippers didn’t survive long without knowing how to throw a punch.
But Cherry backed off, hissing like a snake, and stormed out.
You caught yourself in the mirror, lips quirking. Let them hate. The more noise they made, the more you knew you were winning.
Back at the bar, Jax was waiting.
You walked past him, hips swaying, a shot of whiskey in hand. His gaze burned against your skin.
“You lookin’ at me like you ain’t never seen tits before,” you drawled, sliding onto the stool beside him.
Jax’s laugh was low, rough, the kind that curled in your belly. “I’ve seen plenty. But not like you.”
You arched a brow. “Smooth. You use that line on all the girls, President?”
He turned his head, met your stare without flinching. “Only the ones worth it.”
You clinked your glass against his beer, sipping slow, enjoying the weight of the tension between you. It wasn’t just sex he was offering — it was a challenge. A test.
And you loved nothing more than winning.
The night dragged on. Customers stumbled out, pockets empty, egos bruised. The music died down, lights dimmed.
You stepped outside to smoke, leaning against the brick wall, sweat cooling on your chest.
A motorcycle rumbled nearby. Jax.
He lit up beside you, silence stretching thick.
“You stir shit up in there,” he said finally, nodding back toward Diosa.
You blew smoke toward the stars. “What can I say? I like attention.”
He smirked. “You’re gonna get plenty. Question is, can you handle it?”
You turned, locking eyes with him, heat sparking like a match head. “Try me.”
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