by Isobel Blackthorn
Genre: Dark Romantic Thriller
“Twerk is a page-turning rollercoaster of a ride.”
“Addictive and thoroughly entertaining, Twerk sizzles on every page!”
A regular night in a Las Vegas stripper club is rocked when local punk, Billy, dies having a lap dance. Paramedic, Dwight Creen, is in attendance. Filled with lust beneath his gaze, Amber follows him out to his truck. She’s anticipating sizzling romance but her encounter soon descends into a terrifying and twisted nightmare from which she cannot escape.
Five days pass and it is Lana’s next shift at the stripper club. She’s a fly-in-fly-out stripper paying her way through law school. She’s also Amber’s best friend. Where is Amber? What about Billy? Was it an accident? Suicide? Or murder? Finding neither the police nor the club are taking an interest, she conducts her own inquiries. Meanwhile, she’s the victim of a social-media hate campaign and an ex-boyfriend is sending her death threats. Only, she is sure it isn’t him.
Lana is thrust into a web of lies and deceptions she cannot unravel. Clues point her every which way and everyone is a suspect. She's desperate for the truth about Billy but the person she most needs to speak to is Amber, who has not shown up for her shift.
A steamy romantic thriller filled with mystery, action and suspense, Twerk exposes the working lives of Las Vegas strippers beyond the glamor - the challenges, the rewards, and the risks.
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He’s gorgeous, that is all I know. He wears a uniform and the guy is quite simply drop-dead, freakin’ gorgeous.
I’m leaning, back to the wall, arms folded beneath my skimpy black bra. Ahead of me, Billy sits dead as the proverbial in his seat, in a lap-dance booth. In my side vision, Amy stands in the corridor a few booths down; she’s, blubbering loudly, her barely-dressed body shuddering like she’s freezing or something. Trey, the most rule-bound security guy in Las Vegas, tries to comfort her in that clumsy, inept way of his – at times it can be endearing, but tonight it comes off as just plain creepy.
The lighting is low, the air – warm and stuffy – reeks of cheap perfume, expensive aftershave and a rank undertow of male sweat. The other dancers and their guys have exited in favor of the bar. The DJ chooses this moment to play a little Nicki Minaj, as if to put a seal on the fire coursing through my veins.
Barbie Tingz thuds out through the cheap speaker system; that’s me, that’s us, that’s what they all think of us as we stand tall and shake our bare asses in gossamer-thin G-strings and stripper heels, wasp-waisted like plastic dolls.
The paramedic is not about to give up on poor, dead Billy, yet even I can see there’s no breath, and could hazard a good guess at no accompanying heartbeat, either. Billy-boy is just a limp body and a drool-smeared face. The eyes are a sure giveaway, they always are, wide open and blank like that, fixed on something unseen in the middle distance; there will be no reviving him.
The paramedic grabs Billy’s shoulders, then pulls back, changing his mind. He glances around. “A little help would be nice.”
Trey frees himself from Amy. “Allow me.”
Together they ease poor ol’ dead Billy off his seat and lay him out on the floor on his back. His head flops limply to the side, as if he were inspecting the sticky carpet.
Management, in the form of Jane, storms through the heavy black door to hurry things along. She wants Billy gone. She wants the pathetic, blubbering Amy gone. There are fifty dancers on the floor needing to use these booths to service paying clientele; a cadaver is never going to be good for business.
Hot Foxies is caring like that.
I quickly lose interest in Amy, Billy, the hustle, the lost income, in fact, in the club altogether. My gaze is fixed on the shape of the paramedic’s back and that cute butt that is fortuitously angled straight at me, those taut glutes contracting and releasing as he pumps Billy’s chest.
Isobel holds a PhD in Western Esotericism for her groundbreaking study of the texts of Theosophist Alice A. Bailey. Her engagement with Alice Bailey's esoteric theories and practices has culminated in a forthcoming work of biographical fiction, in which Isobel explores the life of the mysterious occultist for too long shunted into the margins of history.
Isobel carries a lifelong passion for the Canary Islands, Spain, her former home. Many of her novels are set on the islands, including The Drago Tree, which was released in 2015 and is now in Spanish translation. These novels are setting rich and fall into the genre of travel fiction, and the novels are as much stories about the islands themselves as they are straight-ahead entertainment.
Isobel has led a rich and interesting life and her stories are as diverse as her experiences, the highs and lows, and the dramas. Some of her writing is dark, like the psychological thriller, Twerk, which is based on six years of research and first-hand accounts of dancers working in what are euphemistically called gentlemen's clubs.
A life-long campaigner for social justice, Isobel has written, protested and leant her weight to a range of issues including family violence. A Londoner originally, Isobel currently lives near Melbourne, Australia.
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Over my 5+ years as a dancer I’ve always been open and honest with my mother, Isobel Blackthorn. I live quite far away from the club that I work at, and to help me stay awake on the drive home it became tradition for me to call her and recount all the funny little things that happened over my night. Isobel made mental notes of the banter between dancers and customers and these anecdotes inspired her to write the novel, Twerk.
Twerk is a work of fiction and is first and foremost a dark and steamy thriller, however much of the behind the scenes details are based on an amalgamation of what I’ve recounted of my experiences as a dancer.
Isobel Blackthorn has an incredibly creative mind and has written a gripping thriller that will have you on the edge of your seat as you read. I am proud to have inspired her to write this unique novel.
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