“The position has been filled.”
“Oh, okay. Sorry to bother you. You might want to take down the sign in the window, though,” I say, tugging my bag up onto my shoulder as I head for the door.
“I’m sorry, I was here about the job too,” I hear from behind me.
“Actually, if you just give me a moment,” the bitchy woman says. I stop and turn, unsure if she’s talking to me, her, or both of us.
She looks over at me and glares. The pink creeping across her cheeks looks a lot like embarrassment, so I’m guessing it wasn’t me.
“So when you said the position was filled, you lied?”
She opens her mouth but snaps it shut, looking behind her before turning back and lowering her voice. “This is an exclusive boutique. We have a particular type of clientele.”
She looks me up and down, her lip curling slightly. “Perhaps you’d find a more suitable position at thestripmall.” She emphasizes the word “strip” like it’s a dirty word.
Joke’s on her, because I was a stripper for a while when I was with Chaos. I’ve got zero body hang-ups and nothing but respectfor women who do it to keep a roof over their kids’ heads and food on the table.
I look down at what I’m wearing, trying to figure out what it is about me that screamsstripper. It’s not like I’m dressed for the clubhouse. I’m wearing fitted black pants, a soft pink blouse, and a pair of kitten heels. I wanted to look professional and put together, which is why I spent so much time blowing out my hair—only to puke in it.
“Is it the boobs?” I ask because there’s nothing I can do about them. In fact, thanks to my current situation, I’ve already gone up a cup size, making buying bras a new priority.
She sputters. The other girl here about the job is looking increasingly uncomfortable.
“It’s that kind of inappropriate language?—”
I hold up my hand to stop her. “Lady, I’ve barely spoken a handful of words. You made up your mind about me sometime between me walking in and puking in your bathroom.”
“You said you weren’t sick.”
I frown. “No. I said I wasn’t contagious. Again, what does that have to do with how you’ve been treating me?”
She presses her lips together. “Perhaps you should consider preparing the night before an interview instead of getting intoxicated.”
“Intoxicated? Are you serious right now? Who the hell even saysintoxicatedanymore?”
“I think I’m just gonna go,” the other girl murmurs, edging away from the counter.
“Probably a wise choice. Not sure I’d want to work somewhere so discriminatory and dismissive.”
“Excuse me!” bitch face hisses.
“Are you the manager?”
“I’m the supervisor,” she says, flipping her hair with a level of arrogance I didn’t even know was possible. Unfortunately forher, she’s never had a knockdown, drag-out fight with a naked person greased up with baby oil and covered in stripper glitter.
I square my shoulders and give her my best condescending look. “I’d like to speak to the manager, please.”
She opens and closes her mouth like a fish before shaking her head. “She’s unavailable.”
“The owner, then.”
“I don’t just have the owner’s number,” she scoffs.
“Too bad. It looks like I’ll have to go to the newspapers, post on social media and leave an honest review on Google and Yelp.” I glance at her nametag before pulling out my phone and snapping a photo. “Wouldn’t want to spell your name wrong—Becki with an I.”
I turn on my heel and head for the door, where the other woman stands holding it open, a shy smile on her face. I wink as I breeze past her and continue down the street. Thankfully, this isn’t the only place looking for help, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t shake my confidence. It’s stupid, I know. I could strip naked and walk down this street and not feel an ounce of embarrassment.
My body’s never been the problem; it’s my only commodity—my confidence, on the other hand, is only skin deep. In the real world, where paying bills and holding down a job matters, I’m out of my depth. The MCs taught me how to survive—but never how to live.
