“I don’t give a fuck,” the gorilla guarding the back door yells. “Boss says you’re late.”
“Ahhh, c’mon, I’m only a little late.” The guy on the other side of the door is hidden by the biker’s bulk, but it doesn’t matter. I’d know that whiny, manipulating voice anywhere—Eduardo.
I look around Diesel at the same time the biker at the door shifts. Eduardo’s eyes bug out, and we stare at each other for a split second before the biker slams the door in Eduardo’s face.
Decision made.
“As you said, I better get in my costume.” I smile sweetly at my new best friend. “Wouldn’t want to be late for my performance.”
Plan C morphed into a very shaky Plan D.
As of tonight, I’m officially a stripper. Had a lot of crazy jobs over the years, but this would be a new one to add to my resume. Now, all I have to do is find a costume and learn how to dance in sky-high stilettos while taking my clothes off.
I throw Diesel my sweetest smile then backtrack to the dressing room, which is noisier and more chaotic than the strip club. Women of all shapes and sizes are scrambling around in different directions in all stages of undress.
A woman in five-inch stilettos towers over me. “Hey, honey, are you one of the new girls?”
“Yes,” I say while taking it all in. A long lighted mirror covers one wall with a counter under it and chairs. Tubes of makeup, mascara, and eyeliner pencils share space with personal pictures and even a few plants. Costumes and articles of clothing are strewn over chairs and jammed together on a rack in the back of the room. Accessories ranging from ball caps to furry boas, and even a bull whip hangs from hooks along the opposite wall. Maybe it would be easier than I thought to find a costume.
She eyes me up and down, similar to Diesel, then clucks her tongue. “You’re awfully skinny, but we can make that work.”
“We?”
“I’m Danica, and I kinda run shit around this madhouse.” She spins me around. “What are you, like a size four?”
I nod. “Sometimes a two.”
“Holy shit, you are tiny.” She grabs my hand and half drags me to the clothing rack in the back of the room.
“Who’s she?” A tall brunette with the biggest boobs I’ve ever seen narrows her eyes and frowns.
“New girl.” Danica’s already swiping through the tangle of clothing on the rack.
The brunette slams her hands on her wide hips, and somehow her boobs get bigger. “Ricky hired you for the party?”
I nod, remembering my bestie biker’s words about it being his birthday.
“Don’t go giving her shit, Chantel.” Danica sifts through the assortment of costumes. “She’s just trying to make a buck like the rest of us.”
“Well, don’t go giving her any of my stuff ‘cause it’s all custom-made.”
“Right, at Sluts R Us,” Danica mumbles, and I chuckle. Then she waves her hand over me and turns on Chantel. “Like anything you wear would fit her tiny body.”
Chantel huffs out a breath, struts out of the room, and I’m awed by her confidence. Sure, I’m a daredevil, but I’ve always been self-conscious about my figure—or lack of a figure.
“Don’t give her a second thought.” Danica flicks her wrist in Chantel’s direction. “First of all, her real name is Brandi.” She rolls her eyes like the name explains everything. “And like a lot of us, she’s here in Tijuana ‘cause she ran from something in the States.”
Danica leans in. “Texas to be exact. Seems her abusive boyfriend was cooking meth in their double-wide, and when the damn fool blew himself up, Brandi just stood outside and watched. Let that fucker burn like a steak on the bar-b-cue.”
I manage to keep my face expressionless, but, shit—note to self, stay far the fuck away from Chantel.
“Me,” Danica points to herself, “I was stripping in a dump in Cali until the DEA raided the joint, hauled the owner off to jail, and put a padlock on the place. So, I came down here with another gal, and they hired us on the spot, no references, no questions about my past, and paid in cash every week.”
“Nice.” I glance over my shoulder, half expecting Eduardoto swoop in any minute. That was the bad thing about paranoia. Even though I knew it was impossible, it still freaked me out.
“Here we go.” Danica holds up a sequined neon-yellow pair of chaps and a matching bikini top. “This is perfect.”
Okay, I could do this. The only thing really exposed would be my ass cheeks. I point to the matching string looped over the hanger. “Where does that go, around my neck?”
