“Are you sure?”
And by God, she does it again, lifting her blue sweater, revealing a long smooth belly and those precocious tits.
“Marietta, you’re killing me.”
Her head pops up. “I am? Even with these?”
“Yes, you are.”
She lowers her sweater. “I’m not really shy.”
“I guessed that.”
“I auditioned for a strip club.”
My throat bobs, imagining her naked on a stage, awash with colored light. “I remember you saying that before the remodel.”
She glances around. “If I were a club bunny, and everyone was having sex with me anyway, it would be fine if I stripped here, wouldn’t it?” She hops down from the bar and heads to the stage. “You could put a pole right here!” She picks up a chair and sets it on the platform. “I could do the wholeFlashdanceroutine.” She turns the chair sideways. “Imagine me naked.”
Like that’s hard, given she just flashed me.
She sits in the chair and arches her back. “We don’t even need the water. It would make a mess anyway.”
She spots one of the load-bearing columns we put in where the wall was removed. Even though it’s square and not round, she grasps it and straddles the thick wood, legs in the air, feet aiming for the ceiling. “I’m getting better, see?”
Yeah, I see. I shift in my chair.
She drops her legs. “Do you need a special license to have strippers?”
I clear my throat, angling my arms between my thighs to hide my reaction to watching her do that maneuver. “Yeah, it’s a whole different set of permits.”
“I guess I could do private shows for the club. Is there a pole in your clubhouse?”
Fuck. I imagine Chain and Hoss going apeshit for her as she strips. “No.”
“They could put one in.” She throws a leg over the seat of the chair next to me to straddle it, crossing her arms over the back. “What I’m saying is I’m game. I’m ready to get wild. It’s not a lifetime thing, right? I can be a club bunny just for a while?”
I nod. “Yeah, you’re free to come and go as you like.”
“So, how would it work? Do think Iron Jack will let me pick my first man?” She rests her chin on her arms. “Could I negotiate that into the deal, or am I property, and they vote?”
I suddenly remember I’m supposed to be convincing her to be a house mouse, not a bunny.
I better shift course. “Why don’t you be a house mouse first? Nobody can touch you then. And you can get to know the guys and maybe have an informed opinion.”
“Ohh, that’s good. And once I pick, I could go to Iron Jack and say, I’m ready to be a bunny, and he’s first.”
“Or,” I say, feeling less sure the more we talk about this, “you could get along with one of them well enough to go straight to ol’ lady.”
She frowns at that. “Maybe. I think a bunny is better because it’s temporary. I’ll graduate in a year. And I might move.” Her eyes light up. “I wonder if I can somehow roll this experience into my master’s thesis.”
I try not to choke. “You’d study the club?”
“Yeah! Oh my gosh. I could compare the dynamics of an outlaw social structure against other more traditional familial hierarchies.”
“We’re not outlaws.”
“Oh, right. Well, boo. Still, this whole idea of ol’ ladies and sharing bunnies. It’s fascinating! And the mixed metaphors of presidents, like it’s a democracy, and church, using faith-based terminology like the club is a religion.”
