“It’s settled,” Lorenzo declares. “Both of you work this from different angles. Be smart. Be careful. And get me answers before anyone else dies.”
The room shifts back to easy chatter, but I stay wound tight. Every overdose puts more eyes on us. Every dead kid chips away at the illusion of control.
Lightning’s already claimed too many lives. If we don’t find the source, the Bratva won’t be our biggest problem. The Feds will. And when they come knocking, there won’t be anywhere for us to hide.
7
NINA
The neon signflickers like it’s as uncertain about this decision as I am.
I’m sitting in the parking lot outside Velvet Nights, taking deep breaths and trying to convince my racing heart to settle down. It’s not cooperating. My hands are clammy against the steering wheel, but that’s just nerves. I can handle nerves.
I stare at that pink and purple neon like it might suddenly spell out a different solution to my problems. But it doesn’t. This is my solution.
It’s my first night working here, and the butterflies in my stomach have apparently invited their extended family over for a rave. I auditioned at the beginning of the week, and the assistant manager, a no-nonsense woman who smells like cigarettes and has a voice deep enough to suggest the habit isn’t new, hired me on the spot.
I was shocked because all I did was swing around the pole for about a minute while they played some cheesy rock song over the speakers. It was ten in the morning, the club was emptyexcept for me and the assistant manager, so it wasn’t too hard to close my eyes and pretend I was back in my pole dancing aerobics class.
What confused me was that she didn’t ask me to actually strip. She just wanted to see if I could handle myself on the pole, if I had enough rhythm to move with the music.
“You’re hired,” she said, cutting the music off mid-song while I was still mid-spin around the pole.
I nearly lost my grip and face-planted. “What? Just like that?”
“Yep.” She looked me up and down, all business.
“You don’t want to see me...” I gestured vaguely at my fully clothed body.
A flicker of amusement crossed her weathered features. “There’s no need. You’re attractive, you’ve got the body for it, and you can dance. The rest you’ll figure out as you go.”
Easy for her to say. She gets to keep her clothes on.
Now, walking through the back entrance of the club, the “taking off my clothes” part is exactly what has my stomach doing gymnastic routines. But I don’t hesitate. My nerves can throw their tantrum all they want, but I’ve got bills to pay and a son who needs his medication.
“Good, you’re here.” The assistant manager—Starla, I learned during my brief tour—spots me immediately. “You brought outfits?”
I wouldn’t call the scraps of fabric in my duffle bag “outfits” so much as “strategic cloth placement,” but I nod anyway. Keshia and I spent an enlightening evening online shopping for whatshe diplomatically called “work clothes.” My browser history will never recover.
“Come with me.”
She leads me to the dressing room, a long, narrow space with mirrors lining one wall and vanity tables that have seen better decades. We pass other strippers in various states of undress, applying makeup and chatting.
“This is your space.” Starla stops at a clean vanity table with an empty clothing rack behind it. “I’m not a big believer in putting off the inevitable. New girls get overly nervous if they wait backstage too long, so you’re up in fifteen minutes.”
My eyes widen. “What?”
“Trust me. It’s like ripping off a band-aid. Just get the first time over with, and you’ll be fine.” She rattles off rules like she’s reading a grocery list. “Don’t leave the stage. No customers allowed up there with you. Bouncers handle any trouble. You can go fully nude or just topless, it’s your choice. Song ends, you get off. Tonight you’re stage-only while you get used to this. After that, you work the floor between performances. Lap dances happen in the private rooms. And no glitter. It transfers to clothes, and wives always know where their husbands have been. We want to avoid that kind of drama.”
She pauses. “Questions?”
About a million, but none I want to ask right now.
“No, I think I’ve got it,” I say.
“Good. What’s your stage name? I need something to introduce you with.”
Shit. Of course there’s a stage name. This isn’t exactly the kind of job where you use your real identity. My mind goes completely blank. The harder I try to think of something sexy and mysterious, the more my brain offers up ridiculous suggestions like “Sparkles” or “Cinnamon.”
