***
Tuesday afternoon, I have my gym bag slung over my shoulder, sunglasses and baseball cap on as I stand in the shadows and watch the line of women grow in front of The Lucky Sinner.
The sleek, white yacht is anchored in a private dock near the Bayside Marina. They’ve erected a canopy along the walkway to keep the women from baking in the sun. One of Killian’s soldiers is handing out water bottles as he flirts with the women. There’s an air of excitement buzzing around them as they chat and laugh, size each other up.
The petite blonde in the back catches my attention. She’s keeping to herself. Her arms are crossed, her gaze trained on the ground, lost in thought. There’s no enthusiasm, more like defeat in the set of her thin shoulders. She doesn’t want to be here, but she obviously needs the money. I’ve found my target.
Pushing off the wall, I walk over to stand in line behind her. My palms are beginning to sweat. If this doesn’t work, I don’t have a backup plan.
She sighs softly, and I take that as my cue. I touch her arm gently. “Are you okay?”
Her head whips around, and she blinks at me. Her blue eyes are bloodshot, lids puffy. She forces a smile as her arms tighten against her body. “Oh, yes. Fine, thank you.”
I remove my sunglasses and give her a sympathetic smile. “I get it. Sometimes we have to do hard things to survive.”
“Yeah. Sometimes.” Her wary gaze runs over me, her shoulders stiffening. Not a woman who trusts easily. I get it.
“Can I be honest with you?” I ask, knowing that the only way to quickly win her trust is to be vulnerable myself.
She cocks her head, an equal amount of suspicion and intrigue flitting over her delicate features. “If you’d like.”
I glance around to make sure no one is listening. Then lean forward and lower my voice. “I don’t have an appointment for tryouts. But I need to get me and my daughter away from a dangerous situation. Dancing is the only way I can make enough money fast enough to run.” I hold her eye contact. “Is there any way I can convince you to let me take your place?”
“Oh.” Her gaze sharpens on me. The suspicion is giving way to sympathy, but she’s shifting on her feet, getting nervous.
I need to strike before she has time to get in her head instead of her heart. Pulling out my phone, I show her a photo of Rona. “This is my little girl. She’s two. We’re in hiding, but I’ve had to live separately from her to keep her safe from her father. Neither of us will survive if he finds us.” When her hand moves to her throat protectively, I keep going. "I think he’s found me, and I really need to get us out of Florida. Waiting tables isn’t cutting it.” God knows I can’t tell her I’m a doctor, working off the books for the mafia.
Her eyes are wide as she stares at the photo of Rona. Then she bites her lip and glances up at me. “I’m pregnant.” The words fall past her lips as a whisper. The tears well up in her eyes as her hand presses on her still-flat stomach. “I already feel like I would do anything to keep this baby safe, so I… understand.” She sighs and shoots a glance behind her. “I probably won’t be able to dance very long before I’m showing anyway, so…” she meets my eyes. “Okay, I’ll help you.”
There’s determination in her eyes and something else that looks like relief. Maybe that this decision was made for her. I grasp her hand. “Thank you.”
She’s more animated now as she pulls a stack of papers from her bag. “You’ll need these. There’s a copy of my physical and a signed NDA. I don’t know how it’ll work using my identity as far as getting paid.”
I accept the papers. “I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.” What I’m hoping is that once Killian sees me dance, he’ll change his mind.
She hugs me, and I feel exactly how thin she is. “Good luck.”
“You, too.” And I mean it. Being a single mom in this economy is going to be a rough ride.
I flip through the paperwork as I wait. One of the pages has instructions for the tryout. We basically have three minutes… one song to impress Killian.
Almost two hours tick by. There are only three of us left in line. A short, stocky soldier in his twenties collects our paperwork and escorts us to the air-conditioned changing room on the bottom deck.
“Here you are, ladies.” He watches us as we file in. Then he writes down our names and which song we want to dance to. I’m last, which suits me fine.
“All right, go ahead and change. I’ll be back in a few for…” he glances down at his clipboard, “Ginger Garmin.”
“That’s me, sugar,” a curvy redhead says.
He winks at her, then closes the door behind him.
I take in the room, feeling nervous for the first time. Not to dance but just because the stakes are so high. There’s a black marble counter along the entire back wall with a mirror running up to the ceiling. A row of black leather stools sit beneath the counter. There’s also a rack to hang clothes, a black leather couch and two reclining chairs, lockers and an open door that I can see is a restroom. It smells brand new. No lingering scent of perfume, hairspray, sweat.
The music is being pumped into speakers in the hallway. We all get ready in silence. I pull on a pink wig. The rest of my outfit includes a mask that frames my eyes and platform heeled boots that hug my legs just past my knees.
But before I pull on the shiny black boots, I sit on the floor and stretch my feet, then my legs and back. It’s been a while since I’ve danced, and my shoulder and back muscles are going to be hella sore. It’s like riding a bike, though. Once I’mon stage with the pole and the music pumping through me, my mind shuts off and my body just knows what to do. It’s freeing, intoxicating and I’ve loved it since the first class I took when I was seventeen.
Once I turned twenty-one and got hired at The Showroom, the only thing that changed was I began performing in just a thong. It didn’t bother me, unless a customer got out of control. I’ve always loved the human body, male and female. Humans are an elegant design with our curves and muscles, and dancing nude is a beautiful way to showcase that.
