I had six dresses—one for each night of the week when I was working. Only six because, well, the damn things were expensive as hell. You know, if you wanted to get well-made ones that looked like quality under the stage lights, which had a tendency to highlight any slight flaw in material or cut.
And, well, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to invest more in this job.
I mean, don’t get me wrong. I love the stage, the singing, the oldies I crooned, the applause of the crowds. I’d eaten all that up since my days on the beauty pageant circuit.
But this particular job?
Not so much.
“Knock knock.”
And there was the very reason.
Right on time.
“Hope you’re not decent.”
It took actual work to keep my lips from turning into a grimace as my boss came into the dressing room.
Maybe I wouldn’t be so disgusted by the behavior if I hadn’t learned from the past when he came barging in while I was standing in nothing but a thong, and his beady eyes raked over me. I needed to scrub my skin raw to get rid of the slimy feeling that clung to me afterward.
Now, I made sure to stay in my sweats untilafterhis usual drop-in. And he always popped in.
In my mind, it was only because he wanted to catch another eyeful of me. Or, let’s face it, worse.
“You know,” Frank said, blue-eyed gaze sweeping over me, “men don’t like women who dress like slobs.”
I ignored that, knowing that if I let myself, I would say a thing or two that I’d regret when my rent bill was due. While I was looking for a way out, I knew I had to be smart about it.
“Did you have some requests for me?” I asked instead, pretending that organizing my makeup case required all my focus.
I had a usual rotation of old-school, sultry lounge music that I mixed with a few more upbeat songs and even some remixed modern ones to make them slow and sexy.
But every once in a while, a guest would have a request—usually for an anniversary. Or Frank would hear something that he wanted me to incorporate into the set list. Typically a terrible choice, but I had to do what the boss wanted, ill-advised or not.
“I have some friends coming tonight,” Frank said, running his fingers over my pantyhose that was draped over a hanger.
He insisted I wear them year-round. The sheer black ones with the black seam up the back. He never missed an opportunity to touch them when he saw them around. I figured the guy had some kind of fetish for the things.
“Okay,” I said when he didn’t continue.
“I want a private set.”
Ugh.
Of course he did.
Just what I wanted—to be alone in a room with him and his drunk, creepy friends with no one to protect me. Because, let’s face it, the security staff were going to be loyal to the almighty dollar more than their morals.
Still, I needed the money.
Also, I didn’t exactly have a choice.
Frank was not the kind of man who took no for an answer. If you tried, he was all too happy to make you suffer for it. He was powerful enough in the area to make sure I would never again be able to find work singing. Or entertaining, serving, bartending. I’d be stuck working at some chain store or a corporate job that sucked my soul out one nine-to-five at a time.
“I already have four sets tonight,” I reminded him. It was my only plausible way out. “We don’t want to tax my voice.”
“You’re off tomorrow. Plenty of time to recover.”
