“Probably not,” I agree. “But the décor is Old South.”
He nods. “Listen, Scala,” he says. “This isn’t the typical party.”
“I gathered that . . . what’s with Alfred Pennyworth?”
“Who?”
“Batman’s butler,” I reply. “Don’t you know anything?”
He laughs. “I don’t think Diaz qualifies as a loyal butler. He’s a no-nonsense money man.”
“Like a banker?”
“No,” Tony’s voice grows more serious. “More like a hitman with an open wallet.”
“Oh.” I consider it, knowing the clientele before I even meet them. Holly Beach is a family town. But once the sun sets, the truth is exposed. The dirty truth. A crossroads for cartel heroin on its way to places like Atlanta and Miami, real life gangsters and hardcore MCs have established themselves here. One of the reasons I sought refuge somewhere else. “Who’s the lucky bachelor?”
He joins me on the bed. “You already know.”
“Lazaro Mendoza?”
He nods.
“Shit,” I say sarcastically. “Not only did the most eligible bachelor market just shrink by twenty percent, now I’m afraid I’ll never get a shot at him. What’s next for Ben, booking parties in prison?”
Tony pats my knee. “Listen, kiddo, I know boss man tricked you into doing this. Make the best of it, enjoy the money while you can.”
“You think this is about money?” I ask incredulously. “If I wanted to be a stripper, I’d work at a club, not here.”
His eyebrow raises. “But youarea stripper.”
This is a point of contention between the two of us. “By default.”
“I admit Ben is a prick. When he see’s something he wants, he goes for it. Sorry. Can’t cry over spilt milk. Time to put aside the ’tude, get ready for the party, okay?”
I heave a sigh. Sure, that’s easy for Tony to say. All my dreams got flushed down the fucking toilet the day I met Ben in his pristine downtown office. He maintains the perfect front—the right business address, an attractive secretary, portraits of his lead talent hanging on the walls—a photography studio . . . The bastard lied. And like a starry-eyed fool, I fell for it and signed the contract without reading the fine print. Lingerie model turned stripper. In short, I’m prohibited from accepting any other employment unless Ben approves of the job. Of course he won’t, even if it’s flipping burgers in the campus kitchen. So I either shake my ass for the next two years or starve.
I pass by the twins, still in the hot tub, wishing I had a pair of rubber duckies to throw at them. Bert and Ernie possess more brain cells between them. I swear it’s not a jealousy thing—I just don’t tolerate stupid well.
Half an hour later, someone knocks on the door. Tony lets Diaz in. Diaz circles the twins, who are dressed and ready to go. He nods in affirmation—some kind of meat inspector.
When he approaches me, I warn him. “I’m not changing into another outfit.”
I should have protested this gig more. But this is one of the busiest weekends of the year, and Ben would have pressed me for answers if I resisted too much. And the first rule for my survival is never letting anyone know who I really am.
Diaz stares at me blankly. “I wouldn’t dream of asking you to.” He caresses my hip. “Save a dance for me.”
I bite my tongue. Tony mumbles something under his breath, one of his usual warnings to get my shit straight. I glance at my watch. Eight o’clock on a Friday. We’re expected to stay the night and head back to Texarkana in the morning—if the twins can wake up after drowning themselves in vodka cranberries.
Wonder how that’s gonna play out . . .
