They both laughed before she terminated the call.
Reaching her Nissan in the parking lot, Haven climbed in just as her phone rang again.
She recognized the ring tone: “Titties and Beer” by Frank Zappa.
“Yes, Georgie? How is my sweet pervert doing this fine day?” She had a love-hate relationship with her boss, so she was comfortable telling him he was a degenerate.
His chain-smoker voice rasped across the phone, “Haven, my love, I know you’re busy wrapping up your divorce stuff, but I need you to come in tonight.”
She groaned.
“Marina called in sick. Something about her shady boyfriend getting arrested,” Georgie grumbled.
Haven rolled her eyes, huffing at this commentary.
From eight to two, five nights a week, she used her beauty to make money. She provided men, and some women, with the excitement they craved, the visions of flesh they begged for, and the promise of seduction they paid for. She was a femme fatale, a body musician, an exotic dancer. She was paid to remove her clothes, move her bare ass to lush, addictive beats, and make her audience drool so much that no amount of BYOB would satiate their thirst. She wasn’t ashamed of what she did because it had been a means to make money until she could finalize her divorce and start her life over again. Dancing for an appreciative audience gave her the opportunity to earn quick cash, which went immediately into the slimy hands of Elgin’s bookies and her divorce lawyer.
“Why can’t you get Lila to come in? She’s been asking for extra hours.”
“Yeah, I already called her. She ain’t answering her phone. That leaves you, baby. But you know what?”
She didn’t want to know, but she liked the guy, so she’d humor him. “What, Georgie?”
“I would rather have you on stage anyway. You’re the only one in the history of this place who can get guys to empty their bank accounts, then call their wives for the grocery money.”
With Haven as the club’s main attraction, men came up from Virginia and out from Vegas to see her dance. She made each performance into a masterpiece using her body as the brush, the music as the paint, and the stage as a canvas. After five years of hard work, she’d succeeded in weaving the sensuality and sexuality of the exotic with the erotic beats and treats of modern music. As a professional, she entertained to tease, entice, and inflame.
Damn right she was the best; it came naturally.
Haven looked at the clock on her dashboard, and sighed.
“I’m sorry, Georgie. You know the girls and I have a celebration planned. I would if I could, but I can’t.”
“Aw, come on Haven, I’ll pay you another grand on top of your regular pay and tips. I’ve got a high roller coming in and I want him to have the most delicious of Delicious. Do I have to remind you who gave you all those perks you enjoy?” he sneered into the phone.
She cursed under her breath. “No.”
He liked reminding her she was the only girl at the club who could choose the music, the audience, and the dance. Unlike other women in her profession, her act always headlined. Her name in lights, and her pockets lined with cash. Georgie would often hold “Delicious Lip-Licking Ladies” nights as a way to boost club numbers. Fliers and word of mouth would bring the customers. He’d charge admittance for the “special showing,” and she would dance.
Her body. Her choice. No compromises.
Unfortunately, Georgie didn’t care about her personal feelings; he only cared about the bottom line—and the bottoms of the ladies who brought in the money. She was his biggestmoneymaker, but he knew once she had enough to go back to nursing school, she’d get a nursing job, and she’d be out of there for good.
She blew out a heavy breath. “No. Final answer. I have been working my ass off for five years. I deserve one night out on the town to blow off some steam.” She wanted to feel bad for the guy, but couldn’t do it.
The muffled swear on the other end of the line signaled his concession. “Fine, fine. I’ll let you have your evening out.”
Narrowing her eyes Georgie’s patronizing tone, Haven drawled, “How gracious of you.”
Twenty minutes later, after stepping through her apartment door, she let out a tired sigh, closed and locked the door, and threw her keys on the worn wooden table along the wall just inside.
Home.
With a quick glance at the clock, she calculated she had enough time to stream a few episodes ofSupernaturalbefore her workout. Hunkering down on the couch, she reached for the remote.
Before she could even turn the TV on, the phone rang, the room filling with the sounds of “Maneater” by Hall & Oates.
“She’s a maneater…watch out boy, she’ll chew you up….”
