“You’ve worked in strip clubs before?”
I nod. “Yes.”
“Why did you leave your last place so suddenly?”
My stomach somersaults as I force a rehearsed lie through my stern lips. “Personal reasons.”
Since it isn’t a lie, Giana hums but doesn’t push any further. “We pay five hundred per performance. Our share of the tips is twenty percent. If the bar doesn’t make its quota for the night, that goes up to thirty.”
I nod, hopeful its briskness will hide the excitement flaring inmy eyes. Five hundred a performance is five times what I was paid at Pepenero Privè. “I understand.”
After closing my thin, one-sheet file, she studies me. I don’t fidget or look away, successfully concealing how badly I need this. She could cut my performance pay in half like Salvator did if she smells my desperation.
Finally, she speaks the words I’m desperate to hear. “You’re hired.”
Relief floods my chest so fast it hurts. “Thank you.”
“Can you start today?” she asks. “Afternoon shift. It’s slow, but it’s a good warmup. You’ll get a feel for the stage and the layout.”
“Today?” I ask in disbelief.
Nodding, Giana hands me a stack of paperwork. “Fill these out before your next shift. Today, we’ll keep your wages off the books.” Excitement bursts through me as she checks her watch. “First open slot is in an hour. If you’re changed and ready by then, it’s yours.”
“I’ll be ready,” I reply, clutching the employment contract like it’s a lifeline. Because it is.
With a smile that matches mine, she gives me a quick tour of the club. It’s similar to every other strip club out there: dark, dingy, and theonlyoption.
The impromptu tour ends in the dressing room behind the main stage. “We encourage the girls to bring their own outfits, but the props closet has everything from a nun’s habit to a prison guard’s uniform. Help yourself to anything.”
“I packed a few options, but I’ll take a look to see if anything will improve the customers’ experience.”She’s already peering at me peculiarly, so I run the skit I use anytime I apply for a new job. “Are there any protocols I need to know?”
“Protocols?” she asks, appearing lost.
“Like... ah… touching the dancers? Is that extra?” I only tack on my last question when her brow disappears into her hairline. I had a feeling this club was a one-for-all service. A handful of the rooms we passed had beds in them instead of gleaming silver poles.
Desperate not to hear the words I see ruminating in her narrowedeyes, I blurt out, “I have no issues if they want to touch. I just want to ensure the club receives what it is owed.”
A relieved sigh rattles in her chest. “Phew. I was getting worried you were one of those dancers who refuse to do private shows.”
“No, of course not.” I’m a terrible liar. However, Giana doesn’t seem to have an inbuilt lie detector. “That’s where the real money is made. Everyone knows that.”
She murmurs in agreement. Then says she’ll introduce me to the music coordinator and other dancers before I go onstage.
I wait for her to disappear down the hall before entering the dressing room. Pindrop silence engulfs the room when I stroll to a long line of mirrors. The bulbs above them cast a golden glow over the room that makes everything look less seedy.
After hiding the dark circles around my eyes with concealer, I change into an outfit clients will instantly approve of. It’s fitted and leaveslittleto the imagination. My reflection in the full-length mirror near the props closet already looks like someone else, but I still pin back my dead-straight locks and hide them with a fiery-red wig that usually litters the stage with notes.
Whoever said blondes have more fun has clearly never met a redhead.
Once my wig is in place, I ignore the butterflies taking flight in my stomach and enter the busiest part of the club. Surprisingly, the bar isn’t as empty as expected. The tables in front of the stage are filled with patrons, and over a dozen men wait at the bar to be served.
Two dancers attend to the VIP clientele, but they avoid those who seem unlikely to fork out for a private dance.
I veer straight for them. Just because they can’t afford a private show doesn’t mean they’ll be stingy with tips. Flashy people are usually the most morally bankrupt.
“What can I get you, honey?”
The man stares at me for a moment, letting my words sink in. I smile when he peers behind his shoulder, certain I’m speaking to someone else.
