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Madelaine smiled politely. “No one,” she said lightly, before pointing to a wig. “Is that heavy?”
The woman laughed, lifting the blond mass of curls. “Come try it on and find out.”
Madelaine’s eyes widened, her curiosity bubbling over. “Really?” she whispered, tentatively walking closer.
“Sure, honey.” The woman waved her into a chair. “Sit. I’ll show you what it feels like.”
Madelaine dropped into the chair in front of too-bright lights surrounding a mirror while her hair was pinned into swirls. The lights were harsh, the kind that highlighted every flaw. She winced at her reflection. “Wow. If this mirror doesn’t inspire confidence, nothing will.”
“When do you start?” the woman asked, settling the wig carefully. “First night?”
Madelaine laughed. “No. Paulo’s head would explode if I ever stepped on that stage.” And wouldn’t that be amusing, she thought.
“Is Paulo your pimp?” another woman chimed in as she tugged a long, blond wig into place.
Madelaine blinked at her reflection. “My pimp?” She tested the word, lips twitching. “Well… yeah, I suppose you could call him that.”
The women laughed knowingly. “Pros and cons of having a man tell you what to do,” one said, stripping down without a flicker of self-consciousness. She pulled on a flimsy excuse for a nighty, but not the kind one slept in.
Before Madelaine could dwell on all the exposed skin around her, the blond wig was fitted snugly on her head. She looked up… and gasped.
“Oh my!”
The curls tumbled down her back, glamorous and wild. She barely recognized herself.
“That’s a perfect fit for you, honey!” the woman declared with a grin.
Madelaine turned her head from side to side, then laughed, delighted. “It’s amazing! No wonder you wear these. They’re fun!”
The women laughed with her, though their hands were busy layering on foundation, lashes, glitter. Each new mask hid another piece of their real selves. It was strange and beautiful at once, a transformation, a shield.
“Want a costume?” one woman asked, nodding toward a rack of sequins and feathers.
Madelaine’s gaze lingered, but she shook her head quickly. “I doubt Paulo would approve of me in any of those outfits. Which,” she paused for a moment, then chuckled, “is absolutely a reason to try one on.” Then she shook her head. “But no. You ladies have probably paid a lot for those costumes and I don’t want to mess them up.” She tugged the wig slightly, still admiring her image in the mirror. “And I should probably get back to work. I have a funeral and a wake to organize.”
That earned her shocked looks, then a chorus of condolences.
She managed a polite smile, swallowing down the truth. No one needed to know the funeral was fake, or that the wake was bait. It was safer that way. For everyone.
“I’m so sorry, honey!” The woman who had helped her with the beautiful wig said, her eyes concerned. The other ladies chimed in with additional comments of sympathy.
“It’s okay,” she assured them, then spun around in the chair, impressed by how much effort each of them took to prepare for their evening job. “So…how much do you ladies earn in a night, if you don’t mind me asking such a rude question? But I’m fascinated!”
“Depends,” one woman answered, swiping glitter across her cheekbones. “After paying a portion of the tips to the house, maybe five hundred to a thousand, if it’s busy.”
Her jaw dropped, then she asked, “A night?”
Several ladies nodded.
“Wow!” Madelaine gasped. “That’s…really good.”
“It would be more if Bartkowski didn’t rob us blind,” another dancer muttered. “The bastard takes fifty percent.”
“Fifty percent?” Madelaine’s jaw dropped. “That’s highway robbery! Why does he get so much?”
“Because he’s the boss,” someone said flatly. “And we can’t fight him.”
Madelaine stood up, fisting her hands on her hips as indignation caused her to forget the weight of the blond wig on her head. “Why not? If you all stood together and refused to perform, he’d have no choice but to listen. You’re the talent. Without you, there’s no show.”
