Page 57
The woman blinked, mascara wand pausing mid-stroke. “What do you mean. Stand together?”
Madelaine nodded emphatically. “It’s called collective bargaining,” she explained, warming to the subject. “Strength in numbers. If you all picketed outside instead of dancing, not only would patrons lose their entertainment, but a line of angry, disappointed men who won’t cross the picket line isn’t great for business.”
A dancer with red curls snorted. “Sweetheart, this is a strip club. Men would still come in.”
“Not if there’s no one to dance,” Madelaine countered. “Sure, they’d come once. But after sitting at the bar drinking overpriced, watered-down beer and staring at an empty stage? They’d take their money elsewhere. You’d have leverage.”
One of the younger women leaned forward, her eyes sparkling with interest. “Are you saying, if we just stop working, we could keep more of our tips?”
Madelaine held up a hand, slowing the rush of excitement. “Not necessarily. Striking comes with risks. He could fire you. He could threaten you with legal nonsense. But if you all organized, spoke with a labor lawyer, you’d know your rights. A manager skimming half your tips doesn’t sound legal to me.”
The woman adjusting her lashes sighed. “Honey, we don’t even get hourly pay. No time clocks. No base salary. We live or die on tips.”
Madelaine shook her head in horror. “That’s insane! That’s not a job, that’s theft!” she huffed a moment, then said, “That’s indentured servitude, or theft of wages, or… something! I’m not a lawyer so I’m not sure of the right terminology, but I know it’s wrong!” She looked around at them, wearing elaborate wigs, faces painted with glitter and colors, wrapped in scraps of sparkling fabric. “You should definitely talk to a lawyer. I’ll ask around, see if I can find someone who specializes in labor issues.”
The room went still. The women shared shocked glances, a strange mixture of hope and disbelief passing between them.
Then—
“Madelaine.”
Paulo.
Uh oh. The women scattered immediately, vanishing from sight like sugar dissolving in hot water. Madelaine pasted on her brightest, cheeriest smile. “What’s up?” she asked, voice too high, too innocent. “Business all wrapped up with Mr. Bartkowski?”
He didn’t answer. Not right away. He just stared at her. The weight of his silence pressed on her until she squirmed.
“What the hell are you wearing?” he finally growled.
She blinked, then remembered. The wig.
“Oh! This old thing?” she chirped, attempting to pull it off only to yelp as the bobby pins yanked at her scalp. She fumbled until she freed her dark hair, wincing the whole time.
“Yes,” he replied with abnormal calm. He glanced past her at the chaotic dressing room filled with wigs, sequins, glitter everywhere, then back into her eyes. “Please tell me you weren’t doing what I suspect you were doing.”
Madelaine glanced behind her at the ladies, who had reappeared and were trying to look busy with their eyeliner wands and rhinestone bras, though their shoulders quivered with suppressed laughter.
“Madelaine,” Paulo began ominously as he closed the distance between them, “were you convincing a group of strippers to unionize?”
For a split second, she considered lying. But then she fisted her hands on her hips and nodded.
“Yep,” she said, chin tilting defiantly. “Their boss is stealing their tip money and not paying them wages. He’s a crook. They need help. Unionizing is the only way they can keep what they earn.” She ducked under his arm and added loudly, “They’re human beings providing a service. They should not be cheated just because some people don’t agree with their chosen profession.”
The women clapped. Actually clapped.
“Madelaine!” he growled.
She ignored him, sauntering toward the mirror like she hadn’t just been caught leading a stripper labor movement. “Are you ready to go?” she asked sweetly as she fluffed her natural hair. “I’m hungry. Rosa probably has something delicious waiting for me.” She flicked her hair over her shoulder dramatically, her curls dancing around her shoulders in a dark wave. She caught Paulo’s reflection in the mirror and smirked. “How was your dinner last night?”
He didn’t answer, but his arms folded across his chest, muscles flexing against the fine cotton of his shirt as he glowered.
“And breakfast?” she prodded, her smile turning mischievous.
One of the dancers gasped in a stage whisper. “What happened?” She was fighting not to laugh, but her eyes sparkled. The other women froze, riveted.
Madelaine grinned wickedly. “He was an ass, so his housekeeper decided he’d only get boiled chicken and broccoli for every meal.”
“And oatmeal,” Paulo snapped, his disgust plain.
