On The Ropes (Tapped Out 3)

Now it was my permanent spot.

Every week, I changed my look. There were a couple reasons for that. One, I enjoyed playing dress-up. I’d collected an assortment of wigs that I stored at my friend Jenna’s apartment. I’d started out wi

th a long, layered white-blond one. The next week, I’d gone for sable brown page boy. The same Carly didn’t show up two weeks in a row, and I loved it.

There was another reason I went for the wigs. I was hiding in plain sight.

See, I hadn’t even known about this particular club until I’d followed my crush there last April. Crush was such a pathetic word. In the intervening months, I’d moved way on from it, but back then, I’d been firmly in crush mode. Giovanni Costas had been my fascination from the first time I’d laid eyes on him after I moved to the city to live with my sister in January.

That night in April, when I’d followed him, he’d smashed my crush to smithereens.

All for my own good, of course. That was why he’d warned me away from the club, and added the exclamation point of getting a blowjob from one of the waitresses in a back room while I waited outside like an idiot.

I wonder what he’d do if he went for another blowjob, and discovered the waitress was me?

Not that I did that. Yet. I wasn’t naïve enough to think I’d be able to avoid the sex acts that took place in the back rooms—and sometimes right at the tables—forever. I’d been lucky so far. My sister might’ve been the fighter in the family, but I knew how to dodge and weave with the best of ‘em. Every time I’d almost gotten called into service, I’d handily disappeared.

Eventually, everyone’s luck ran out.

Mine ran out that night.

The first hint that something was afoot was the change in routine. I normally worked Friday and Saturday nights. Friday nights, early, because that was when Giovanni usually fought. I didn’t think he’d recognize me in my getup—the Strawberry Shortcake Carly he knew couldn’t have been further away—but there was no reason to tempt fate. Saturday nights, I worked late, from ten to closing, because he tended to come in after the dinner crowd and leave early.

I might not have admitted to crushing on him anymore, but I still watched him. Relentlessly.

My sister’s fight last month and her subsequent injury might’ve kindled a few of those lingering crush sparks back to life, but I’d stomp them out with my pointy-toed shoes eventually. The problem was he was always so sweet to me, when he wasn’t being a complete dick.

He had old world manners. Opening doors, allowing ladies to go first. He was unfailingly polite, but what burned in his blue-black eyes spoke of long nights of dirty, inventive sex.

Turned out I was a sucker for that particular combination. Who knew?

There was a fight that night. I knew that because a female that Fox trained was on the undercard. Lately, women’s MMA was getting more cred in the underground scene, but it was still very much a man’s world.

And Giovanni ruled it. He had a nearly unbeaten record, and tonight, he was fighting Cuda, a new guy rising up the ranks. It was supposed to be a huge bout. Big bets, lots of big talk, plenty of pretty girls swarming to assist the fighters in any way possible. Some of the other chicks who worked at The Pyramid Club had been called in to work as ring card girls, and they also worked their mouths on the regular. And not to talk.

Me, I danced. And I collected my tips, socking them away for school. I was accumulating a hefty bank account, one slow grind at a time.

I didn’t expect the fight to let out until eleven at least. But it wasn’t much past nine when the first wave of revelers arrived. They were noisy, jubilant. From where I was at the opposite end of the bar, adjusting my short dark wig in the reflective glass behind the bottles, I could see the swells of people pushing into the club, and some of them were dressed in fight gear. Some of the fighters, like Giovanni, wore certain colors all the time. His were red and black. As were the jackets on several of the first shouting men through the doors.

The Grey Goose, Hennessey and Moet started flowing. Quickly, I made my way to my cage. I didn’t want to get caught on the floor if Giovanni showed up early. I had to think the fight had gone well, and that he’d shut down his opponent fast. Not that surprising. He wasn’t known for stringing his competitor along.

It wouldn’t be the first time I’d brought drinks to his table, but I didn’t feel like pressing my luck tonight. Though I wasn’t technically a waitress, we were all called to perform the task now and then, especially if someone developed a special preference for one of us. A couple of the members of Giovanni’s usual crowd were friendly with me, even as he always seemed to be occupied with his blond du jour every time I showed up at the table.

Always blonds. Because that didn’t sting, not even a little.

I wasn’t exactly a blond. I wasn’t completely not one either. My hair was more red, but there was some gold in there too.

Not tonight though. Tonight, I had swingy, short dark hair to go with my smoky eye makeup and dark red lips. Nothing at all like my usual self.

Amen for that.

The music was pumping, and so was the money. With this kind of exultant atmosphere, I wouldn’t have to worry about going home with thin pockets at the end of the night. Even the share of my tips I had to give the bouncers on duty and the waitresses serving my section of the club shouldn’t put much of a dent in my take.

The unobtrusive metal steps to the cage lowered from supports on the ceiling clanged under my platform heels. I wore my standard outfit: super short skirt, tied off top that would be easily stripped away to reveal my bra and then my breasts, and a tiny G-string. I didn’t dance naked but damn close. That G-string didn’t hide much. I was lucky that my natural hair color was fairly light, but Brazilians were a part of my life on a regular basis.

I hadn’t intended to dance topless when I started. Back then, I’d hoped I could just wear next-to-nothing. Yeah, not so much. I was lucky I hadn’t been required to do more than the occasional—very occasional—lap dance.

Yet.