Besides, I was pretty sure me shaking it with a big belly wouldn’t excite anyone but the fetishists, and ugh, no thanks.
“What kind of dancing we talking about here, Anderson? Because I have a feeling you’re not telling me this just to share.”
Yep, suspicious as hell. Understandably, in this case. If I had room left for emotional crises, I’d be drowning in guilt from what I was about to ask. But I didn’t have any other choice short of missing Fox’s fight with he who would not be named, whose presence at the match was just incidental. And Jenna would make a good night’s take from it, because I wasn’t going to ask for a percentage. I just wanted to make sure I’d have a job left for the next night.
In my situation, an extra couple hundred dollars was important. Just not more important than missing my almost brother-in-law’s fight, since the last time he’d fought Giovanni he’d ended up in the hospital.
“It’s…suggestive dancing,” I hedged. “Very suggestive. Similar to what I’ve seen you do when we go out. You have moves, Walsh.”
Only difference is, you need to lose your top.
“You’ll be in a cage. But only for about an hour and a half total, with a short break between.”
“A cage? What the hell kind of dancing are you doing?”
I couldn’t lie to her. It wasn’t right, and no way would I send her into that situation without the facts. Well, regarding the job anyway. “Topless.”
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. You’ve been topless dancing since…since…”
“Springtime,” I supplied. “And I’ve made a lot of money doing it. A lot, Jen. On one weekend night, you could easily clear two large.”
“Two large as in grand?”
“Not that large.” I think I had my money euphemisms messed up. “Medium-large then. Two hundred bucks.”
“Wow, it takes me two weeks to make that much at The Cage.” She was a part-time front counter receptionist along with going to school for, of all things, a dual major in French and theology. She hoped one day to teach at the university level and claimed she’d decided to major in theology over philosophy to broaden her mind. She wasn’t overly religious, just curious.
On second thought, she was probably the absolute worst person to ask to dance in a glorified titty bar.
“You know, the more I think about this, the more I realize it’s a bad idea. I was desperate, which is the only reason I asked you.”
“Gee, thanks. My breasts are every bit as good as yours, dammit.” She sighed. “Okay, fine, they aren’t. Yours are like melons. But mine are nice too.”
I took a peek down my shirt. If they were like melons now, what would they be like in a few months? Hot air balloons? “Yours are great. It’s not that—”
“It’s because you think I don’t know how to grind, right? You always tease me about that.”
“No, it’s not about your dancing skills.”
“Then what? Why can’t I make two large in a night like you?”
“Let’s see. Because your brother—brothers, plural—would kick my ass for even mentioning this to you.”
And they’d be right. It had to be hormones. That was why I’d asked a theology student to dance half naked to save a job I’d already quit so I could go watch my mob-affiliated baby daddy in an illegal underground fight.
I grabbed the pillow and pulled it over my head. “I make such bad choices,” I moaned.
“This wasn’t a bad choice. You turned to me as a close confidant, assuming that as an experienced, twenty-one year old woman of the world equipped with nice breasts, I could dance for you for approximately ninety minutes without anyone being the wiser. We are similar heights and similar builds, minus the aforementioned boobage,” Jenna mused. “The hair’s a problem though. My baby fine blond can’t hold a curl to save my life.”
“I wear wigs.”
&n
bsp; I bit the pillow. Someday I would learn to pipe down. That day was obviously not today.
“So that’s why you store your awesome wig collection at my place. I always wondered why you changed your look more often than a CIA agent. So I could go with pitch black hair down to my butt?”
“Sure, if you could find a wig like that before next Friday night.”