“More shifts?”
I nod, swallowing as I wait for him to agree. “Not this coming week because the schedule is already made, but the week after that. If you can’t, I’ll start working on finding someone else.”
“I’m here, Kendall. I can do it.”
He turns and walks away, leaving me to wonder if looking for someone else isn’t best. I know they were a pain last night, and he felt like he couldn’t boss them around, but if I have to find and pay for another babysitter, that’s really going to throw a wrench in my plans. At the same time, I don’t want someone keeping an eye on my kids that’s going to spend the entire night being annoyed by it. If the kids do need something, they’ll pick up on that crappy attitude, and my kids have had enough of that already in their short lives.
I finish my makeup before heading to the living room to grab my keys and purse.
“Be home around three-thirty,” I call out.
“Be safe,” he says without turning from the kitchen sink.
He said the same thing to me before I left last night, and I don’t know why, but it hit me in the chest. It’s not often that I get concern from someone else. Usually, it’s me doling that out to my kids. It was nice. So nice it made me want to turn around and thank him, but I was near tears. A sad thank you was all I could manage.
The drive to work is spent behind a long row of cars that seem to be going nowhere fast, and because I never like to get there early, it puts me clocking in ten minutes late.
“Is this going to become a habit?” Sasha asks as I tie my apron around my waist.
“No,” I tell her. “Traffic was horrible.”
“Weekend traffic is always horrible,” she says, and it’s true. St. Louis tends to be bumper-to-bumper at all times, except when the club closes. Then it’s mostly drunks, cops, and people up to no good.
“Sorry,” I tell her.
Sasha is actually a great boss. She looks out for everyone, but she also doesn’t hesitate to call someone out on their shit. She runs a very tight ship, and I’ve seen her fire girls for chronic tardiness.
“How many extra shifts are you looking for?” she asks, continuing our conversation from last night that was interrupted due to a fight over prime seating around the main stage.
“Two if possible.”
“The girls that work weekday shifts are hybrid,” she says, as if I need the reminder.
“I know,” I tell her, hating the way her smile starts to creep across her face.
Hybrid means they waitress like I’ve been doing for the last year, but it also means that if they get busier than the schedule anticipated, those same girls also dance.
“And you’re sure that’s what you want?”
I give her a small smile and a quick nod, but hell no I’m not sure. I want a job where I don’t have to walk around with half my tits out and literally all of my ass out except for the tiny strip going between my cheeks. I might as well already be naked, but even wearing this without taking off more scares me to death. Fear is the only thing that’s kept me off stage because the money some of these girls pull in each night is beyond tempting.
“You don’t seem sure.”
“I can do it.”
She frowns. “And will that same enthusiasm carry over to the stage?”
Her dry question makes me smile.
“I can’t be sure. Won’t know until I get up there.”
“I can’t have you embarrassing the entire club if you freak out.”
I understand where she’s coming from.
Despite the ridiculous name, The Kitten’s Cream is high end. The women who grace that stage are damn near considered celebrities by the men who pay to watch. More than one woman has been swept off her feet right into a brand-new Mercedes by the patrons. I get offers each and every night that are hard to turn down, considering the position I’m in right now with my living situation. These men are loaded, but the women on stage are too, depositing thousands of dollars a week into their bank accounts. I don’t do too badly just waitressing, but on the stage is where the big bucks are.
“I’ll be fine,” I tell her, hoping that saying it will make it true.
“Maybe we’ll start you in the booth first.”
“I don’t—”
“We can market you as the shy girl who can’t shake it for an audience. The men will be scrambling for a private show.”
“I—” I clamp my mouth closed when she cocks an eyebrow at me.
Unwilling to lose my job, I just nod.
“That may be better.”
The private booths are actually little rooms along the back wall. They’re lush and clean, and more importantly, they’re monitored by a security team. Each move, every roll of a dancer’s hips is watched, but that means the guys are watched as well. One hand in the wrong place, and the guy touching is in trouble. If the girl allows it, she’s written up as well… Like I said, Sasha runs a tight ship.