At the Stroke of Midnight (Naughty Princess Club 1)

I take the card from his outstretched hand and look down, realizing it’s a business card.

“Is this the same Tiffany who can swallow a balloon without gagging?” Ariel inquires.

“Yep, that’s her. She’s actually my daughter’s Sunday-school teacher. Great gal. Really nice.”

John apologizes again, wishes us a good night, and walks back across the porch, heading down the driveway and onto the sidewalk toward his house.

I quietly close the door, turn around, and lean my back against it as I stare at Isabelle and Ariel, who spreads out the money in her hand like a deck of cards and holds it up.

“If a Sunday-school teacher can do it, so can an antiques dealer, a housewife, and a librarian. Cheesy princess parties for snot-nosed little brats where we’d make a couple hundred bucks every so often, split between the three of us, or this?” she asks, fanning herself with the money.

I look down again and read the shiny black business card with hot pink lettering in the center out loud: “Charming’s Gentlemen’s Club.”

Looking back up at Ariel, I stare at the money she’s still fanning her face with.

“What do you think, OG?” she asks with a smile.

“OG?”

“Original Gangster, Old Girl, Head Bitch in Charge, however you want to say it,” she tells me.

“I’m not an old girl,” I complain.

“You’re thirty-two, I’m twenty-eight, and Isabelle is twenty-five. You’re the oldest bitch in this room and our elder. We will respect your wishes and defer to your decision. What say you?”

I look back and forth between Ariel and Isabelle, who both look hopeful. Glancing up toward the ceiling—I can still hear the upstairs shower running—I think about my daughter and that five dollars she needs for lunch. As well as the five dollars she’ll need every day for the rest of the school year, and clothes, shoes, food, extracurricular activities, and a home that continues to provide running water and electricity.

“I guess you’re right. It’s time to get my hands dirty.”

Chapter 7: A Prude, a Mouth, and a Librarian Walk into a Strip Club . . .

“This wasn’t a good idea.”

Ariel sighs and turns to face me in front of the door to Charming’s.

“What did we agree on the way over?” she asks, crossing her arms and tapping her foot.

It’s my turn to sigh as I glance nervously around the empty parking lot and hug my purse tighter to my chest before bringing my eyes back to hers.

“Well, you said that I should stop being so uptight and broaden my horizons, but I never verbally agreed to that,” I respond petulantly.

“Actually, Ariel asked you if she should book an appointment with a doctor to have the stick surgically removed from your ass and said that you need to stop being such a twat, and you refused to repeat it, but she made you nod your head,” Isabelle pipes up from behind us. “In many cultures the head nod is used to indicate agreement, acknowledgment or acceptance.”

“I rest my case,” Ariel smiles, turning back around and pounding her fist against the door. “Just because we’re here doesn’t mean we’re going to actually be strippers, even though we all know that’s the best decision. We’re just here to get some advice from Tiffany, have her show us some sweet dance moves, and go from there.”

Before I can grab her arm, drag her away from the club and convince her this was a mistake, the door flies open, and we all immediately take a step back.

“We’re closed.”

The man standing in front of us who takes up the entire doorway speaks with a growl. Which is fitting, since he looks like a wild animal. He’s well over six feet tall, and with the white, tight tank top he’s wearing, all of his muscles are bulging out all over the place. His dark brown hair is on the longer side, hanging messily down around his forehead and ears, and he has scruffy stubble on his face. He quite literally resembles a bear, and I’m more than a little afraid, with the angry look on his face, that he might bite.

“He could squash my head like a nut with those biceps,” Ariel whispers in my ear as I try and remember how to speak, as well as my manners.

“Good afternoon, sir. We have an appointment with—”

“We’re closed,” he cuts me off.

“Pardon me, but if you could just—”

“We’re closed,” he interrupts again, his brown eyes narrowing with irritation.

“Listen, numb nuts, it’s not our fault the steroids have gone to your brain and most likely shriveled up your penis, which has made you angry. Just let us in so we can meet with Tiffany,” Ariel tells him.

His reply is an actual growl, this one rumbling from deep in his chest. I should probably fear for all of our lives right now, but this is getting ridiculous.