My 3 Rockstar Bosses

But MK wouldn’t let me off the phone so fast.

“Suse, you have to do it for the women of Littleton,” she urged. “You’re the only one of us who’s made it out of this place. Of course, there are folks like me who don’t want to leave,” she added, “but you’re a role model for so many girls here. You made it possible for other women to think that maybe they can have careers and lives outside of the home. So don’t give up so soon!” she urged. “Do it for us, Suse, and not just you.”

I nodded, murmuring a few vague promises before hanging up. Because the way MK made it sound, I was a hero for the new wave of girls coming up in Littleton. With the #MeToo movement, a lot of females wanted to find their way out of our rust-belt hometown what with its declining blue-collar manufacturing base. So what message would it send if I came home with nothing to show? Beaten down and tired after only a few days in the cosmopolitan city?

And with that, I resolved to give dancing a go. After all, like MK said, no one would ever have to know. I’d do it for one night, make my money, and then leave with this chapter shuttered forever behind me. So taking a deep breath, I squared my shoulders and began rummaging around for my laptop. I’m a modern, resourceful woman … and the heartless Chesters and Cheryls of the world weren’t going to keep me down.

CHAPTER THREE

Susie

Six months later …

“Annnnnd here she is, gentlemen, our very own Pearl Evanescence!”

I strode out onto the stage, shimmying and smiling, shaking my bottom for what it was worth. The male crowd erupted into cheers, guys stamping their feet as the feathers on my head wiggled. In fact, every part of me was wiggling, come to think of it.

For sure, this isn’t what Mary-Kate had in mind when she said it would only be a one-time thing. Because that first night, I made my way to The Pink Flamingo with a lot of fear, trembling beneath my thin trenchcoat.

“Um, I was wondering if you had Amateur Night tonight?” I asked in a whisper, cheeks flushing red. Good thing it was so dark that no one could see. The manager barely glanced my way.

“Sure, just wait until they announce it,” he said, already looking off disinterestedly into the crowd. “Angel, over there,” he said, pointing to two guys who’d just walked in. And immediately, the girl named Angel strutted their way, a welcoming smile wreathing her lips.

I watched, mouth agog, as she led the men over to the bar by their ties, striding along sassily while swinging her hips. I was nothing like Angel. Nothing at all. But the thing is that even across the room, I could see that the girl had dozens of bills tucked into her g-string, and if I wasn’t mistaken, the new guys were pulling out their wallets even now.

So I swallowed hard, turning back to face the stage. Could I do it? Could I, Miss Straight A Student, go onstage and dance for money?

And evidently, anything is possible when you need to make rent. Because I strutted my stuff, and the heavens opened, money pouring down from the clouds. It wasn’t easy. It’s not like I’m a natural stripper, who immediately began undulating to the music with hot lights bathing my curves. But I did well enough, and sure enough by the end of my set, I had five hundred bucks in cold, hard cash.

“Yo,” hissed the manager, beckoning to me. I was just about to go, my trench coat already cinched tight around my waist. “So you wanna come by and do another set tomorrow night?” he asked.

“Is it Amateur Night again?” I wondered in a small voice. “I thought it was only Wednesdays.”

The manager, who’s nametag read Nero, shook his head and rolled his eyes.

“No, it’s not Amateur Night tom

orrow,” he snorted with exasperation. “I meant as one of our regular girls this time. You know, one set every hour. You dance, you twirl, and boom! You get paid.”

I just looked at him for a moment, mouth open. This was only supposed to be a one-time thing, so I was about to say no. But then Chester’s face appeared before my eyes.

“Cash,” he sneered. “I’ll need it by tomorrow afternoon.”

Oh god. I only had five hundred right now, and I was supposed to come up with a thousand. Maybe, just maybe, I could make it to the four figure mark if Chester gave me another day. So I nodded my head quickly.

“Sure, I’d be happy to come again,” was my quick reply. “Just let me know when.”

And one night led to another, and then another, and finally, I I became a regular girl at the Pink Flamingo. It’s no better than the Red Raccoon back home, to be honest. The Flamingo is a seedy dive in Midtown Manhattan where mid-level managers in baggy suits come to while away their time and dollars. We don’t get high rollers who spend thousands or tens of thousands in one night. Instead, we get guys who like to throw back their drinks while tipping ones and fives.

But I’m not complaining because it’s the only way I can get by in Manhattan. I work as a librarian during the day, putting in my hours at the New Academy’s circulation desk. But my salary’s barely enough to make ends meet. In fact, I looked it up and I qualify for public assistance and food stamps, given the high cost of living here. But that’s going too far. I’m an able-bodied adult who can work, so instead, I dance at the Pink Flamingo now to make sure there’s money for rent, food, and electricity.

Plus, it’s not so bad. A job is a job after all, and there aren’t many places that have flexible schedules like the Pink Flamingo. For example, if I can’t do Tuesdays, it’s simple to switch to a Wednesday or Thursday. They even let me do weekends sometimes, although the girls who dance then are territorial, since those are the nights that make the most money.

And now, after six months in the city, I’ve settled into a groove of a sort. I go to my desk job during the day, wearing conservative brown tweed skirts and button-up blouses. Dutifully, I help people find reference materials and sort returns into their different stacks. And then at night, I’m a stripper called “Pearl Evanescence” who shakes her bom-bom to the music, collecting tips in her g-string. If the folks back home in Littleton knew, they’d be scandalized. But then again, owning my femininity and controlling my body are my right. Maybe my old neighbors would be supportive in their own way? Who knows.

So one such night when my song came on, I strutted onto the stage, smiling beneath the hot lights. It’s hard to see out into the crowd, but my eyes could make out some regulars. There was Tim Lewis, whom we called Tiny Tim because he really did have a bad leg. And tonight, he was here with his co-worker Adam Morrow, who drank girly cocktails all night like cosmos and Manhattans. Over in the corner was Jake the Snake, with his oddly beady eyes that you could see gleaming even in the darkened room.

But I put it all out of my head. I was here for a job, and that was to dance and show these guys a good time even if on the inside, I thought thinking about mundane stuff like bills and what I’d be having for breakfast. So I closed my eyes, running my hands through my long brunette locks and parted my lips slightly, as if in ecstasy.