I roll my eyes. “What are you doing, weirdo?”
“Checking for cobwebs.” A smile reaches up to her deep brown eyes, but she holds back her laughter, her face giving away nothing.
I swat at her arm, but she moves in just enough time, causing me to smack my hand on the edge of the counter. “Damn you. Shut up, and go get ready. We don’t have time to discuss my love life, or lack thereof.”
“I’m only trying to help. As your breast friend, it is my duty to make sure you stop moping around and find some action. A one-night stand would do you some good.”
She has a point, but I don’t bother to acknowledge her comment. It has been far too long since my last boyfriend. I’ve finally gotten to the point where I dated so many losers in a row that I gave up on the idea of finding anyone normal in this city. My last boyfriend stole my car and wrecked it, and the one before had a drinking problem.
Propping her leg up on my chair, she laces up the black leather boots that cover her pale legs and stop mid thigh, accentuating her killer curves. “Is that what you’re wearing out there?” She sets her foot on the floor and moves closer, her eyes traveling down my body in disapproval. “You have to take that off.”
I slide the red lipstick along my lips and blot with a tissue from the box next to my makeup case. “Why? What’s wrong with what I have on? I wear this every Thursday.”
“Not this week. Bruno said you had to wear the gray skirt and top tonight. Ya know, the sexy-teacher outfit.” She points at the opposite end of the room, her finger landing on Kerry, who is wearing the same schoolgirl outfit as me.
Guess I missed the memo.
Bruno will kill me if I go onstage in the same costume as another dancer.
I glance in the mirror, checking my makeup one more time, and run a glossy shimmer along my bottom lip before smacking them together. “Whatever Bruno wants.” I stand with my hand held out, motioning toward my chair. “Go ahead. You should finish up here. I’ll get changed, and then I’ll see you in the VIP room.”
“Perfect.” She plops down on the leather chair. “I’m right behind you. Break a leg.”
After I change, I walk down the creepy back hallway. In the dimly lit space, the lumpy red wallpaper reminds me of coagulated blood. The lack of ventilation along with the mold and whatever is festering inside the walls and drop ceiling make it hard to breathe.
At the end of the hall, opposite our dressing room, I open the door to the VIP room and suck in a deep breath, taking in the dense air and the stench of sweaty bodies. Purple lights illuminate the mirrored walls and ceiling, casting shadows of the men who are sitting on c
ouches scattered throughout the large, open room and standing around the bar that runs along the right side.
Two girls are dancing, each wrapping her body around a pole at the center of the room. While we’re not strippers, we have to do some pole work on occasion, especially for the high-end clients who book private rooms. Bouncers guard us, as if we were their property. In some ways though, we do belong to Bruno and his club.
Donna files in behind me and playfully smacks me on the ass, pushing me closer to the stage. Even after three months of working at the club, I still get stage fright for the first few minutes until I get into my groove. But, after I’m on the stage, bar, or whatever spot Bruno has chosen for me that night, I try not to think about the people in the crowd, and I concentrate on the real reason I am stuck working here.
Donna takes her place on the stage. I follow her lead. Bruno even had the circular platform mirrored, allowing anyone who is standing close enough to see right up our skirts. I purposely wear booty-hugging black shorts instead of the standard thong and fishnets most of the girls wear.
Moving my hips back and forth to the music, I keep my eyes on the crowd forming in front of me, careful not to focus on anyone in particular. I made that mistake when I first started dancing. A man thought I was making eye contact to signal that I wanted him when all I was trying to do was calm my nerves and pick someone to zone in on. I had done the same thing when I was in law school, and my trick had worked every time. But the freak followed me home for a week after our strange encounter, which resulted in me having to stop by the courthouse to get a restraining order.
Fun times.
I’ve heard stories from the girls, some who used to strip, about men who became obsessed with them and thought they were dating just because they’d paid them for a lap dance and tipped well. Unfortunately, the same thing happens in this line of work.
I look at the men surrounding us, standing a few feet back from the stage, thanks to our bouncers.
“Make eye contact,” Bruno always says to us.
So, I do, my eyes traveling around the room, never stopping on anyone in particular.
With this job, at least I don’t have to wear a G-string, take off my clothes, or have sweaty, horny men touching me. They only stare at me with their mouths open wide, whistling and screaming, as I throw my leg around the pole. After I twirl a few times, dancing nonstop, my body and the pole are now slick with sweat. Under the heat from the lights and the steady pace we have to maintain, I practically melt into a puddle on the floor.
I tighten my grip on the pole and hop off before I fall and embarrass myself, like when I first started out. Counting down the minutes in my head until the end of this shift, I keep going and force my body to move, already feeling my leg cramping up. I hate when that happens because it makes standing in these heels ten times harder.
When the song changes to a more techno beat, I inch forward, in sync with the other girls, and we gyrate to the beat of the music. I took ballet, tap, and jazz lessons when I was younger. But I never thought I was any good.
One of the girls I met while working as a lawyer at the public defender’s office told me about a club that paid well for dancing without taking off your clothes, and I was banging on Bruno’s door the next day, begging him for a job because I was so desperate for cash. The life of a public servant has zero rewards. On my measly public defender salary, I barely made enough money to pay a few bills and treat myself to a manicure once a month.
Once our set ends, I stop for a second, sweat dripping into my eyes and down my face. With the makeup and lights blinding me, I can hardly see the faces in front of me. Blinking a few times as I step down from the platform, I grab ahold of a bouncer’s arm, and he escorts me out of the room. I’m thrilled that I have thirty minutes before I have to go back on again.
I need the money. But I hate this job.