Shacking Up (Shacking Up (Shacking Up 1)

I keep it vague. “I’m professionally trained.”

She looks skeptical. “What kind of professional training?”

“I took dance, voice, and acting in college.” I spin the glass between my palms.

“Oh, yeah? Which college?”

“A little arts college outside of the city.” If she asks me to get more specific there’s no way she’ll offer me any kind of audition, let alone a job so I ramble on, “I graduated two years ago, but theater’s a tough market to break into unless you know someone. I managed to get a couple of small parts, but it’s not steady. We all have big-city dreams, right?”

“We sure do.” Her gaze drops to my purse; thankfully the brand name is hidden. “Come back tomorrow at noon if you’re serious.”

I sit up a little straighter. “Really?”

“I’m not promising anything.” She drops her card on the bar, and I snatch it up like it’s a hundred-dollar bill. “But they need a new girl, and you might just be a good fit. If you know how to move.”

* * *

I don’t hang around the bar. I leave a tip for the soda waters—not so much that it looks like I’m trying to buy myself a job—then head back to the street and program the address of the bar into my phone. I’m a seriously long way from home. Actually, I’m pretty close to my old neighborhood. The job is less than ideal, but it’s a job, it might be fun for a while to do something a little risqué, or risky, as it were, apart from my attempt to succeed in one of the most unstable careers in the city.

It’ll just be temporary. Until an audition opportunity comes along and I can get my debt under control.

It takes more than an hour to get home. I read articles on burlesque on the subway ride. The level of bawdiness varies greatly, but this club seems to lean to the more conservative, classy side, which is good. I don’t want a job that makes me feel like I’m on the verge of a career in stripping. That’s not a line I can cross. I’m jazz trained, so I should be able to handle whatever routines they throw at me. I treat it like I would any other audition. When I get home I put on my music videos and practice the one burlesque routine I’ve memorized since I saw the movie Burlesque.

I set four alarms and plan my subway route for the morning. Then I go to bed and say a prayer to the financial stability Gods that I get this job.

The next morning I receive a text from Bancroft minutes before I have to leave. I let him know I’m on my way to an audition and I get four leaf clovers and a good luck horseshoe in response.

At eleven forty-five I’m standing outside the bar wearing what I hope is a reasonable audition outfit. Under a shift dress I’m wearing a black strappy camisole and a pair of black dance shorts. It’s simple and hopefully revealing enough. My shoes are in my bag. I brought both heels and flats, because all the women were wearing heels last night.

The bar looks a lot seedier in the light of day than it does at night. I try the door, but it’s locked. Maybe there’s some secret back entrance I don’t know about. I root around in my purse until I find the card the bartender gave me. I changed bags this morning before I left. I’m still mourning the loss of the purse that I fear will forever smell of rotten appetizers, but I dumped a container of baking soda in there and sprayed it with some of Bancroft’s cologne, so I’m hoping to salvage it.

Before I can find the card, the door opens. The bartender from last night greets me, except she’s wearing a suit, not jeans and a corset top. “Wow. I’m surprised you showed. You must be pretty desperate for a job.”

“I’m just keen to have steady employment.” I maintain what I hope is an even smile. What else am I going to stay to that?

She laughs and rolls her eyes, opening the door wide to let me in. The bar looks a lot different with the lights up than it did last night. The dark walls need fresh paint and the tables are chipped at the corners. I remind myself again that this is temporary as the bartender, who still hasn’t introduced herself, takes a seat and gestures to the stage. There are a few other employees milling around, a man lugging boxes, a woman carrying a notepad, but they don’t acknowledge me.

“Is there a song you want?” she asks.

I dig around in my bag and retrieve my portable speaker. “I brought music, just in case.”

She arches a brow, but she flashes a hint of a smile. “Aren’t you prepared?”

I have a feeling she’s being condescending, but I need a paycheck, and I’ve had to deal with my father for the past twenty-four years, so I’m used to being patronized.

I drop my bag on a table, shed my sheath dress, and set up the speaker. I cue the music and take position.

I spent the entire trip here giving myself a mental pep-talk. I’m pretending like it’s practice for the audition I’m supposed to have early next week, just prior to Bancroft’s return. If I can manage to get that role, I might not need this job anyway.

I don’t look at the bartender while I perform the routine. I can’t, because I’m terrified of screwing this up. And if I see her look at me with disdain I know that’s exactly what I’ll do. When the song ends I finally look her way again.

Her hands are steepled under her chin, her expression pensive. “Where’d you say you went to college?”

“I didn’t.”

Her serious expression drops and she laughs. “That’s some pretty sophisticated training you’ve had.”

I clasp my hands to stop from fidgeting. “I’ve been dancing since I was a kid.”

“The routines are different than what you’re probably used to.”

“I’m good with that.” Oh God, is she telling me I have a job?

I cross my fingers behind my back while she taps her lip with a painted nail. She pushes out of her chair and crosses over to me. “Show me your arms.”

“What?”

“Your arms. I need to see them. Palm up.”

I hold them out and she grabs my wrists inspecting my forearms. It takes me a few seconds to understand that she’s looking for track marks. Jesus. What am I getting myself into? “I don’t do drugs.”

“You can never be too careful.” She drops my arms. “All right. You got yourself a job. I’ll give you some paperwork to fill out and a couple of videos to watch. You can move, but you’ll need to step it up if you want to make real money.”

She sashays down the hall and disappears through a door. I pack my things back in my purse. This is the weirdest audition ever.

She returns a minute later with three sheets of paper and a stack of videos. “Watch these and bring this back filled out tomorrow, same time. If you can handle working with my lead dancer, and she thinks you can hack it, the job is yours.”

“When can we talk about wages?” I call after her retreating form.

“When my girls tell me if you’re workable.”

* * *

The bartender, Dottie, is actually the owner of the bar. She isn’t the one who greets me the next morning. Instead it’s Diva, the lead dancer. I can’t tell if everyone’s names are fake or real or somewhere in between. She was the one who came into the bathroom post–baggie bombs. I sincerely hope she doesn’t realize I’m the one responsible for that.

I pass the test, which consists of four hours of dancing in heels, lots of yelling, and several references to me being similar to a floundering walrus.