I swallow hard and wonder what this means. That job is my biggest secret, not because I’m actually ashamed of it, but because of the morality clause in my contract with the Bombshells.
I thought I’d gotten away with it. Nobody has ever connected me with that job.
Until now.
At least I’ve got excellent control over my emotions. My moment of horror and shock is well hidden. “This is your smoking gun?” I ask with a casual head toss. “A paystub? So what? I worked at one of these bars for a couple of weeks. As a bartender by the way. Not as a dancer. Not that it’s any of your business. I don’t have the first idea why you think this is important.”
“Don’t be dense,” he grunts. “Your name is in the fucking newspaper this week. You and that rich boy?”
My lungs collapse. “You shouldn’t believe everything you read.”
“Honey, I know. You married to a billionaire?” His laugh is mean. “That’s rich. Just because you get your picture taken with a fat cat in Vegas don’t make you a queen. You’re still just a slut from Philly. We both know it.”
I see where he’s going with this, and I really don’t want tomorrow’s headline to say that Neil Drake married a stripper.
Robert is already tucking the paystub into his pocket with a smug grin. “Help me, Charli. I need a favor.”
“Seriously?” I demand. “Dennis put me into debt with his gambling. I have no money. You already took it. I literally have no cash until payday. I spent the last of it on some groceries.”
“Not my problem.” He shrugs. “I need you to make the next rent payment on that apartment. Call your landlord back and tell him you want to keep the place a little while. I’m trying to pull a few things together. I need a place to crash while I do it.”
A nauseous wave rolls through me. I have no idea what “pull a few things together” means. But it’s nothing good.
My mind whirls while I try to decide how to play this. I’m not naïve. Nobody negotiates successfully with a blackmailer.
On the other hand, I have a couple of things going for me. First, I’ve got no binding lease on that apartment. That’s why I rented the dump in the first place—it’s low commitment. I could pay one more month’s rent and then stop when I’m ready.
Plus, I don’t need much time to get out of this pickle. Neil and I will be divorced. In a couple months, my brief stint at the strip club will cease to interest Neil or to the Drake family empire.
Then I call Robert’s bluff. I’ll tell him that it doesn’t matter who knows about that job. It might even be true—the Bombshells management has proven that they don’t scare too easily.
“Okay,” I decide. “I’ll pay next month’s rent after I get my paycheck.” My bank account will hate me, of course. “But if you touch my money again, it won’t matter. The rent check will bounce. Can’t get blood from a stone.”
He gives me a menacing grin. “That’s a good girl, Charli.”
“I don’t want your praise. I want you out of my sight before I change my mind.”
“Fine.” He gives me an even sleazier grin. “Enjoy chumming up to your bigshot friends.” Then he finally goes.
Everything inside of me sags. I hate Robert. I hate my family for being such assholes. I’m so flattened by him that I almost turn right around and go back to Neil’s place instead of heading for the Colorbox.
But Fiona is already texting me, wondering where I am. I point my feet in the direction of the salon and give myself a pep talk. Keep marching, Higgins. One foot in front of the other. Minute to minute, day to day. Game to game.
That’s how I’ve always survived. Looks like today won’t be any different.
The salon is lit up, and through the windows, I see my teammates draped over the pedicure chairs and the sofas.
After I push the door open, I feel a little bit better. These people are my real family. So long as I don’t get booted off the team, I belong with them.
“Charli!” Fiona calls from one of the manicure tables. “Pick a color and get over here.”
I’m not really in the mood to sit still for a manicure. But then I remember that I promised to go with Neil to his benefit on Sunday night, and all the women there will probably have killer nails.
A frisson of anxiety runs through me at the thought of standing beside Neil in a ballroom. Did I really think I could pretend to be his wife?
What a ridiculous idea. No wonder Robert didn’t believe it.
I select a demure shade of rose polish that won’t be too garish against my pale skin and give it a shake. Then I sit down in the chair beside Fiona.
“Hello,” says the manicurist. She sets a shallow bowl in front of me and gently guides my fingers in for a soak. “Let me finish Fiona while you soak.”
“Thank you.”
“Jersey number?” she asks.
“Fifteen.”
She picks up a clipboard and marks me down. The only reason I can come here at all is that Rebecca provides us with one free manicure and pedicure service each month, including a generous tip. The people who work in this salon are always happy to see us.
I’m usually too busy to enjoy the perk. I’ve only been here three times in two seasons.
“All right,” Fiona barks. “Tell me the real story. What the hell is going on with you and Neil?”
I let out a sigh. “It’s exactly what everybody thinks. We got drunk. We got married. We woke up horrified.”
“Whoa.” Fiona looks up into her manicurist’s eyes. “Dani, this conversation is in the vault.”
Dani blinks. “I didn’t hear a thing. But I hope she keeps talkin’.” She gives me a grin. “This is the best gossip! I finally got the good table.”
I just sigh.
“Can’t you get, like, an annulment?” my teammate Samantha asks from the chair on my other side.
“If we’d stayed in Vegas, maybe,” I explain. “But now we have to get a divorce.”
“Bummer,” Fiona says.
“Seriously,” I agree. “I truly believed I’d be the only member of my family to never get divorced. But here we are.”
My teammate Angelica pipes up from the pedicure chairs, “I can’t really picture you married to a man.”
“Join the club,” I say. “I can’t really picture me married to anyone.”
“Oh, I can,” Sylvie argues from her pedicure chair. She’s the most romantic among us. “You’re fun, you’re loyal. You’re super-hot.”
“Especially when you do your face,” Fiona adds. “Wait—did you do the makeup magic that night in Vegas?”
“Yeah. So?”
A low murmur passes through the busy salon.
“That explains so much,” Sylvie says. “No man can resist your skills. You did my makeup the night that Anton and I hooked up, right? And now we’re planning the rest of our lives together.”
“Mmm-hmm,” Samantha says. “I see a pattern here.”
“You guys are bonkers,” I mutter as the manicurist begins to work on my cuticles. “And is this really what we should be talking about tonight? We have a game tomorrow. We could be strategizing.”