“These are joggers, not sweats,” Mira muttered, as Naveen pulled her away. There was a difference.
“We don’t have time to argue with him.”
She grimaced, certain of what he was thinking. “We’re going to pretend to be staff, aren’t we?”
“You know it.”
They went around the building, and got there as a young woman got out of her car in the back parking lot. Naveen pressed his hand to her back, and she tried not to notice the heat of his body between the layers of her shirt and jacket. They slowed, walking behind the woman as she trotted to the back door, too engrossed in her phone to notice them. She keyed in a code and slipped inside the building. Naveen took extralong steps, and caught the door before it could close.
“Do we just . . . ?” Mira asked.
“We walk in and pretend we belong. Hope you’re good at improvising.”
I am not.
They walked inside to find a white sterile hallway that looked like it could belong in any soul-sucking office building. Clearly, management didn’t see fit to put money into ambiance for employees. Out of the corner of her eye, she clocked the camera in the corner, moving and adjusting. As casually as possible, she ducked her head, hoping that her loose hair would hide her features.
She caught the back of the woman they’d followed in turning a corner, and she nudged Naveen with her elbow. “That way.”
They were a few feet past the door, when a voice rang out behind them. “You two. Stop.”
Her heart in her throat, Mira and Naveen turned slowly in unison to find a harried-looking older woman holding a clipboard. A dark halo of flyaways surrounded her head, her blush two spots of bright red, spotlights on her olive complexion. She frowned at them. “It’s about time.”
“Yes. It is about time,” Naveen said slowly.
“Roshan and Jyoti, yes?”
The woman was butchering the pronunciation, but Mira was only concerned with the possibility of being immediately tossed out on their asses.
“Yes.” Naveen took a step forward. “That’s exactly who we are.”
Oh dear.
Since she was trying to be a team player, though, Mira gave a weak smile.
The woman looked them over, taking in Naveen’s stained blue suit and Mira’s wild hair and oversize leather jacket. “You don’t look like the photos the agency sent over.”
Mira cleared her throat. “They’re, ah, filtered.”
There was a pregnant pause where Mira held her breath, and then the woman shook her head. “Figures. You don’t exactly have the right vibe, but hopefully we can fix that with wardrobe. Come with me, both of you. I’m Glenda, I’m in charge of talent.”
What were the odds that another South Asian couple was scheduled to show up tonight and the person in charge couldn’t tell South Asians apart? This was kismet.
Naveen exhaled, which told Mira she wasn’t the only one holding their breath. “Sounds good.” They started following Glenda down the hall. “Any chance we’ll get to see the owner tonight? We’d love to meet him.”
Glenda rolled her eyes. They were an intense green shade that Mira was pretty sure could come only from contacts. “Yeah, well, so does everyone. Mr. Rao and the rest of the top floor is served by a very select group of vetted employees, not newbies. If that’s a problem, you can leave.”
She sounded legitimately stern about this, and Mira wasn’t sure what to say.
“Of course, no problem,” Naveen said, and his gaze met Mira’s.
He let Glenda get ahead of them and spoke to Mira in Hindi, which he’d never done before. “Let’s wear whatever she tells us to wear, try to blend in, and then make our way to the top floor somehow. That’s where we’ll find him.”
Or at least, that’s what she thought he’d said. Even if her dad had been interested in teaching her about their culture, he’d come to the United States when he was a teenager desperate to assimilate, and they’d spoken only English at home. Her main source for most of her Indian knowledge, Christine, spoke Tamil. Mira had, however, taken Hindi as a language in college and watched plenty of Bollywood films, and though she wasn’t entirely fluent like Naveen, she could pick out enough words to get the gist. “What if the people we’re pretending to be show up,” she asked, clumsily.
She knew it was clumsy by the way he frowned and listened carefully, but she was relieved he didn’t mock her or laugh. “Don’t worry about that now.”
Silly man. Didn’t he know she was a professional worrywart?
Still, there was something quite comforting about having a literal shared language with Naveen, even if he was better at it than she was. Like they really were a team.
They nearly walked into Glenda when she stopped. “Men’s dressing room.” She eyed Naveen up and down. “You’re not as jacked as our other bartenders, but some people like that tall and lean look. Anyway, step in here and change into your costume, it’s on the hanger behind the door. Brad will be by shortly to show you where to go.”
“Bartender. Great.” Naveen gave one last look to Mira, and stepped inside the room, closing the door gently behind him.
“You, follow me.”
As they walked, Mira’s ears were pricked with awareness for someone to creep up behind and tackle her as an imposter, but all she heard was the steady bass pump of music coming from what she assumed was the bar.
Glenda led her to another room. It was empty in there, a bunch of stools lined up in front of lighted mirrors, clothes hanging off everything.
Mira balked at the scrap of fabric Glenda handed her. “I can’t wear that.”
Glenda scowled and checked the handful of dental floss. “You’re right.”
Mira breathed a small sigh of relief.
It was abruptly curtailed when Glenda turned away, rummaged on a rack, and came back with another identically tiny bunch of fabric and strings. “You definitely need a larger size. I’ve told that agency a million times to not lie about the girls’ sizes, but do they listen? No.”
Mira took the outfit, if it could be called that, generously. No, I mean I cannot wear this, because I am an accountant. Not in a sexy euphemism kind of way, in the Internal Revenue Code kind of way.
A thought struck Mira. This was a strip club. Was she expected to perform? “Ah, what exactly is in my job description?”
Glenda screwed up her face. “You don’t know?”
“No, of course I know. They, uh, didn’t tell me what I’d be wearing.”
“I thought you worked here before.”
Fuck. She tried for the most vacant smile. “I work in lots of places, they all blur together.”
“This is what all the waitresses wear. Am I going to have to put you through training all over again?”
The waitresses were expected to serve in thongs? Well, of course they were. This was Vegas.
But she could handle being a waitress, thong or not. Kind of. Maybe? “Um, no. No need for training.”
Glenda shoved Mira to the curtained-off dressing room. “Then hurry up! I have other shit to do, I don’t have time to babysit you.”
“Um, right.” Mira opened and closed the curtain. Oh no. What had she gotten them into? What had she gotten Naveen into?