It was fabulous and even classy in a debauched, naked kind of way.
“Tonight’s amateur night, right?”
She sat up in bed, bobbling the phone. I stared up at her ceiling for a few seconds and caught an accidental nip slip out of her hot pink negligee because of course my best friend slept in lingerie.
“Are you coming?” she shrieked, picking the phone back up.
“How much did you say I can make?” I asked. Faith had been trying to convince me to come in on amateur night since I came back home.
“All participants get $100 plus two free drinks. Then the top three contenders split the prize money. You, with your ass-shaking abilities, are a shoo-in for first place, even without me as a judge. That’s gonna be $2,500 easy. Plus tips.”
She had me at free drinks. And $2,500.
I wanted to cry. And all I had to do was shake my ass. Oh, yeah, and show a club full of strangers my boobs. How was this my life?
“I don’t have to do any private dances or anything, right?” I clarified.
“Nope. Not unless you want to.”
“Okay,” I said, closing my eyes.
Ask her for the money. Ask her. Just say the words. Please help me, Faith.
But I’d made promises. And right now, those unbroken promises were the only thing I’d done right.
“You must need cash bad,” she observed. She picked up an open can of soda on her nightstand and sipped through a Twizzler. Faith was one of those annoying people whose metabolism sped up in her thirties.
“Things are getting a little tight,” I said lamely.
“Seriously, babe. If you need money—”
“I’m fine. Everything is fine. What time should I be there?”
She shot me an incredulous look.
“I’m serious,” I insisted. “It’ll be fun.” Lies. So many dirty, little lies.
“Eleven.”
Silver lining. At least I could squeeze in a few hours on the bar at Rooster’s before my humiliation. Every dollar counted now.
“What should I wear?” It came out as a squeak, and I cleared my throat.
“Oh, honey. I’ve got you covered. Or uncovered. Wink!” Faith grinned.
My stomach lurched again. But I had no choice. I was out of options unless I wanted to realize my father’s worst fears. I’d made this mess, and I’d clean it up no matter what it took.
“Okay.” I fortified myself with another cold breath. “I’ll see you at eleven.”
“Can’t wait! You’re going to do great. Eleven p.m. backstage at Ladies and Gentlemen. Be there and ready to bare,” she sang.
“Yeah. See you then,” I said and disconnected.
I held the phone to my forehead in a lame attempt to ward off the headache that was starting to drill its way into my brain.
I gave myself another thirty seconds of fear and misery, of cursing the universe for its stupid plan for me. Then I straightened my shoulders and marched toward the door.
I would do what I had to. Just like my father had raising me. And someday, many, many, many years from now, I might look back and laugh at this disaster.
31
Ally
Vance was a pale guy with a comfortable beer gut who dressed like a Miami Vice extra and talked like a Canadian Tony Soprano. He wore white pants and a red button-down with parrots and palm trees. A trio of gold chains tangled around his generous carpet of chest hair.
“Water and coffee are free. First aid kit’s in the locker room in case you pinch yourself on the pole or get blisters from the shoes and whatnot,” he explained as he led me along a long, mirrored wall that reflected the pink and purple stage lights.
The bass was thumping, and there was a woman on stage wrapped around the pole like a koala. “On amateur nights, I spring for bagels for all the gals. You get a locker with a combination lock. Rule is no girl leaves the building alone. We got a big, beefy security staff that doesn’t mind sendin’ a message to patrons. No touching the dancers or the servers or the bartenders.”
I nodded grimly and pretended not to see the sea of men—and some women—who were crowded into booths and around round tables along the stage. All there to witness me giving up my last shred of dignity.
“You get two drinks from the bar per shift,” Vance said, holding open an Employees Only door for me. “I wouldn’t advise drinkin’ ’em both at the same time since Esther makes ’em pretty damn strong. You might fall offa the pole, eh?”
“Ha,” I managed.
I followed his red-parroted shoulders down a long hallway.
“Boss told me to bring you straight back when you got here,” he explained, tapping out a cursory knock before opening another door with a sign that said No Pants No Problem. “Special delivery, boss.”
“Boss” was Faith Vigoda, my best friend since fifth grade. She’d always reminded me of a tall, black Gwen Stefani who couldn’t sing. But Faith didn’t need to sing. She’d been born with a genius business acumen.
The summer before sixth grade, her lemonade stand made so much money she got permits and two part-time employees. She paid for college with cash earned by running an illegal term paper writing business for other schools. After college, she went legit, diversifying into property rentals and finally the entertainment business.
She’d been partner here for four years and had single-handedly doubled the club’s revenue.
“I’m so excited you’re here,” she squealed, jumping up from behind her desk to grab me. She pulled me in for a hug that I desperately needed.
“It’s so good to see you.” And despite the circumstances, it really was.
“You’ve been a little busy lately,” she said, forgiving me. “How’s your dad? How’s his leg? Tell me about work.”
I flopped down in a pink velvet wingback chair and filled her in on everything but the financial situation and Dominic Russo, painting a picture of a dutiful daughter and diligent employee.
“None of that explains why you’re suddenly here for amateur night.”
“Things are just a little tight right now. My first paycheck from the magazine was late, so I figured…” I shrugged and trailed off lamely.
“Uh-huh. Well, we’ll definitely be talking about all the things you’re not saying after. But first let’s get you dressed. How do you feel about sexy cowgirl or professional cheerleader?”
Nauseous.
“What do you think?” I asked, stepping carefully out of the dressing area on five-inch, white, patent leather, stiletto platforms.
Faith was spinning slow circles in a salon chair parked in front of a kitschy makeup mirror while skimming profit reports. She stopped and put down the paperwork and made me do a twirl.
This was not like Fairy Godfather Linus’s makeover. No. This particular transformation involved a checkered long-sleeve shirt with snaps knotted between my breasts, cheeky blue boy shorts that were already climbing their way up my ass, and sparkly blue pasties that I hoped no one else would see.
“Don’t pick the wedgie. Wedgies get more tips,” she insisted when I tried to do exactly that.
I sighed through gritted teeth and tried not to think about what I was going to be doing in about nine minutes. Gulp.