“You look great,” she said. She stood and shoved her hands into my hair ruffling it.
“Should I go heavier on the makeup?” Maybe level it up to Clown or Mime so I could at least have part of my body disguised.
“No. Wholesome is good on amateur night. You look like someone I’d take home to Mom if I were a man… or a lesbian.”
“Tequila,” I said weakly.
“Tequila, girl.”
We both shuddered.
“Have a seat,” she said, pointing to the makeup chair. “I’ll get you some water. You’re gonna sweat up there, so stay hydrated.”
I was already breaking out in a cold sweat.
There was a closed-circuit TV in the dressing room that showed the tables around the stage and bar. It had gotten more crowded since I’d arrived. I tried not to calculate how many eyes would be seeing my boobs tonight.
The backstage area was cleaner and cheerier than I thought it would be. I’d unfairly pictured strung-out naked women slumped in metal chairs, chain-smoking cigarettes and dusting each other with body glitter.
There was definitely glitter, but the only dancer I’d seen had arrived in her minivan from her Pilates class with a fresh fruit smoothie. She wasn’t even here to dance. She was MC-ing amateur night. The rest of the amateurs were corralled into a secondary locker room location so I could have my breakdown in peace.
There was a long, low sofa along one wall buried under a mound of furry pink pillows. Five vanities decorated with pictures and personal trinkets like high school lockers took up the opposite wall. There was an open wardrobe area, much smaller than Label’s Closet but just as neatly organized and containing just as many sequins. Soft, pink-toned lighting gave everyone a fresh, dewy-looking complexion and oil diffusers filled the room with the delicate scents of peppermint and eucalyptus.
Faith returned with a glass of cucumber lemon water, and I guzzled half of it.
“I don’t feel so good,” I confessed.
She leaned down, putting her hands on the arms of the chair. “Listen here, Ally. Lots of people dance for money. Prima ballerinas, Jane Fonda, Laker Girls, back-up dancers, Rockettes. All women who make money by moving their bodies. There’s nothing remotely shameful about it,” Faith insisted. “You aren’t doing anything wrong. And anyone who tells you that you are is—”
“Part of the patriarchy,” I finished for her. We’d had this discussion a few times before.
But never while I was already half-naked and planning to get more naked.
“That’s my girl.” She squared me off to face the mirror. “Do you love to dance?”
I nodded.
“Lemme hear you, babe. Do you love to dance?” she asked again.
“I love to dance,” I said. I did. I really did. The only real difference, besides the hungry audience with fistfuls of cash and dirty fantasies, was that I’d be doing this dance with no bra on.
“You love the music, the lights, the dancing. And that’s all you have to think about. You’re going out there and you are celebrating your body. You’re doing this for you. Not them. They’re allowed to watch, but this is all about you.”
“All about me,” I said, more firmly this time. I wondered if Faith had ever considered a career in life coaching.
“Good girl. Now who has the power?” she asked.
“I do,” I whispered.
“I can’t hear you.”
“I do,” I said again.
“That’s right. You do. So, you’re going to go out there and shake that talented ass of yours. And then you know what you’re going to do?”
“Burn these clothes and get drunk?”
“No. Well, maybe. But first, you’re going to collect the money you earned, and then you’re going to come have a drink with me at the bar and explain to me just how bad things really are.”
I winced.
I knew I could ask her for the money. And I knew she’d give it to me. No questions asked. No expectation of repayment. But I’d promised Dad. It was the only way I hadn’t let him down yet.
I’d sworn that we would handle this the way we’d handled everything else: together. A two-man team against a disease that we both knew would eventually win.
My father was a proud man, and he’d instilled that particular value in me. If I accepted money from someone to help pay for his care, he wouldn’t just be disappointed. He’d be devastated. I promised him he’d never be a burden, and I promised myself that he would never have the opportunity to feel like a burden.
Which was why I’d been lying to him on his good days, telling him his insurance was covering everything.
I made a promise.
And I’d do whatever it took to fix this on my own. Even if it involved pasties. My Morales pride would keep me warm on that stage.
“So, what should my dancer name be?” I asked, changing the subject before Faith could demand a full accounting of my monthly bills.
“Hmm,” she mused, popping a blue raspberry lollipop in her mouth and studying me.
She grinned. “Candie Couture.”
“Oh, God,” I groaned. “Can I at least spell it with a ‘Y?’”
“Nope. It’s ‘IE.’” Faith smirked. “Now close your mouth.”
“Wh—” My choking and gasping after eating the first spray of body glitter she aimed at me interrupted the question.
32
Dominic
I was going to fucking kill her. Drag her off the stage and into the alley and murder Little Miss Candie Fucking Couture with a Dirty Secret. But first, I was going to kill every son of a bitch in this room who dared to look at her. Starting with that greasy, gold-toothed dipshit in the corner who was grabbing his junk through his track pants. He’d be first.
When I overheard… okay, fine. When I eavesdropped on her call on the roof, I thought I was hallucinating. My wholesome, untouchable admin wasn’t really planning to take off her fucking clothes in front of a crowd of perverted strangers for money.
Yet here I was, sitting in a black vinyl booth with a table tent advertising two for one splits of champagne to share with your “favorite dancer.” And there she was. On the stage in shorts so short I didn’t think they qualified as clothing in front of at least a hundred and fifty assholes—myself included. She was squinting into the lights as a bunch of soon-to-be dead men—and women—whistled and catcalled.
If I were feeling more charitable, I’d say I couldn’t blame them. She looked unbelievably tempting.
But she also looked terrified.
I’d had enough. I started to slide out of the booth with the intent of getting her off that stage. She didn’t belong there, and it was beyond fucking time that she came clean about everything.
But the music was starting, and the crowd was leaning closer. When she wrapped a hand around that brass pole, I forgot what I was doing and dropped back down into the booth.
The song was slow, dirty, tortured. I liked it. It reminded me of me.
She hooked a leg around the pole and spun, dropping lower and lower circling toward the stage. Her hair whipped out behind her, and when she stood again, it covered one smoky eye. My fingers itched to push it back, to hook it behind her ear, and drag her in for a kiss.