I squeeze his shoulder. “Maybe.”
I never got an update on what happened with Brax and Justine years ago. The last I heard about their “non-date” was the night Chris and Brax spiked my coke with vodka. He never mentioned her since that day. But with the worry in his eyes doubling when I asked about her, it’s clear they’ve kept in contact.
I want to say I've maintained an amicable friendship with Justine as well, but unfortunately, that isn't the case. The pain in her eyes when I grilled her on Savannah's location told me she didn't know where she was. I was just too stubborn to acknowledge it. She answered every call I made the first six months, then they dwindled to two or three a week, until she eventually stopped responding to them altogether. It wasn't that she had forgotten Savannah; she just couldn't tolerate my confusion or anger anymore. I can't say I blame her. Misery is always best handled solo.
God—everyone in this town must think I’m a fool.
Not anymore. I’m done. I’ve spent more time searching for Savannah than I’ve known her. I should have realized years ago that you can’t force someone to see sense. I couldn’t drum it into my mom’s head, and I most certainly can’t force it on Savannah.
When she’s ready, she’ll come home.
I just won’t be waiting for her.
Chapter 7
Savannah
Now. . .
“Lose the shirt.”
The already scorching day gets ten times hotter when I raise my eyes from the retro CD player I’m struggling to connect to my outdated iPod. The owner of the club I am auditioning at is glaring at me, as shocked by my attire of choice as I was when I noticed his waitress’s state of undress. They’re not wearing shirts. They’re not even wearing bras.
“My shirt?” I ask, acting daft.
He smiles a slick grin. It is lucky his looks override his greasy demeanor. “Yes, sweetheart, your shirt. I need to see what I’m working with.”
“If you give me a minute, I have a whole audition prepared.” I return my focus to the CD player, praying it will magically play the song I’ve rehearsed to the past two weeks.
"Please," I beg the CD player. "I don't want to take off my shirt."
I jump out of my skin when a roared, “Next!” ages my hearing by a decade.
“Oh no, please, I only need a minute,” I shout when a blonde close to my age sashays onto the stage. The gold tassels on her boobs reflect on her knee-high boots.
“I’m not done yet.” I gently clutch her elbow to direct her back off the stage. “But you look great. I’m sure you have this gig in the bag,” I add on when she glowers at me.
“Look. . .” The club owner stops talking to glance down at the clipboard in his hand. “Abby.” The way he pronounces it sounds as foreign as it does when I say it. “I’m not looking for dancers. I’m looking fordancers.”His dark eyes stray to the group of scantily clad women waiting for their turn to audition. “Unless you can give me what they can give me, you’re not going give me what I need. Capiche?”
I stare at him, more confused than ever.Is he speaking English?
Spotting my bewilderment, he simplifies his reply, “Unless you remove your shirt, you’re not what I’m looking for. . .”
His words trail off when I whip my shirt over my head. Although the bra I'm wearing shouldneverbe seen in public, I'm so desperate, I'll wear it like it is made out of the most expensive silk in the world.
“Better.” The club owner scans my frame in a slow, dedicated sweep. “Much,muchbetter.” He licks his lips before demanding, “Now your bra.”
My hands dart up to cover my heaving chest. “You said I only had to remove my shirt.”
His lips purse. “True. But I wasn’t anticipating . . .this.”He waves his hand across my hideous grandma bra. “Is that a nursing bra?”
“No!” I deny, shaking my head. “I don’t think it is?” Since I’m not willing to remove my hands to test his theory, I stick with my first reply.
“You asked me to remove my shirt. I did as you asked. Now can I perform my routine?” You can hear the plea in my voice.
I should be ashamed I'm begging for the chance to sashay my ass on stage in front of a man who lacks morals, but I'm not. When you're backed into a corner, you either come out swinging or lose. Since this is a fight I have no plans of losing, I'm coming out swinging.
“If you’d just give me a chance, I’ll prove that naked breasts aren’t the only sexually satisfying visual you can get from the female anatomy.”
