Smiling at his assumption there will be a next time, I pivot on my heels and stalk to the main entrance, tugging on my hoodie on my way. Nothing against this club, but I’d rather not be seen entering and exiting it.
My quick strides across the highly buffed floors slow when an Italian accent shouts, "I'll pay you fifty dollars a night to do your routine." They come to a complete stop when he continues, "I'll even let you keep your clothes on."
Although tempted by his offer, I’d never survive on three hundred and fifty dollars a week, so I negotiate, “Fifty dollars a routine.”
Pete laughs, amused by my negotiation skills. “That’s fifty dollars for ten, twenty minutes max. No fucking chance,” he scoffs. “I could have my dick sucked for less than that.”
“Fifty dollars for thirty seconds of work? Your odds don’t stack up, Pete,” pipes up a husky voice from the side.
"Shut up, Jet," Pete snarls, glaring at his right-hand man. After returning his slit eyes to mine, he says, "Fifty dollars a night. Take it or leave it."
“Okay,” I reply, shrugging my shoulders like it’s no big deal. “It was nice meeting you.” My praise isn’t for him; it is for Jet.
I wait for Jet to dip his chin again, acknowledging my comment before I continue for the door, praying I didn’t misread the desperation in Pete’s voice. I reallyreallyneed this job. I thought my mom left my dad and me high and dry the first time she vanished. It was nothing compared to the second fleecing she issued me months after his death. That old saying about not having two nickels to rub together—that’s been the story of my life the past four years. Except now, I’m not just broke; I’m homeless as well.
I stop halfway through the main entrance door when Pete shouts, “One hundred dollars a night, and you keep your tips.” The last half of his sentence is forced, as if it pained him to say.
I crank my neck back to the stage. “How much will that be?”
Once again, my question isn’t directed at Pete. It is for the dirty-blond with a devastating grin. Jet—my stranger/ally.
Jet purses his lips. "Normal girls. . . Fifty, maybe a hundred a night. You. . ." The smile on his face forces my knees together. "An easy two hundred."
"A night?" I clarify, wanting to make sure we are on the same wavelength.
Jet’s smile reveals he didn’t miss the shock in my tone. “Easy,” he guarantees in a rumble.
My eyes bounce between him and Pete while contemplating a reply. That’s more per night than any job I’ve been offered, but can I do this? Can I take something I love and sex it up to entice dirty old men out of their hard-earned money?
Yes. Yes, I can.For her, I’ll do anything.
“I can wear my clothes?” This time, my question is for Pete.
He points to my rundown getup. “Do you have anything more enticing than that?”
It shames me, but I shake my head.
“Give her a wardrobe budget—”
“Shut up, Jet!” Pete demands again, the veins in his neck bulging like he’s about to have a coronary.
Pete runs his eyes down my body enough times to creep me out before he pushes off his feet and heads my way. If Jet weren't eyeing him with as much caution as me, I'd be fleeing. Mercifully, his reassuring glance keeps my feet planted on the ground. He has my back, even though we were only strangers minutes ago.
“Although I’d rather you wear one of the outfits we have out back, you’re not going to do that, are you?” Pete asks, smiling a slick grin.
I shake my head.
Huffing, his hand slips into his trouser pocket to dig out a bundle of bills. “Keep your receipt. I plan to claim anything you buy on my taxes.”
His command shocks me. I didn’t think businesses like this kept records anymore. I assumed when Col went down, all legitimate business dealings for establishments like this went right along with him.
Realizing his business dealings have no impact on me, I accept the three hundred dollar bills Pete is thrusting at me before nodding my head.
“We open at 9 PM. Make sure you are here no later than 8.”
Not waiting for me to reply, Pete spins on his heels and stalks back to the stage Jet is standing on, giving me the thumbs up. Pretending I can’t feel my stomach swirling at the base of my throat, I return his gesture.
Chapter 8
