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I take a second to look down at myself and smile. He told me to never, ever wear this costume again, and I did it just to irritate him. And to see the look on his face when I take it off. I’m not the prude he thinks I am. I can change. I can be sexy and outgoing and do something completely outrageous and not in my comfort zone.
“I can do this,” I state with a nod of my head.
“Hell yeah you can!” Ariel cheers, bumping her shoulder against mine. “Just don’t trip and fall on your face in those ridiculously high heels. Biting it and smacking your face onto the stage is not hot.”
I glare at her, and she holds her hands up and begins backing away.
“You’ve got this. Shake your ass and make momma some money!” she shouts before disappearing around a corner to go out into the audience and cheer me on.
“Let’s give a great big round of applause to Tiffany! We’ve got an extra-special treat for you next. Get your dollar bills ready, folks. Straight from the castle, looking for her very own Prince Charming, is the hottest princess you’ll ever meet! Put your hands together for Cinderella!”
Letting out a long, slow breath, I grab onto the velvet curtain and yank it open, pasting a smile on my face and ignoring the butterflies flapping around in my stomach as I make my way on stage.
I can do this.
I’m going to go out there and show everyone that it’s possible for a housewife to make something of herself. Even if she has to make it by being a stripper.
Chapter 1: Find a Job and Pay for Herpes
Three months earlier . . .
My fingers absentmindedly fiddle with the strand of pearls around my neck as I stare out of the kitchen window at the front yard, cocking my head to the side and mentally adding call the landscaper to my to-do list when I see a few stray weeds peeking up through the black mulch. Our yard has always been the most beautiful and well cared for one on the cul-de-sac of Fairytale Lane, and it just won’t do to have weeds popping up all over the place all willy-nilly. What will the neighbors think?
Fairytale Lane is located in an area most people in town refer to as “the wealthy area.” Gorgeous, large homes and pristine yards on a dead-end street where it’s safe for children to play and ride their bikes because the only traffic comes from the people who live here. Well, aside for Christmastime, when everyone’s homes are professionally decorated, and people from all over town drive by to see the lights and try to glimpse in the windows, imagining what it’s like to live in such a big, beautiful home on such a wonderful street. There’s actually a waiting list to live here. Applications are piled a mile high, and the homeowner’s association goes through each one with a fine-tooth comb whenever a house goes up for sale, which doesn’t happen very often. Once you’ve lived on Fairytale Lane, you can’t imagine such perfection anywhere else.
I suddenly realize calling the landscaper will also mean paying the landscaper, and my skin breaks out in a cold sweat. My fingers drop from the pearls as I reach a shaky hand out to adjust a small black picture frame standing next to the sink that must have been bumped so it’s no longer facing east like all of the other pictures in the house.
“Cynthia, did you hear me?”
The sound of a shrill voice echoing through the kitchen makes me jump, knocking over the picture frame completely.
“What was that sound? Is everything okay?”
Keeping a deep sigh of annoyance to myself, because as my mother-in-law ingrained in me long ago, a lady should never scowl or be rude to anyone, I right the frame and scoop up my phone from the counter as I turn away from the window to look at the large, white, marble-topped island in the middle of the spacious room.
The counter is white, the cupboards are white, the floor is white, and the walls are painted white, just like the rest of the house, with a few pops of color here and there in paintings hung on the walls and throw pillows on the furniture. White is associated with light and goodness, and it’s considered the color of perfection. It’s exactly what I wanted when Brian bought this house and told me I could decorate it any way I wanted, as long I didn’t use loud colors or anything that wasn’t classy.
“Everything is fine, Caroline. And yes, I heard you. I just finished baking the last of the cupcakes, and I’m getting ready to frost them as soon as they cool,” I tell my neighbor, who’s on speakerphone. She hasn’t been getting on my last nerve at all, calling me ten times a day every day for the last week to make sure everything is coming together for the Halloween party we throw every year on our street.
