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CHAPTER EIGHT
*Lace*
“Fuck.” I repeat the swear over and over as I pull up to the restaurant that rents the opposite corner unit of the shopping center in which the saloon is also located. Like us, the pizza shop is amping up their staff in preparation for Bike Week. For that reason, the gravel alleyway that leads around to the saloon’s employee parking area is completely blocked by delivery drivers’ cars. If I showed up thirty minutes earlier or if I would have been sleeping in my wagon back there like most nights, this wouldn’t be a problem.
Extremely grateful the rain stopped early this morning and left a sunny — albeit cool — day in its wake, I jump out and sprint to the front door of Groove Pizza. Plastering my face against the glass, I wave and knock manically as soon as someone comes out of the kitchen to clock-in at the register.
The sweet, flower child that has worked here for only a couple years less than I’ve been dancing rushes to the door, unlocks the deadbolt and pops her head out.
“Hey, Lainie!” I greet, breathlessly, as though I’ve just run a marathon. The way my heart beats right now, my physical response could be considered one and the same. “Um… I can’t get around back.”
Her eyes widen. I have wondered a time or two if she might suspect I usually sleep back there, and her expression supports my hypothesis. No doubt possibly wondering if I slept somewhere else last night, her focus flits to my vehicle and back to me. Thankfully, she decides to leave well enough alone and asks, “Do you know who is in the way?”
“Yeah. You and that guy who drives the little compact hatchback.”
“Okay, we’ll be right out,” she responds, closing the door and rushing away.
I dash to my wagon and plop in the driver seat just as her and the other pizza delivery driver exit out of the employee entrance. Reid, I think his name is. He’s been working here a while, too, but only ever has eyes for her; the guy could care less that a couple dozen sex workers and dancers pass by and ogle him on the regular.
They back up their vehicles into the small parking lot of the neighboring seasonal thrill attraction, and I zoom past them, curving to the far end and parking in my usual spot.
We’re gearing up for some busier and longer days because of Bike Week, but by my quick vehicle count, only about five dancers are on shift this morning. A handful more will probably show up a few hours from now when we normally open.
I grab my overnight bag from the passenger seat, hustle inside, and immediately head to the dressing room to change from my street clothes into my new leggings, the black lace crop top Coty bought me during the spring rally, and my black platforms with the obnoxiously tall sparkly heel.
All the dancers working first shift are already on the floor, so I take advantage of the quiet, doing my makeup and getting dressed without the din of conversation or pressure of pre-game pill popping.
Posturing as though I got here a while ago and simply went to the back to freshen up, I flash coy smiles and bat my eyelashes at the scant customers, heels clicking in rhythm with the sultry song playing on my way to see Kris. Since we check-in with the DJ, she is well aware I dragged myself in here late, though.
“Hey!” I mouth, give her a beaming grin, and unclench the torn piece of paper I am holding. Seeing as the crowd is changing this week from locals to the motorcycle community, I figured it best to change my playlist up accordingly, so I scrawled down some ideas.
Kris pushes one of the oversized earcups off to the side and slides the note closer. While her eyes scan the song titles, she slides the rotation list over to me so I can study it. Looks like Jess actually managed to get here on time for once. She falls second on the rotation, and I bring up the rear.
The tap, tap of Kris’s finger against my note draws my attention back to the paper. “Pretty sure this one is over the time allotment, so it’ll get chopped. That okay or do you want to choose another song?”
“Nah, keep it,” I answer. “Play it first on that set and just loop the cut into the next song?”
“Yeah, I can do that,” Kris responds.
“Sleuthing on layaway?” I ask, hinting to her that I’ll pay good if she clues me in on any over-filled wallets. The DJ booth has the best vantage point after all.
“Always love a good game of I Spy,” she replies.
A line of bright light stretches across me, cutting through the hazy twilight glow of the saloon, and my gaze rises toward the entrance. I give the table top a pat and mutter a distracted, “Thanks,” before sauntering off to bullshit with the new arrivals.
