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“Mo-ooo-om! I can’t put PSL syrup on blueberry waffles. That’s gross.” Did I say she was six? Six going on sixteen, maybe. She’s already perfected the hand-on-hip, sassy attitude I saw girls doing when I was in high school.
I never got the chance to be a bratty troublemaker. I was too busy juggling school and grades with being there for my baby and working to save up for a place of our own. All she really needs to accomplish peak teen girl dramatics is the emphatic hair toss to match the little foot stomp. With her cute little pixie-cut hairstyle, I might have a few years before she throws that move into the mix.
“So use regular syrup today, and you’ll have the perfect amount of spice syrup for when we get more waffles. See? It’s logic.”
“Logic isn’t as good as waffles, Mommy.” Her little hand waves over her shoulder as she wanders down the short hall to our kitchen. When she’s done with a conversation, she’s done with it. Not in a rude way, but with a simple confidence I can only dream of embracing for myself.
I’m rarely confident. Almost every minute is spent second guessing the decisions made in the moment before. About the only time I’m really free to be myself is when I’m perched safely in my cage above the crowd of people out to have a good time at Loft.
My penchant for overthinking and second guessing myself almost cost me the job altogether. Which is especially wild because it’s turned out to be the absolute perfect place for me to be. At my last job, dancers were expected to be raunchy and extremely sexual in our dance moves. Plus it was a requirement that we dance in thongs and pasties.
It was such a relief to start at Loft and learn the dancers get to choose from a wide selection of actual outfits. That none of the costumes make me feel like my curtains are one high kick away from flapping in the wind? Priceless. And when I say there’s security to protect everyone at Loft, I mean it. Between Casyn and Liam, the twins who run the security team, and Callum and Jonah, it feels like the safest place I’ve ever been.
By the time I make it to the kitchen with my robe belted around my waist and slipper socks pulled high to keep my feet warm, Lav’s already got the waffles out of the freezer ready for me to hurry and make her breakfast. She saw on a cartoon once that breakfast is the most important meal of the day and she has held that kernel of wisdom like it’s solid gold. Probably because most breakfast foods don’t have any vegetables in them.
“It’s super cold today, Mommy. Maybe, we’ll finally get snow!”
“Ah, Snookie, it doesn’t really snow here in Bourbon. Texas is too close to the equator for much snow.”
“What’s a ‘quater?” When Lavender first started talking, dropped vowels and consonants had me panicking. I thought for sure something was wrong because she didn’t always pronounce words correctly, even right after hearing them spoken. As an only child, I was never around younger kids much. And by the time I was old enough to start babysitting, I was growing my own baby.
I squash my chuckle at her mispronunciation of the word. Lav doesn’t mind if I help her sound out words, but she gets so frustrated if she thinks I’m laughing at her.
“It’s equator. Eee cuh way tor.”
“Equator.”
“Perfect, Snookie. Just like you. The equator is a line that circles around the earth like an invisible belt. It separates the northern part of the planet from the southern part of the planet.” Figuring out how to explain things to a little kid is a talent I’ve developed since my daughter asked her first questions. She’s so inquisitive it’s hard to keep up with her.
“Why’s the planet need a belt? Why can’t it be one big ball without a line on it?”
I think I failed in explaining the concept of hemispheres and planetary composition. On the plus side, she’s distracted enough to drop the subject of snow. Which is a good thing, because she’s been on a kick about having a white Christmas since the first holiday specials of the season started playing on television in early November.
“I don’t know, but I bet I know where we could find out—”
“The li-bary!” Magic word invoked, my little girl focuses her attention on shoveling her breakfast into her tummy as fast as she can so we can get dressed and head to the library. It’s one of her favorite places, and I love it, too. There aren’t many spots to keep a kid with her smarts and endless quests for information satisfied. At least, not free ones. So I’m happy as can be to spend our Saturday mornings at the library where it’s warm and easy on my wallet.
CHAPTER3
JONAH
Friday sucked. Saturday sucked. Sure the club’s been packed and there’s a waitlist to get in every weekend night for months. Whatever. I don’t care. Both nights still sucked last week just as they have every weekend since I laid eyes on Sirena. Now, it’s four o’clock on Sunday evening, and while the other girls are already here getting on their outfits and choosing which platform they’ll each start in, Sirena’s nowhere I can see.
“Hey, Jade. Sirena in the locker room?” Here the longest of our four dancers, Jade’s the most likely to know what’s going on with anyone in the building at any given moment. She gives me a knowing smile as she shakes her head, and though her lips might be tipping up, her eyes are tight with worry.
“What’s wrong? Are you okay?” I might be obsessed with Sirena—okay, nomightabout it. I am obsessed with Sirena. But that doesn’t mean I’m oblivious to everyone else. Jade’s a sweet young woman, and if something’s bothering her, I’ll fix it.
“I’m fine. Lumi just told me Callum pulled a message from Sirena from the office voicemail, though. She said she won’t be in toni—”
I’m already rushing to the hallway leading to our offices to listen to the message myself. If something’s happened to her, I’ll—
“Jonah, man, slow down. Did Cal find you?” Liam pops out of the security office just as I’m passing it.
“Not now. I need to listen to the messages.” Whatever it is, whatever she needs, I’ll make sure she has it. I push past Liam and hurry to my desk to grab the headset and listen to the message. It’s unremarkable in content; shattering in impact.
All Sirena said in her message is she has to call out for illness tonight and she’s really sorry. Her voice sounds strained and not at all like the gentle and sweet woman I’ve heard encouraging guests to follow her dance steps. She’s a crowd favorite because she makes the women who come here feel confident to copy the burlesque moves and entice their partners.
Something’s wrong. She doesn’t say it in her message, but I hear it. I feel it. Which means nothing else matters. My car keys are on the hook just inside my door, and I’ve got them and my jacket in hand before the next message on the voicemail system can even begin.
