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When I breeze back to her table, Ponytail’s looking at those lions again.This time, though, her expression’s different.Harder.Her lip curls with disgust, and it vibrates through the taut lines of her neck, the stiff set of her shoulders.
I pull up short at the judgment pouring off of her.It upends what I thought I’d seen beneath that calm facade.I’ve read people wrong in the past, and even with as few shits as I give about what people think about someone who takes their clothes off for money, it still fucking stings to watch them jump from surprise to disapproval to good old-fashioned slut-shaming in front of my eyes.
Their loss, of course.But I don’t need to set myself up for that today just because a strange woman looked good under the restaurant lights.
Cursing my own stupidly soft underbelly, I flip open her bill folder, grab my note, and stuff it into my pocket.I might be curious about whether I could undo the woman who jokes about strip clubs after getting booted from our very polite neighbor to the north, but I’m not interested in exploring that with someone who gets all pinch-mouthed about two hot-pink lions rocking combat-boners in front of a sickly green sky.
I set their bill folders on the table and remind myself that it’s ridiculous to be disappointed by a woman I don’t even know.Still, I hover nearby as Ponytail takes her time sliding into her coat and winding the scarf back around her neck.
“Thanks again.”Her eyes flick to my chest, and my blood heats at the thought that she’s ogling me just as blatantly as her friend did earlier.That she saw something in me too, and that it might be worth breaking my rules after all.
I’m sliding my hand into my pocket to pull out that damn note again when she straightens and offers me a bland smile.“Have a nice rest of your day, Jonesy.”Then she turns and walks out, leaving me staring down at the name tag on my shirt.
Of course that’s what she was looking at.She didn’t even remember my name.
I yank the note out of my pocket, disgusted with myself, and toss it into the watery remains of her drink.The thin paper immediately dissolves into pulp.
Her loss.
Except for some reason, this one feels like my loss too.
Two
Liv
“Absolutely not.”
My voice is soft but firm, resolute in its opposition.And as she’s done since we met on day one of college orientation, CJ completely ignores it.
“Absolutely yes.”She waves a handful of lingerie like she’s taunting me with silk and lace and buckles and bows.“At least try something on.”
“We’re here soyoucan buy new bras,” I say, but even as I object, I let her herd me toward the dressing room.
“We’re also here to make sure you’re recovering from your trauma.”
“It wasn’t that traumatic,” I mutter as she shoves me through the door.
“Strip,” she orders.“And if it wasn’t that traumatic, why are you hiding here with me instead of staying with your folks and obsessively job hunting or, I don’t know, starting your own firm like you should’ve done years ago?”
I pop my head around the door.“I’m not hiding.”I choose to ignore the rest.
“Okay, vacationing.Just casually taking a six-week vacay with your best friend,” she says.“Strip.”
I know better than to argue with Charlotte Jane West when she gets like this, so I slowly unbutton my shirt.We made good on our plans over lunch yesterday and headed to the tiny town of North Village, which appears to be made up of four streets, a dozen houses, two churches, an antique store, and a lingerie shop situated next to a strip club, as promised.The town’s almost exactly between Beaucoeur and Chicago, and according to CJ, people flock here from both directions because the owner of Fantasia is famous for her ability to match boobs to bras.
I have no reason to doubt her.It’s the Friday before Thanksgiving, not even peak holiday shopping yet, and the place is packed with people crowding the colorful displays and popping in and out of dressing rooms while the employees scurry around providing measurements and restocking.
I don’t know how CJ manages to wrangle the owner herself for my fitting, but it’s the snowy-haired Jessica who knocks on the door of my dressing room moments later to ask if I’m ready.
“Let’s do it,” I say, bowing to the inevitable.I undo the last of my buttons as she slips inside and briskly transfers the measuring tape from around her neck to underneath my rib cage.
“Mmm.”She studies the tape, then wraps it around the fullest part of my breasts.She frowns when she peeks at the tag on the perfectly serviceable beige underwire I’d worn into the shop.“Two inches smaller and one cup size bigger,” she says, writing the correct size on a slip of paper.She hands it to one of her employees who zips off to consult with CJ on what I’m about to try on.
While we wait, Jessica gestures for me to unhook my bra.I do, although I clutch it to my chest rather than let it slide down my arms in an attempt to maintain my dignity.There may be no mysteries between you and your fitter, but I don’t need to be tits out while we wait.
“New to the area?”asks Jessica, who’s presumably used to having conversations with naked-from-the-waist-up clients.
“Um.Yes.”I glance at the goosebumps covering my forearms.What was I thinking moving to Canada when I can barely handle a global-warming winter fifteen hundred miles south of that?Maybe it’s for the best that I fled the country in shame and outrage.“I’m staying in Beaucoeur while I look for a new job.”
