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I don’t bat an eyelid. “Whiskey Sour, Old Fashioned and the Horsefeather.”
“You mean The Godfather.”
“No, The Horsefeather. Whiskey, ginger beer, Angostura bitter and lemon juice. Kind of like a Whiskey Mule. You should try it. It’s delicious.”
“Impressive.” Benji nods his head, pulling a form frombeneath the bar. “Fill this out and let me know when you’re done.” He hands me a pen and gets back to work.
It takes me ten minutes to fill out the paperwork, with how much detail they require. It’s all lies, down to the phone numbers I provided for my references. The people whose names I have given will come through for me like I’ve come through for them countless times before, but I still feel uneasy. This is exactly the reason I was aiming at cafes and restaurants—you can get away with giving them just the basics. My hands are shaking by the time I hand back the form. Maybe it’d be best if I could find a diner on the outskirts. Somewhere, Dante Santoro would never set his polished shoe-clad foot in.
Benji scans the information before beaming at me. “This is awesome, Stevie. I’m sure we’ll be in touch once all the information checks out.”
Fuck. “Great.” I hop off the stool. “May I use your bathroom before I leave?”
Benji points me to a small corridor covered in mirrors, where I find what can only be called a lavatory fit for Buckingham Palace. Seriously, ever seen golden chairs upholstered in plush red velvet in a bathroom? Me neither. Until now.
I take advantage of it and plop myself in said chair, covering my face with my hands. I’m such an idiot. Why would I ever think I could pull this off? They’ll have me sussed in no time. If I didn’t have to put everything in writing, I could maybe con them into believing I have all the experience in the world, but even then, the jig would have been up the minute they wanted my ID. I may have paid good money for my fake Stephanie Nicks driver’s license, but it’s not good enough that a place like this would fall for it.
I get up and wash my hands with the luxurious soap,drying them on the individual, plush hand towels softer than anything I have ever used on my body. I should take one with me. Have a bit of luxury before I’m out on the streets again, not even having my car to sleep in anymore.
Resigned, I leave the bathroom, my head down as I make my way toward the double door I came in through.
“Hey! Wait!”
I stop in my tracks.
Shit, I shouldn’t have swiped that towel.
I thought I was in the clear when I didn’t see any cameras in the bathroom. I’m about to take off at full speed, not ready to get my ass dragged into a casino jail or whatever they’ve got here for their towel thieves when I hear my name. Well, my fake name.
“Stevie, wait!” I turn my head to see Benji rushing to me, a woman in a pantsuit right behind him. I’m a curious creature by nature, and this situation is no different. And, I may be about to be thrown into a casino jail, but something tells me not to run.
“This is her, Martina. Stevie.”
She looks me up and down, assessing me in my white blouse, skin tight black jeans, and heels.
“She’s gorgeous,” Martina says, making me blush. “Turn around, Stevie.”
Confused, I listen, doing a small circle right where I’m standing.
“Okay.” She puffs out a large breath, grabbing my hand and pulling me back towards the bar, Benji trailing behind us. “Thanks, Benji,” she says, opening the door to a small office right beside the mirrored corridor. Benji nods and goes back behind the bar as I’m pulled inside and sat on a chair.
“This is unconventional,” Martina starts.
I cock my head to the side, clutching my bag with the white hand towel inside to my chest, just in case.
“I’m Martina, the Head of Staff at the Black Royale,” she explains, not easing my nerves at all. Have they already realised I’m a fraud and just want to rub it in now? “One of the dancers broke her leg today and is out of commission for the next six weeks,” she continues. My ears perk up. “I know you’re overqualified and were probably hoping to be a server or work behind the bar, and with your experience, I wouldn’t hold it against you if you said no, but I had to ask.”
“Ask?”
“Would you be interested in filling in for a dancer?”
“A dancer? In one of those gold cages?” I question.
“Yes. The dancers are all on a contract, so it works a bit differently. You’d mostly be paid cash in hand plus tips. And the clients playing cards in the rooms upstairs tip the entertainmentverywell. They’re all high-stakes, invite-only tables. And, of course, when the other dancer comes back, we will place you in any role you’d like. If you wanted to, that is.”
So, potentially, I could fly under the radar.
“When would you need me to start?”
