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Unless, of course, Paulie catches wind of the change and loses his mind, putting me back on the stage.
Which, to be honest, I think is a possibility.
“Hey, princess, come,” a familiar voice says from behind me. Marco is there, holding a small pile of clothes and tipping his head for me to follow. I hand over the drink I'm carrying to a man who spent a few seconds too long staring at my boobs before following Marco. He starts walking toward an unmarked door.
“Roddy told you you’re serving from now on, yeah?” he asks when the music gets quieter as we walk. I nod. “Weekends, busy nights, you’ll be on the floor serving assholes watching the girls. That outfit is fine but find better shoes. You need a pair, you tell me, and I’ll order you some.” I nod and he continues talking as we stop moving. “But when there’s an event in the back, you’ll be in uniform and serving.”
“Uniform?” I ask, and he hands me a small stack of clothes.
"Your uniform." I take them and stare at him. "Come. You need to change. There's an event."
I lick my lips, so confused by everything. “Marco, why am I moving back here?” I ask, pushing my luck as he leads me to an unmarked door.
“Big Boss says so. Sorry, princess, but you’re a shitty dancer,” he says with a smile, and I want to be offended, but I’m really not. Iama terrible dancer. “But you’re gorgeous, and you have a good smile, and you’ve got the upbringing for this.”
“The upbringing?”
“I know who you are, princess. Turner’s daughter? I know everything, remember?” My stomach churns at that, and I hate it. I hate hearingTurner’s daughter, and it’s not just because it’s now my turn to sacrifice for Shane Turner after Lola was forced to do it for so long.
It's because I’m notShane Turner’s daughter.Not really.
And I'm tired of him getting that credit.
“You’ve been around men with wandering eyes and more money than sense. Know how to charm, the right smile to use.” Finally, I think I’m getting it.
“By back room, you mean—" Marco cuts me off.
“This room is the servers’ dressing room. There are cubbies for your stuff. This way, you don’t have to go into the chaos backstage.” I nod, and secretly, I’m happy. I love the girls, chatting and laughing with them and commiserating over shitty circumstances, but it’s overwhelming sometimes. “Take those, change. I’ll bring you to the back. Explain more.” I nod before Marco unlocks the door, and I step in. There are cubbies on one wall with a long, cushioned bench in front of them. In the back are two small rooms, I’m assuming for changing, and in the corner, there is a long, lighted vanity with makeup. I’m guessing it’s stocked the same way the makeup, toiletries, and snacks are backstage, and when I wander over, I see I'm right—there’s a mini fridge and shelving filled with snacks.
And it’squiet.
God, the quiet in this loud place is so damn nice. But Marco is waiting, so I head to the dressing room and shake out the stack of clothes he handed me: a tiny, sleeveless polo with a deep V that looks to be cropped right under where my boobs would be and a tiny pair of hot shorts.
Like a hot golf caddy.
Interesting.
But at least it’s more covered than when I’m serving in the tiny bikini top.
It’s kind of a relief.
Pulling it on, I find that the fit is perfect, as if someone knew and ordered the exact right size. But I guess when you work at a strip club, you get pretty good at guessing tits and ass sizes. Taking my things, I stuff them into a cubby that’s already labeled with my name before walking back out.
“Fits,” Marco says, shaking his head with a smile like he’s impressed or shocked but he isn’t sure why. “He’s a psycho,” he mumbles under his breath.
“Who is?” I ask.
“No one. Come on, follow me.” We walk through another unmarked door I’ve never noticed, though once we’re through, I recognize the small hallway. Straight ahead is where I was brought when I met with Paulie, asking to make my deal. God, that feels like a lifetime ago. There are two doors on either side, and Marco stops before the second on the left. He knocks quickly twice, then waits, then knocks again, waits, then three more. I raise an eyebrow at him, and he smiles.
“Super stealth,” I say with a smile. He shakes his head, and I imagine he rolls his eyes beneath those glasses before he starts talking.
“This room is where the games happen.” My body tightens, as I know what games mean.
My father got into hundreds of thousands of dollars of debt at these games, playing poker or betting on sports, but I never knewwherethey were. It’s not hard to believe the family would have multiple locations, but this makes sense.
Who would assume there was illegal gambling happening in the back of a strip club? There are so many other things to assume, more devious things, but gambling? It’s genius, really.
“Okay.”
