Chapter 2

Faye

Pink is absolutely my color. Add in the shimmering lace, the black wig, exaggerated cat eyeliner, the deep red lip, and I’m the fantasy. The distraction. A show. And I’m itching to put on a good one tonight. Everyone loves a glam, Gatsby-styled pin-up girl this time of year. Tonight’s audience is rowdier than usual, but it’s expected for New Year’s Eve burlesque. Every single person, from prude to promiscuous, in this audience is here to be entertained.

The Gin Fizz host a cabaret style of burlesque show. It’s dinner, cocktails and some heavy teasing on the menu. And while the blue laws in Nashville have been enforced heavily over the last handful of years, it’s still a sexy night out. Pasties are a must, underboob has to be covered up, and that perfect crescent where my ass meets my thigh can only peek out “by accident.”

Deep and quiet, the drumbeat starts, growing louder just as the trumpet kicks in. A punctuation before it quiets. Its bluesy, teasing sounds from the saxophone and trumpet make everyone pay attention. I like numbers like this one. It leaves the audience eager for more.

I tilt my chin and flirtatiously smile at the front row. The bulkier man in the navy-blue suit pants and white dress shirt is wearing as much of a costume as I am. The facade of someone who’s only here to be entertained but has plenty to hide. His square jawline and the symmetry of his face make him nice to look at, but there isn’t anything memorable about his features. If I had to guess, I would say mid-fifties, but I already know his age. His date of birth puts him at forty-nine. He’s a Gemini. Enjoys a shot of lemon juice and turmeric to start his day and a glass of brandy to end it. Most people wouldn’t know any of this with only a few glances, but I’m not most people. And as it turns out, neither is Mr. Brock Blackstone.

Months of surveillance and orchestrated casual run-ins brought him to the Gin Fizz tonight—a wrong coffee order, the witnessing of a parking ticket disagreement, and my favorite of the damsel-in-distress set-ups, the “I’m so lost, do you know where I can find...” All of it had him coming in here as a regular. Then asking for my number and then getting more and more bold with his “requests.” And tonight, on New Year’s Eve, Blackstone smiles at me as if I’ll be the one to kiss him at midnight. He’s overeager, and that’s exactly where I want him. It’ll be an incredible coincidence when I’ll be performing in the same town as his upcoming business trip.

I take on jobs that feel right. Anything from assisting local police to helping a wife catch her husband in a lie or in someone else's bed. Private investigating means digging in and doing research. Focusing on the details that don’t connect. Asking questions and trying to find the inconsistencies in answers. Every once in a while, I’ll get called into something that has some meat on it.

Blackstone has depth and I’ve been working all the angles, from undercover activity to interaction and technology that make it easier to do the job. It’s a hefty budget, but when the FBI wants a guy, the avenues in which to get him nailed down are endless.

Flirting makes people vulnerable. It has the capability to knock people off course and can be the kind of high that far surpasses one found in a bottle or a pill. Though I smile at everyone in the front row, it’s Mr. Blackstone who will get my specialized attention. Because he keeps coming back for the high I give him.

The chorus kicks in, and I slowly turn in time with the other four dancers—the bump and grind is the easiest move to master. If it’s done right, and you add a few props with some eye contact, you’ll be unforgettable.

I unbutton the corset one hook at a time until it detaches, and I’m left in a pair of high-cut, satin shorts, and a sequined balconette bra. I’m more than comfortable being naked—a switch that had flipped when I leaned into burlesque. Confidence like I’d never known billowed around me like a fucking halo. There’s something about the tease that has people panting and sitting taller. Talking more and loosening up. And I like the power in that. It serves me well.

The audience hoots and hollers at the peeling and plucking of lace and satin. Three of the five of us are still covered, but two wear a cupless bra and nothing more than the letter X in black taped across each nipple. Our host for the evening says, “Looks like X marks the spot tonight. Who’s up for a little treasure hunt?”

I loop my feather boa around Blackstone’s neck, kicking my leg up and over his shoulder. The back of my knee leans there as my thigh rests along his chest. “Hello again,” I say in a low, coy voice.

Burlesque is meant to be campy and sometimes comedic, but always sexy. The spotlight hasn’t made its way to me yet, which makes it the perfect time to set a plan into play.

“Hello there,” he says slowly, relying heavily on what he believes is a charming southern drawl. Out of the corner of my eye, his colleague smiles and sits back, taking me in. A shiver works its way down my spine as he watches, and Blackstone glides his hand higher than anyone respectable would normally dare.

“I’m so glad you came tonight.” I fake it and smile wide as I lean closer. “It’s my last show here for a little while.” Kicking up my leg again, I turn with a wiggle, taking a seat on his lap. “If you’re planning to hit the bourbon trail in the next month or so, I’ll be up in Kentucky.”

He stares at me closely as his hand lingers along my thigh, his pointer finger drawing a small circle right above my stocking where the garter clips. If this wasn’t a performance, and if I hadn’t been playing a part, then a man like this would never get close enough to touch me, never mind linger. But on stage and in lights, I’m Rosie Gold. And tonight, Rosie Gold needs Blackstone to pay attention, so he knows where she’s headed next.

When the spotlight moves to me, I bend with sensual movement, elongating the lines of my body and without breaking eye contact until my neck tips far enough back. If he keeps his eyes on me, Blackstone’s getting a helluva view of my body. I’m hoping for that. I reach for the floor and plant my hands, arching into a slow and smooth back walkover.

This is the only time on a job when I don’t have some kind of weapon hidden on me.

In time with the beat, each dancer pulls out the confetti poppers strapped to our thighs and sets them off as the drummer hits his first cymbal. The audience loses it right on cue. Loud whistles, clapping, and cat calls ring out just as the song comes to a close. Tassels swing in time with applause, the host announcing each of our stage names in succession.

“Let’s give these beautiful women one final round of applause. And an extra special holler for Rosie Gold who’ll be up in Fiasco for a residency at Midnight Proof.”

I smile and wave at the crowd. And that is how you end an evening.

The DJ takes over as I hustle back to the green room and change. I have no intention of meeting Blackstone after the show. I need him to be hungry for more, all the way to Fiasco. I exhale slowly, trying not to overthink any of it. Fiasco —a place I’ve done my best to leave behind.

“Leave town and don’t come back.”

It takes only twenty minutes after my performance to be walking through the door of my apartment. And while it isn’t technically mine, it’s convenient. The five-hundred square foot studio is cramped, but the rent is palatable for this Nashville neighborhood. I don’t like being stuck in any city for too long, so subletting is just fine with me. It seems irresponsible to settle. The only place that I’ve ever considered home hasn’t been that for a little more than five years now.

When we first moved to Fiasco, Kentucky, it felt like we exchanged cattle for corn and horses. All of it seemed like a downgrade from living in Wyoming when we first arrived. But Mom inherited the farm at a time in her life when she realized she could use a fresh start.

My eyes blur with tears when I think about her and all the things I wish I could have said.

She was a barrel racer and then a horse trainer, touring with the rodeo circuit until she got too pregnant. When you’re twenty-two and have the whole world ahead of you, getting pregnant isn’t a concern. Until it is. She didn’t have anyone claiming her or me as theirs, so she started over somewhere new. That time, her fresh start landed her in Wyoming, where she met my sister’s father. He gave my mother a ring and told me to call him “dad.” We were happy there for a while. Except, he already had that with another woman in the next county. A wife and two other kids who called him dad, too.

She never had great instincts about the men she fell in love with.

Knocking the memories from me, my phone buzzes.

BLACKSTONE

Where’d you run off to, Rosie?

I know what he wants—men aren’t all that difficult to figure out. Instead of sending a text response, I filter through the images in my saved folder for this specific situation. I choose one that I took in the dressing room at a department store. Trying on lingerie for my costumes was the perfect time to snap a few for this exact scenario. I didn’t have the black wig on that day, so I crop the image starting from my lips and ending it just below my waist. I’m flashing a bright smile and plenty of cleavage. Perfect .

I toss the phone aside and take in what still needs to be done. Most of my things have been packed. I’ve gotten good at curating a capsule wardrobe for each season, keeping clothes limited because I never stay anywhere for too long. I like efficiency when it comes to my life—it’s something I can control and simplify. My equipment for surveillance along with my costumes and burlesque props are always stored in the covered bed of my truck. I toss my make-up and jewelry into the last duffle bag.

Looking around, it’s hard not to be painfully aware of how easy it was to pack up my life. Less than a couple of hours and it appears as if I was never here. The buzzing of my phone pulls me out of my head once again. Loneliness is funny like that; it hits you at the strangest times. Mostly when I’m alone but surrounded by people who don’t know me, or at times like this, when I’m ready to move and realize I didn’t make a single memorable mark while I was here. The phone's chaotic vibrating keeps going—it’s a call, not a text.

I smile, answering. Del would be one of a small handful of people happy to see me when I’m back in Fiasco. “Del, on a scale from one to ten, how pissed off is Marla going to be when she sees me?”

He lets out a clipped laugh. “How are ya, kid?”

“I’m alright,” I answer as I glance at the time on the microwave. “It’s late, everything okay?”

The long pause erases my smile. “Ah...Faye, there’s no good way to tell you this, but you need to come home.”

I hop up onto the small counter space. “I’ll be there as planned?— ”

A fact that he’s already aware of, since it’s his connection with the FBI that pulled me into this Blackstone case.

“Maggie’s been arrested.” Before I can ask what the hell my sister has done this time, he adds, “She’s been beaten up pretty badly.”

“What?” I slide off the counter. “Who was it?” Guilt and anger swirl around my chest as I hunch over and listen.

“She was picked up on a ‘drunk and disorderly’ this time. But she doesn’t look good. She won’t say who did it.” He exhales loudly. “She refused medical attention and finally passed out.”

“Is she seeing anyone right now?” I swallow the dryness in my throat. “Anyone who might’ve done that?”

“I don’t think so. At least not anyone she would have brought around. But you know her; she’s not all that forthcoming with details.”

Actually, I don’t know. The truth is, I don’t know my sister anymore. The same way she doesn’t know me. And both of us resent each other for it. When I left Fiasco, my explanation to her was weak at best. Mom told me to do whatever I needed to. She knew what I gave up. What I had done. But Maggie didn’t.

She won’t be happy to see me. She barely spoke to me at our mom’s memorial service, and that was almost three years ago now. But being back in Fiasco isn’t about Maggie or me or our feelings. And it isn’t for healing old wounds or reminiscing.

I look around the almost empty room. “If I hit the road in a little while, then I’ll be there by morning.” I bite at my lip, even more anxious now. “Thanks for the heads up, Del.”

“See you soon, kid,” he says, sounding relieved.

I feel everything but relief. We’re gambling with my return to Fiasco, and Del and I both know it. I would be there for long enough to run into people. For gossip to make its rounds. To see him again. I shake away the nerves. I need to stay focused. I’m not going to let a change in plan fracture the confidence of who I’ve become or what I’ve built. I’ll be there for a job, and as soon as that job’s done, I’ll be off to somewhere new.