17. How to make money fast

SEVENTEEN

#9 Stripping. Dammit.

"It's just an interview," I told Rochelle for what was probably the tenth time since I'd shown up at Diamonds that afternoon. "And I don't see why I can't go to one of the actual pop-ups for a trial instead of doing it here. Kyle knows I'm not planning to get on the pole, right?"

On Monday morning, I'd woken up to a call from one of the lobby doormen, who'd informed me about a delivery coming up from Bergdorf's. But instead of the two dresses I'd picked out with Andrea, a messenger had rolled in two full racks of clothing, plus more bags, shoes, and accessories than I could count.

Nathan didn't pick up the phone when I'd called—he had back-to-back surgeries all morning. He had, however, responded with his typical straightforward literalness to my texts once he was out.

I don't know if you are aware, but it looks like all of Bergdorf's was just delivered to your apartment. And charged to your credit card. You may be a victim of identity theft.

Nathan: It's not the entire store, only the things you said you liked. I also told Andrea to add any other accessories she thought were necessary, so if something is missing, just let her know, and she'll have it sent over.

I don't know what to say. It's beyond generous. And way way way too much.

Nathan: It's necessary.

He reiterated that he was serious about this arrangement of ours and wanted me to be prepared for anything.

I didn't know what to think of it. Of him being so generous. Of how he didn't seem to think it was generous at all. Or of how much money a person had to have to feel that way in the first place.

And then there was the small but not insignificant fact that I couldn't ever hope to pay him back for all of these things.

I had spent the rest of the morning putting the clothes away in my closet and trying not to have a heart attack whenever I saw the price tags.

Then I'd immediately called Rochelle and asked her to get me that meeting with her boss.

It wasn't the clothes themselves exactly that made me call my cousin. It was what they represented. This weekend, I was supposed to act like Nathan's girlfriend, someone who wore things like these to galas and fancy dinners, who could talk about literature and art the way Matthew, Kate, and Frankie had always been able to do.

But it was more than that. People like that knew how to act in those situations too. Xavier, Frankie's husband, and Nina, Matthew's wife, were proof of that. They knew which forks to use at a fancy restaurant. They had impeccable grooming and museum memberships. Had traveled the world, stayed in five-star hotels, knew exactly how much to tip bellhops, and collected art like my nephews collected Pokémon cards.

It was a different world, and learning how to navigate it would cost money. And since Nathan had clearly paid way more than I ever would have accepted, the rest had to be up to me.

So, I was doing what I had to do.

Sitting beside me in the Diamonds locker room, Rochelle just smirked as she helped me apply false eyelashes over a thick cat eye. "Kyle's not going to take you to one of those unless he knows you're legit. This is your audition."

Diamonds was no different from any of the other strip clubs still left in Manhattan. Past the theater district and close to the river, it was in the part of midtown that still hinted at the darker New York that existed before I was born, when Seventh Avenue was dotted with peepshows instead of Disney stores and restaurants. The building itself was a converted walkup that had been painted black up and down the brick exterior and over the windows. The entrance was covered by an awning lit with a neon sign bearing its name and an animated woman's leg kicking toward the night sky.

"My sunny personality isn't enough to wait tables?" I asked. "I have to take my top off so he can make sure my tits aren't different sizes too? Everyone's are, you know."

Rochelle snorted. "Mami, last year you skinny dipped for two hours in front of fifty people that night Carmine snuck us into the pool during the heat wave. I've seen you perform in nothing but a thong and body paint. Why are you getting shy now?"

I pressed my fingers to the edges of my lashes, waiting for them to dry. "I'm not."

That was a lie. I actually had a very good reason for getting shy. A six-foot-four hulk of a reason with an adorably sweet smile. One that wore glasses, kissed like a god, and said the word "perfect" with a growl that made my toes curl.

Then I sighed with my eyes still firmly shut. "I just don't want to do it here."

"Why, you want to serve drinks topless at your regular job? I think you might get arrested."

I shook my head. I didn't want to ask. But at the same time…I knew I had to. "You haven't seen Shawn here recently, have you?"

There was a long silence. Longer than the remaining seconds needed for the eyelash glue to dry. Gingerly, I removed my fingers and blinked. The lashes stayed put. Good.

Rochelle, however, was looking at me like something was very, very wrong. "Please tell me that motherfucker isn't back in your life."

My family barely knew anything about Shawn Vamos, but the same couldn't be said about Rochelle. It had always been hard to hide from her, especially since she'd been with me on the day Shawn and I met. And for a long time, served as an alibi when I needed to claim a "sleepover." She'd enjoyed attention from some of Shawn's friends too, so it's not like she had ever judged me for him.

But unlike me, my friend had easily grown out of that part of our lives. Out of the clutches of men like that.

For me, it hadn't been so easy.

I gave a half-hearted shrug. "He showed up at the bar on Thursday."

Rochelle swore under her breath. "Fuck, Jo."

"Hey, I can't stop him from just showing up places. He really is a bad penny."

"A demon penny," she concurred. "Why don't you file a restraining order or something? Get him off your back permanently."

I gave her a look. "You know why."

Rochelle had the decency not to voice the reason out loud. "I still think you should tell your brother about that."

"I am not telling Matthew or anyone in my family. You know that."

"Yeah, but Matt would sic the entire NYPD on his ass," Rochelle said. "Get him locked up for what he did to you."

"I was legal at the time." My voice was a monotone. I hated talking about this. "Technically, he didn't do anything wrong."

"Yeah, but I bet others weren't. No offense, baby, but you weren't the only girl Shawn fucked with."

The sick feeling in my stomach grew. I couldn't argue with that. I didn't even want to anymore.

And yet he still held me hostage. I'd accepted that he always would.

Didn't mean I liked it.

I closed my eyes and saw Nathan's face. The confusion that crinkled his brow when he learned the basics of my story with Shawn.

The shame that clouded my vision and made me sick every time I imagined telling him the rest.

No, he would never know.

No one else would.

I'd take that shit to my grave, no matter the cost.

"Well, what does he want?" Rochelle asked.

That wasn't so easy.

"I don't know," I admitted. "He sat down, had a drink. Gave me some shit for disappearing for a few months?—"

"When he ghosted you after your surgery," Rochelle added while she applied some silvery eyeshadow.

"After that, yeah. Then he and Nathan got into a weird sparring match over paying for his drink, and then he left."

Rochelle stopped with only one eye done. "Wait, your sexy roommate was there too?"

"Um, yeah. Except now he's sort of my boyfriend. I guess."

What should have felt good to say out loud instead just felt dirty. It was one thing to play a part for Nathan's family and coworkers, for stuck-up people I didn't even know. It was another thing completely to lie to my closest friend.

"I knew he wanted that ass!" Rochelle crowed. "I knew it wasn't just him being a ‘nice guy.'" She shook her head. "Rich men don't help pretty girls for nothing. So, I hope you're being careful."

I sighed. "It's really not like that. We haven't even…you know. Just a couple of kisses."

I wanted to tell her everything. I wanted to reveal the whole arrangement, partly so she wouldn't think he was a dog just like everyone else, but partly to get some perspective on the cloudy hotness that had occurred in the department store. How could something that was just pretend feel so confusingly real?

But I couldn't. Because the agreement was between me and Nathan, who was literally saving my ass. I couldn't betray him like that. Not even to my best friend.

Besides, for the plan to work for both of us, I needed her to spread the word. And Rochelle was a very dependable gossip.

"Well, if Shawn does come by here, you can tell him, or any of his friends, that I'm not available anymore," I said.

It had worked for her, once upon a time. Back in high school, Rochelle and I had both been tied up with Shawn and his friends. We were the young girl arm candy they took to Yankees games and parties and too many places sixteen-year-olds had no business being.

Then she met Carmine, and we found out how those men felt about used goods. They lost interest in Rochelle completely. And she'd never looked back.

I prayed it would work the same for me.

"If Shawn shows up here, I'd probably nail his dick to the door before asking the bouncer to throw him out," Rochelle replied as she went back to doing my other eye. "But I'm happy for you, mami. Just be careful, all right?"

I nodded. "Always. All right, fit check."

I stood up and looked myself over in the mirror. I'd done my hair and makeup in essentially the same look I used as a go-go dancer—dark eyes, false lashes, overlined lips, and heavy contouring, all with stage makeup that was impervious to sweat. Not bad. I wasn't much for the caterpillar lash up close, but it would look good under the dimmed lighting of the strip club.

The look wasn't quite on par with the elaborate outfits the other girls were currently putting on, but Rochelle had assured me that the mesh tunic over my skimpiest bikini was more than appropriate, especially when paired with the mammoth heels called Teasers, she was lending me until I could buy my own. So long as I could move and flirt, I was good to go.

"You look hot," Rochelle said as she started pulling out her own stage wear for the evening. "Like Velma Kelly before she goes to jail."

I had to grin. On any other day, namechecking my favorite character from Chicago would have just been depressing, but that was exactly the image I was going for. Dark, glam, and without any fucks to give. I hadn't seen this girl in a while. Granted, I never brought her out expecting to audition in a place like this, but what the hell? Money was money.

"Word to the wise," Chelle said as she adjusted her tight blue bodysuit. "Tip Kevin—that's the other doorman—well. He walks girls to the train."

I nodded. My cousin had already explained to me that the dancers and servers were expected to pay a small bit of our tips to the bar staff, similar to how the dancers at a club like this paid house fees and tips to the rest of the staff. Depending on the number of players and how well they did, the percentages varied. Honestly, the numbers made my head…hurt. But I'd figure it out when the time came.

"Did you pick a stage name yet?" Chelle asked while I fluffed my hair a bit more. "I don't give anyone my real name. No stalkers, please."

I sighed. It wasn't a bad idea—it would actually make the whole getting into character thing easier. But I'd been completely blocked since she'd suggested I come up with one this morning. "I can't think of anything. What's yours?"

Rochelle grinned as she started pinning up her tight curls. "Coquita."

I laughed. "Like the drink?"

She just grinned harder. "They always did call me a coconut back in school. I might as well use it."

I guffawed. "It's perfect." I turned back to the mirror. "Should I just be lazy and call myself Velma? Or is that too Scooby Doo?"

Rochelle made a face. "You gotta do something sexy, babe."

"Gigi it is," I said, thinking of another famous musical character, this one a bit closer to my actual name. If I was going that direction, I might as well stick with it.

Fifteen minutes later, Rochelle took me up two sets of stairs and down another long hall to the manager's office on the top floor of Diamonds.

"Good luck," she said just before knocking on the open door and blowing me a kiss. "Kill it."

"Kyle?" I entered the room, where a thin, middle-aged man with slicked-back hair and a chain around his neck the size of my belt stood from behind a big black desk. "I'm Joni, Rochelle's cousin."

"Joni," he said as he extended a greasy hand with two gold rings on his thumb and pinky finger. "Good to meet you, honey. Rochelle says good things. Can't wait to see you in action."

I crossed the leopard-printed carpet to shake his hand and looked around the room. On one wall were a number of screens. Some were looking into a few private rooms, all currently empty, and a few others were tracking other parts of the club. The far wall of the office was just one big window that looked down into the main club. The lights were on, and there was no music playing, but I saw signs of activity as waitresses, bartenders, and other club employees floated around, getting the place ready for it to open at two.

"My knee's still out," I said. "But I can move a little and wait tables, serve drinks."

"Lap dance?" Kyle asked, his beady eyes giving me a thorough once-over.

I nodded. "That won't be an issue."

He nodded. "Well, you look the part, honey." His eyes stopped at my chest, and he didn't even try to hide the fact that he was eyeing my breasts like chicken cutlets. "Did you ever see that surgeon? I sponsored your cousin's work, you know."

I sighed. "I did. But I don't think it's for me."

Because you're perfect just the way you are. I could practically hear that low burr brushing against my cheek.

Kyle shrugged. "You change your mind, you let me know. We're always happy to take on real talent here, and Rochelle says you're the real deal."

I nodded. "Sure. Thanks."

Kyle then proceeded to lay out the rules for working for him, counting them with his thumb, index, and middle finger as he went. "We got three. No drugs. No stealing. No sex. Some of the girls might tell you differently about what can happen in the private rooms, but I run a straight operation at my clubs and my parties. Topless only. You can let 'em touch what you want, but nothing under the panties. They want more, you take it out of my place of business. If my liquor license is revoked because you're turning tricks, you're gonna owe me a whole lot more than house fees. You got me?"

I barely managed not to grimace. "I have zero problem with that."

"Anyone gives you any grief, you talk to Kevin or one of the other security guys. I usually keep at least three at every game, more at the club. Take care of my money; take care of my girls. No matter what."

For a fee, I expected, remembering Rochelle's explanation. Which I fully intended to pay. I just hoped it wasn't too much.

"All right, then," Kyle said. "Let's head downstairs and get your audition done before we open. Afterward, we can take care of the paperwork. If everything goes all right, you do a few trial shifts here, and then maybe you can serve at some games next week. I got a hot game going on uptown."

I grinned. "Sounds good to me."

I followed him out of the office and down to the main floor, which was lit a bit darker now as the staff got the place completely ready for the evening.

"Stage sets are usually three songs," Kyle said. "Most of the girls working the games do at least one per night, on top of serving drinks. That all right, honey?"

I looked down at my knee.

"Nothing fancy," he assured me. "I just need to know you can move. It don't take much."

This was probably a terrible idea. But suddenly, it didn't matter as I walked up to the stage—a long platform scattered with poles that wound through the center of the room.

"I guess she's ready," Kyle said with a laugh as he took one of the leather chairs near the stage. "Any song you want?"

I drew a hand down the pole, then back up. I wasn't super experienced with this form of dance, but I'd taken a few classes out of curiosity a couple years back. Enough that I thought I could come up with something simple, mostly favoring my good knee.

Hell, my body was itching to move.

"Cardi B," I said. I figured if I was going to do this, I was going to do it right. "‘Money.'"

Kyle chuckled. "You're aiming high, girl. I'll give you that."

But by that point, I no longer cared about anything he had to say.

The room was empty. There was no one else but me up here. And I was going to make the stage mine.

I turned on my good knee, wrapping myself around the pole like a kitten around a stranger's leg. The pounding piano chords vibrated across the room. And that was all it took.

I was already a dancer when I got on that stage. But the second I grabbed that pole, I became something else entirely.