6. Reasons my knee injury can fuck off

SIX

#5 Mind over matter. Its only a Injery if I let it be.

"Please, Tom," I begged as I leaned toward my curmudgeonly old boss, reaching as far over the bar as I possibly could to give him a solid look down my shirt if he wanted it. "Just one itsy-bitsy, tiny little baby shift on the weekends. And then more when I blow your socks off."

Tom's gaze didn't even drop to where my cleavage was fully on display. "That only works on customers, kiddo. Stand up straight and listen for the twentieth time: the answer is no. You're not ready. And if you ask me again, you're fired."

I did stand up straight. And then pouted. Big time. Just like I'd been doing for the past six days, while I'd gone to look at four rooms in the Bronx, interviewed for five different waitressing jobs, and slept on the moldy old couch at the auto shop. Not one of the apartments was habitable. In two, there were mice walking across the living room floors like they were going for Sunday strolls. Meanwhile, none of the restaurants had wanted to hire me either, and unwilling to face Lea's sanctimonious puss after my failures, I'd settled for Snickers bars and stale coffee for dinner four nights in a row in the breakroom and showered at Rochelle's place when Carmine was at work.

I was done.

My sisters had had enough of me.

My friends had had enough of me.

I'd had just about enough of me.

Something had to give.

Tom just continued doing some kind of calculations next to the register while Carla, the other bartender on duty, just smirked from the other end of the bar. She was one of the full-time staff, worked Tuesday through Sunday, and collected all those delicious weekend tips. I was pretty sure they'd paid for her boob job too.

I should have known the girls weren't going to work on my boss. I wasn't sure if Tom even liked women—had never seen him even blink at his female staff or any of the near-naked go-go dancers. I should know. I used to be one.

So, I tried another tactic. Pity.

"Tom, please. I just really need the money. You don't understand—my grandmother moved to Italy, and I have to find a new place to live, like yesterday."

Tom stroked his gray mustache and gave me a side-eye. "Joni, you fed me that line four months ago when you wanted the promotion. And again two months again. And again last month."

"Yeah, but this weekend, it actually happened. Honest to God, Tommy, I'm sleeping on a lumpy sofa in my sister's auto shop right now. Please, just two extra shifts so I can stop smelling like motor oil and afford a room somewhere that's not also a rat's nest."

"I don't need the staff," Tom reiterated, though he pulled at his mustache nervously. "But…" He looked down at my knees. "One of my dancers did call in sick tonight."

I practically jumped. Well, I would have if I could have. "I'll do it."

One of Tom's caterpillar-shaped brows lifted. "What about your knee?"

"My knee can handle it for one night," I said. "I won't do anything crazy. Stick me on the end where no one really watches, and I'll just, I don't know, gyrate. I'll make standing around look like the best moves of the night. You know I will."

Before he could argue, I was already stepping out from the bar.

"Where are you going?" Tom asked.

I grinned and held up my phone. "Taking my break. I gotta call for some reinforcements so I can get ready to go on."

"Are you sure you can dance?"

Rochelle scanned me up and down with the same doubtful expression my boss had worn all evening. We stood in the middle of Tom's office while I put on one of the costumes she'd brought me from Diamonds, only ten blocks away. The silver booty shorts, matching crop top, and thigh-high boots were maybe a little more revealing than I would typically wear, but I figured if the outfit got through a pole routine, it would be fine for wriggling around on one of Opal's platforms.

"How can you move in this?" I asked as I tugged boots over the fishnet stockings, then pulled at the tiny silver top that barely covered my upper bits. "It feels like it would come right off. I'd rather be naked."

The boots were a little big—Rochelle's feet had about a size on mine. The shorts, however, were almost as small as my underwear, to the point where tugging them out of my butt was probably a losing battle.

"Well, that is the end goal," Rochelle commented wryly. "Not until I want it to, though."

I turned to the mirror to examine my appearance. My hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail, and I'd taken some extra care with stage makeup that wouldn't come off when I was sweating. It was a long way from the jeans, tank tops, and Vans I usually wore behind the bar. But the outfit felt like home to me. It was meant for the stage. Where I was meant to be.

"It looks good," she said. "And by the way, Kyle said he does need another server or two for the gambling clubs. Did you want to meet him?"

I bit my lip. I probably should have said yes. Frankie's money was burning a hole in my backpack, but no decent landlord was going to give me a place without more income.

Something was still holding me back, however. I couldn't quite make the jump from honest and poor to shady and, well, less poor.

"Ask me tomorrow," I said finally. "If my knee does all right tonight, I bet I can get Tom to give me back my platform Thursday through Sunday. Then, if I bartend a few other nights a week, that should be enough to get out of the breakroom."

Rochelle nodded. "Just let me know."

We packed up her stuff, and she walked me back to the bar, where things were already starting to pick up for a Thursday night.

"I'll wash the costume and drop it at your place tomorrow," I said as I rounded the bar to finish my shift before eleven, when I'd officially move to a platform for the first time in months. "You want a drink?"

Rochelle looked doubtfully down the bar. "Uh…"

"Shut up," I swatted through the air at her. "I can make you a rum and coke, bish."

She chuckled. "Let's see you try it, then."

I started pouring the drink, but already Rochelle was shaking her head. "Jo, that's bourbon, not rum. Try again, mami."

"Freaking brown liquor bottles all look the same," I said back.

"You look good, kiddo," Tom admitted when I sidled around him to grab another glass. "Like your old self."

I grinned up at him, cheeks tight with pleasure. "Thanks."

I couldn't lie. I was pretty damn excited, even if only to shimmy around like an idiot. For the last four months, I'd ached every time I watched the girls who had taken my place, knowing I could do better.

Last night, after sending out my sixth job inquiry, I'd gone for a long walk around Belmont. I found myself loitering outside the community center where I took my first dance classes. Through the windows, I could see the little girls in tutus fumbling their way through barre work. I envied every plié and port de bras.

So, I didn't care if this was a bad idea. I would have given anything to be on a stage again. I would have given my very soul.

I returned to where Rochelle was sitting and presented her with a finished rum and coke. My cousin took a sip and almost spit it out.

"Fuck, Jo, how much rum did you put in this?"

I eyed the beverage. "Um, I don't know. I just estimated."

"Well, it tastes like half the bottle." Rochelle took another sip and grinned. "Eh, I'll take it. Four buzzes for the price of one, am I right?"

Beside me, Tom groaned. "Joni, I told you, use the jigger until you really know your drinks. You're wasting liquor and costing me money."

I gave him another bright smile. "I'm sorry. Of course. I'll use the thingamajig?—"

"Jigger," Tom said again. "It's called a jigger."

He stomped away, muttering something about "dumb kids" under his breath.

I just turned to Rochelle and giggled. "I can't say it. It sounds like a dirty word, don't you think?"

"You better learn, mami. Otherwise, you won't be able to keep this job neither." She stood up and grabbed her duffel. "I gotta go. If I don't start at Diamonds before midnight, the house fee doubles."

I made a face. "What does that mean?"

"Come dance with me, and I'll show you," she said. "Bye, baby."

We traded kisses, but when she straightened to leave, Rochelle froze.

"What is it?" I asked. "What's wrong?"

My cousin's mouth dropped open as she nodded toward the door.

"A stone-cold hottie just walked through the door, and he is staring right at you, mami," she said. "Something you haven't told me about this here job?"

I frowned. "What? No."

"Joni?"

At the sound of that familiar deep voice, something deep within my chest thrummed, like that velvety baritone called to the same part of me that hummed with excitement with every bass drop, every infectious beat coming from the DJ booth. I tensed—not, I realized, with dread or nerves, but because apparently, every cell in my body wanted to leap in the direction of the voice's owner.

Traitors.

I set the water glasses in front of my customers and turned. There he was, my very own Dr. McSteamy. Dr. Judgy-As-Fuck.

Nathan—excuse me, Nathaniel—Hunt. Looking at me like he had been searching for me my entire life.