2. Willow

If I roll my eyes any harder, they will be stuck staring at my brain cells--which I’m in real danger of losing while working with this bunch.

“Are we seriously not past the male cliché of strip joints and hookers in 2023?” I ask with a sigh, already knowing the answers I’m about to be showered with.

“Oh, come on, Willow! Don’t act like you are better than the strip club. Nothing better than a bourbon, titties, and ass on a Monday night!” Bill hollers from over the booth, as Jim starts throwing out the single dollar bills while making lewd gestures.

“Clichéd and cheap,” I say with a sigh, and spin in my swivel chair to gaze at my screen.

I knew I was a little hard on them in some ways. I’m the only woman in here—a token. I am well aware that my hiring had nothing to do with my 4.0 GPA, nor the fact that I graduated summa cum laude from an Ivy League school that I worked my absolute ass off for. Neither was my employment due to my charity donations, volunteer work, nor the fact that I sold my soul to the intern gods. No. It’s because of my father that I’m here--but hey, that is a conversation for my therapist.

But the guys have embraced me. I have to give them credit for that. They don’t hide who they are or keep me out of the loop. They don’t put on airs and graces in case I go running to Daddy. They are cautious around me and make an effort to respect my personal space, giving me work that challenges but doesn’t overwhelm me, and they invite me to work events.

Like Monday night strip club outings.

I look down at my dry-cleaned Armani suit. The skirt is perfectly pressed and fitted to me, my stockings have a sheen but are also nearly opaque so they are still office appropriate, and my shirt is tucked to show off my figure. The outfit is designed to give the impression tha I am here to work. I know that I’m put together. It’s a well-crafted veneer of perfection that I’ve spent my entire life creating. And I wasn’t sure it would blend too well in tonight’s venue. I knew if I went home, I’d talk myself out of going, and if I did that . . . I’m just not sure playing hooky gives the right impression when I am trying to fit in with my male colleagues. Willow Rutherford: The Prude.

On the other hand, I figure I won’t really be high on anyone’s radar in a strip club as the only woman in a group of balding, middle-aged men who have a lot of cash and are desperate for female attention. I’m guessing the bar will be well-stocked and, overall, it will be an experience. Pretty sure I shouldn’t be nearly in my thirties, having never set foot into the dark side of town. So I decide I’ll go with them to the strip club.

It’s obvious as we reach the entrance who comes here often. Of the group of us, only a couple of the guys make their way straight to the side door, not bothering with the front because they know the reservation procedure. And funnily enough, it’s not the ones who talked the big talk. Those macho guys seem a little more unsettled but also excited, which makes me want to be sick in my mouth at the thought of it. This kind of place exploits women, and I can’t quite get past that.

The security guy gives me a little smile and a nod, and I wonder about his story. What he might have seen coming in and out of this place. How many women were like me.

McLandon’s. Not the worst name for a place like this. At least it wouldn’t look too bad on the company account the next day, and you could probably hide your visit from your wife.

I step inside and it takes a second for my eyes to adjust, but then they widen and I feel my eyebrows raising as I drink in the details. Everything is crafted to entice. The stage is raised to the perfect height above the seats so eyes will be drawn up, invited to explore the dancers performing. Mirrored walls offer reflections, glimpses of hidden flesh. Blackened walls, comfortable seats, and the sweep of spotlights make time freeze. The world could be waking outside, but this place seems to live in the eternal, scandalous night. It makes my breath catch in my throat.

I settle at the bar, taking whatever drink is pushed in my direction as my gaze drifts from one scene to the next. It’s all so disorienting. Hard to imagine how many people are here, how big the place is, and who is who . . . but I guess that’s all part of the narrative. You’re supposed to be focused on one thing. As if the whole club is following my thoughts, the lights dim, a silence settles and I can feel the static of anticipation sizzle through the air as she comes into view. For a second my heart stops altogether and only one question lingers on my breathless lips. Who is she?