Chapter 9
Lucia
Aweek passes in a blur of exhaustion, cheap instant noodles, and the constant disappointment of “thanks, but no thanks” for every position I apply for.
I’ve barely slept. Each night, I lie awake, counting the cracks in the paint of my studio while waiting for the failure weighing down my limbs to shift.
It never does.
The past week has been a constant stream of disappointments.
There was only one positive.
When a strip club called with an interview offer, I almost dropped my phone. The club is an hour’s commute from Carlisle, but if the wages on the website are right, the pay per set will more than make up for the inconvenience.
All strip clubs look different in daylight. There are less neon and shadows. The sign outside sputters weakly, as tired of pretending to be glamorous as I am. When I push through the unguarded door, the metallic tang of the stage lights warming up wafts into my nose.
My heart pounds as I walk toward the manager’s office.
I’m not nervous—just desperate. If this doesn’t work out, I might have to answer a handful of ads from the wrong side of the classifieds.
They’re requesting strippers for “private” performances, but even a novice in this industry can read between those lines.
They want more than a bump and grind.
They want the works.
I don’t want to go down that route, but I’m also desperate to see my son, so I can’t remove anything from the table until I weigh up the benefits it could bring.
Since Gabriele was born into the Cosa Nostra, his value is rated on his gender instead of who he could be. I’m nine million, five hundred, and seventy-eight thousand away from Edoardo rewarding our child’s custody to me. Ten million is the apparent face value of a low-ranking gangster.
An eight-figure payout is out of reach with a regular income, and as much as I like to preach that I’m an optimist more than a pessimist, I won’t be able to deny the truth too much longer. If I want to see my son in person before he turns eighteen, I may need to sell more than my soul.
I have offers. Associates of my father have offered mid six figures to sleep with me, though it could be less now that I’m no longer a virgin. Losing my V-card dropped my value to almost zero, so I won’t mention how bad things got when I fell pregnant after my first time.
The hallway leading to the manager’s office is lined with framed posters of performers. They’re smiling as if they know something I don’t.
My palms sweat as my throat constricts. Like I did the first time I entered a strip club, I tell myself that I need this. I need money and stability if I want any chance of being a mom.
A real mom, not one who only gets to call once a month after depositing a child support payment a Hollywood elite wouldn’t be ordered to pay.
When I reach a door marked Manager, I knock once.
“Come in,” a woman calls from the other side.
The manager, Giana, sits behind a cluttered desk. Her eyeliner masks her true age. Rumors reveal she’s in her mid-forties, but she appears closer to thirty. Her hair is slicked back into a sleek ponytail, and her pursed lips show she won’t tolerate nonsense.
Giana’s scrutiny isn’t cruel—more detached, like she’s evaluating a product instead of a person.
Her penciled brow quirks. “Lulu?”
“Yes.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel from hearing my alias spoken out loud.
Using a familiar name makes my cover easier to remember. Throughout childhood, I was called Lulu. Once I grew boobs, the name shifted to Cici.
I only mixed things up because I used Cici with Dante. I don’t know why. It isn’t like he’s scouring the streets of Carlisle for me. My intuition just screamed at me to be cautious after recalling how he purchased Pepenero Privè solely to interact privately with me.
Giana’s nose crinkles. “You’ll need a different stage name. Lulu is too childish.”
I nod, agreeing with her.
She appears pleased with my submissiveness. “Sit.”
I lower myself onto the chair across from her and watch as she flicks through the bare-bones résumé I scraped together.
Celesta was sad to see me go, but she allowed me to include her as a reference.
I fudged her number, not wanting my details passed on to the new owner of Pepenero Privè.
It could end badly for me, but tell me one manager of a strip club who calls to check the references of a dancer.
“You’ve worked in strip clubs before?”
I nod. “Yes.”
“Why did you leave your last place so suddenly?”
My stomach somersaults as I force a rehearsed lie through my stern lips. “Personal reasons.”
Since it isn’t a lie, Giana hums but doesn’t push any further. “We pay five hundred per performance. Our share of the tips is twenty percent. If the bar doesn’t make its quota for the night, that goes up to thirty.”
I nod, hopeful its briskness will hide the excitement flaring in my eyes. Five hundred a performance is five times what I was paid at Pepenero Privè. “I understand.”
After closing my thin, one-sheet file, she studies me. I don’t fidget or look away, successfully concealing how badly I need this. She could cut my performance pay in half like Salvator did if she smells my desperation.
Finally, she speaks the words I’m desperate to hear. “You’re hired.”
Relief floods my chest so fast it hurts. “Thank you.”
“Can you start today?” she asks. “Afternoon shift. It’s slow, but it’s a good warmup. You’ll get a feel for the stage and the layout.”
“Today?” I ask in disbelief.
Nodding, Giana hands me a stack of paperwork. “Fill these out before your next shift. Today, we’ll keep your wages off the books.” Excitement bursts through me as she checks her watch. “First open slot is in an hour. If you’re changed and ready by then, it’s yours.”
“I’ll be ready,” I reply, clutching the employment contract like it’s a lifeline. Because it is.
With a smile that matches mine, she gives me a quick tour of the club. It’s similar to every other strip club out there: dark, dingy, and the only option.
The impromptu tour ends in the dressing room behind the main stage. “We encourage the girls to bring their own outfits, but the props closet has everything from a nun’s habit to a prison guard’s uniform. Help yourself to anything.”
“I packed a few options, but I’ll take a look to see if anything will improve the customers’ experience.” She’s already peering at me peculiarly, so I run the skit I use anytime I apply for a new job. “Are there any protocols I need to know?”
“Protocols?” she asks, appearing lost.
“Like... ah… touching the dancers? Is that extra?” I only tack on my last question when her brow disappears into her hairline. I had a feeling this club was a one-for-all service. A handful of the rooms we passed had beds in them instead of gleaming silver poles.
Desperate not to hear the words I see ruminating in her narrowed eyes, I blurt out, “I have no issues if they want to touch. I just want to ensure the club receives what it is owed.”
A relieved sigh rattles in her chest. “Phew. I was getting worried you were one of those dancers who refuse to do private shows.”
“No, of course not.” I’m a terrible liar. However, Giana doesn’t seem to have an inbuilt lie detector. “That’s where the real money is made. Everyone knows that.”
She murmurs in agreement. Then says she’ll introduce me to the music coordinator and other dancers before I go onstage.
I wait for her to disappear down the hall before entering the dressing room. Pindrop silence engulfs the room when I stroll to a long line of mirrors. The bulbs above them cast a golden glow over the room that makes everything look less seedy.
After hiding the dark circles around my eyes with concealer, I change into an outfit clients will instantly approve of.
It’s fitted and leaves little to the imagination.
My reflection in the full-length mirror near the props closet already looks like someone else, but I still pin back my dead-straight locks and hide them with a fiery-red wig that usually litters the stage with notes.
Whoever said blondes have more fun has clearly never met a redhead.
Once my wig is in place, I ignore the butterflies taking flight in my stomach and enter the busiest part of the club. Surprisingly, the bar isn’t as empty as expected. The tables in front of the stage are filled with patrons, and over a dozen men wait at the bar to be served.
Two dancers attend to the VIP clientele, but they avoid those who seem unlikely to fork out for a private dance.
I veer straight for them. Just because they can’t afford a private show doesn’t mean they’ll be stingy with tips. Flashy people are usually the most morally bankrupt.
“What can I get you, honey?”
The man stares at me for a moment, letting my words sink in. I smile when he peers behind his shoulder, certain I’m speaking to someone else.
“You appear more a liqueur guy than a brown hard liquor fan. Am I right?”
Slowly, he nods.
“Amaretto or pistachio?”
His smile is the only genuine thing about him. He’s a creeper who doesn’t have the funds to bring his wildest and most likely criminal fantasies to fruition. “Surprise me.”
I hit him with a frisky wink before slipping behind the bar. The bartender looks up when I help myself to a bottle of almond liqueur from the back shelf and pour a generous serving into a glass, but my silent promise of a fifty-fifty split of any tips I make keeps his mouth shut.
“Hold on, honey,” I say when the patron snatches up the unfinished drink and slaps a low bill on the counter. “We’re not done yet.” His hooded eyes lift from my breasts to my face when I squeeze a wedge of lemon into the mix, then add sugar syrup and an egg white.
He’s hesitant when I slide the drink to him, wordlessly announcing it’s ready, but the instant the amaretto sour hits his taste buds, he adds two bills to the first one.
“Keep them coming, honey.” He uses my self-appointed endearment, hoping it will ease me into a false sense of camaraderie.