Chapter 9 #2
I’m not stupid, though you might doubt that if you saw the wink I gave him while slipping his tip down the front of my bra. He paid three times the retail price of his cocktail.
After placing one note in the cash register and another in the bartender’s tip jar, I wave for the next guest to come forward.
By the time the bar is free of thirsty patrons, I’ve racked up 120 dollars in tips and am already grimacing about the blister forming on my big toe.
Working in boots without socks is never a good idea.
“Thanks for the help. Though I’ll admit I’m shocked you’re not working the floor with the rest of the dancers.
” The blond bartender wipes down the counter before propping his elbows on it.
He isn’t much older than me, and even with the dancers saving most of the best tricks for the patrons fanning hundred-dollar bills, he gets enough attention to announce how well he attracts the opposite sex.
“They’re the big fish with extremely deep pockets. ”
“And even bigger egos,” I murmur to myself.
His smile is blinding, exposing that he heard my snappy mumble. “Santo.”
After ensuring my hands are free of lemon juice, a favorite staple for cocktails in this region of Sicily, I accept the hand he’s extending.
“Lu—” As I choke on my spit, mortified I almost gave him my real name, I catch my reflection in the mirror behind the bar.
The red hue bouncing off my hair and cheeks gives me the perfect alibi.
“Scarlett.” His watch is far too suspicious for my liking, and it has me folding like a deck chair.
“It’s Lulu outside of these walls, but Giana said I needed something more mature inside them. ”
While raking his eyes over the rapidly filling floor space, he scoffs. “You’re ten years too old for half the men here each night.”
I balk, disgusted. “I’m barely twenty-five.”
A strange sensation buzzes through me when he drags his index finger down my screwed-up nose. “Exactly.” He takes in my whitening cheeks before he jerks his head to the left. “You’re being summoned.”
My eyes pop when I follow the direction of his gaze. Giana is among the stage curtains, beckoning me to her side with a stiff curl of her finger.
“Watch the front left corner of the main stage. One of the floorboards is loose.” I turn my gaze to Santo. “I’ve told maintenance about it half a dozen times in the past month. Nothing ever gets done.”
“Because everyone loves a damsel in distress,” we say at the same time.
I stupidly blush before I rush toward the stage.
Don’t burn me at the stake just yet. Santo is extremely attractive and has a smile that could stop traffic, but the strange sensation I mentioned isn’t sexual.
I’ve never had a friend, but I imagine this is how it would feel at the start of a forming friendship.
Not wanting the club to mistake the 120 dollars I made at the bar as tips I’ll receive while dancing, I quickly duck into the dressing room to stash the cash in my backpack.
A squeak escapes me when Giana thwarts my just-as-fast departure. She’s standing in the doorway of the dressing room, blocking the only exit.
When her eyes roam over my red wig, an earlier worry resurfaces. She hired me as a blonde, and for all I know, this club could already have its capita of redheads.
Yes, sometimes we’re hired solely based on our hair color.
Suspicion prickles my skin when she asks, “What were you doing out at the bar?” She’s acting like a jealous ex, which makes me wonder how close her working relationship is with her staff.
“Just helping out. Santo seemed overwhelmed.”
Her eyes snap to mine. “He let you help?”
I swallow to soothe my dry throat caused by the shock in her tone before nodding.
“Is that not allowed?” I ask when her silence becomes too much.
It takes her nearly a minute to respond.
“None of the other girls know how to mix drinks, so it’s never come up before.
” My nod becomes more assertive when she asks, “Did you share your tips with Santo?” Her smile relaxes the tension in my shoulders.
“Good. He’s here for the same reason as everyone else.
He needs this job, and I won’t let anyone risk it for him. ”
“Understood.”
She appears pleased with my response, but disappointment still engulfs me when she says, “Give me your playlist. While I get that ready, you can remove your wig.”
I hand her the old-school iPhone I’m never without before attempting to push against the rails. “I’d rather keep it—” I stop when anger reddens her cheeks. I can’t lose this job. It’s five hundred dollars a dance. That’s more than I’ve been paid at any club.
Furthermore, I applied for hundreds of jobs over the past week. This is the only one that called me back. As far as I can tell, that’s solely because I changed my dancer credentials to include my natural hair color.
“Can I swap it for something else? I have a stunning chocolate wig that doubled my tips…” My words fade as Giana shakes her head.
“I hired you as a blonde. If you wanted me to consider you as a redhead or a brunette, you should have shown up for your interview in a wig.” I hate every word she says next, but I can’t deny their honesty.
“You didn’t because you knew this position was advertised for a blonde dancer.
” Confident I’ll follow the rules, she heads for the exit.
“You have ten minutes...” She cranks her neck back to face me.
I’m already unpinning my wig, so the perfect name slides into her head. “Angel.”
It’s a suitable name for a stripper. Along with Candy, it’s the top-ranked name in this industry. I just wish it didn’t carry a strange sense of sentiment.
Happy with her choice, she continues through the door. “If you’re not backstage in five, Angel, I’ll give your spot to someone else.”
Even with my per-dance rate above decent, I still rush to the mirror to add some volume to my hair. It’s always floppy and lifeless when I wrangle it out of a wig.
The only good thing about preparing to take the stage without a disguise is the bright-pink hue on my cheeks. It gives me an innocent look.
Santo’s commentary assures me that the men in front of the stage will welcome that.
I throw down my ancient curler when the four-minute timer in my head goes off.
As I rush into the wings of the stage, an unfamiliar quietness engulfs me.
The music I walk onto the stage with, like a fighter entering the octagon, hasn’t started yet, but the previous dancer has finished her set.
I can see the empty stage floor from here.
I try not to panic. Some strip clubs have intermissions so the clientele has plenty of time to purchase another drink.
I won’t mention what else they try to order during a brief break. My palms are already sweaty. I don’t want more messes added to the looming disaster.
I scrub my hands down my thighs, shaking off the nerves crawling up my spine. I don’t get stage fright. How could I after everything I’ve been through? Removing my clothes for money is nothing compared to what I’ve done to survive.
I’m not generally a nervous person. The only times I’ve experienced these nerves were when I was sixteen and stupidly in love with the housekeeper’s son. I thought he liked me for me. I had no idea he was trying to get intel on my father’s business for his competitors.
The second time…
I shut down the thought before it can form.
Edoardo doesn’t deserve an ounce of my time. He was a snake in tall grass, and I stepped right on him. I more than bled when he sank his teeth in. I paid the ultimate price. I’m still paying for it now. But I also got Gabriele out of the mess, and for that, I’d walk through the same flames.
With the opening music of my performance trickling in my ears, I exhale my unease, then prance onto the stage with practiced grace. The stage’s spotlight homes in on me instantly. It’s hot and blinding and swallows everything beyond the first row of tables.
I blink through the glare as muscle memory takes over.
Step.
Turn.
Extend.
Breathe.
You’ve got this, Lucia.
My silent assurance would be more convincing if I could hear a single sound.
The room is silent.
Not quiet.
Silent.
There’s nothing except a commotion near the bar. Squinting past the lights, I see a large man—security, maybe—has someone by the arm on the bartender’s side of the bar. Although the blond man stands a foot shorter than the brute marching him out, he holds his ground for several long seconds.
When he reaches for the tips jar I helped fill, his furious yet still-handsome face is exposed.
Santo.
“I’m going,” he shouts over the music.
He sidesteps the stranger, but not without first barging into him. As the giant guides him to the exit, Santo’s eyes wildly dart around the club, searching for someone. I know who he’s looking for, just like I know who I’m about to see, as indicated by his narrowed glare.
My heart drops to my stomach when I move to an area where the stage lights aren’t blinding. It lowers even further when the inky-black eyes I’m expecting meet my gaze.
Dante occupies the center of the room, his aura announcing he owns the club, the air, and the silence. His posture is relaxed, but his eyes fix on me with an intensity that leaves me breathless.
He is the storm I keep pretending I want to outrun but know I never will.