38. Paige
“What do you mean, we can’t come in?” Gina challenges the guy sitting on a stool outside the Cat’s Meow.
“Sorry, sweetheart, this is a gentlemen’s club. Only women allowed in are the dancers.”
“That’s ridiculous. We have rights.”
“Not here.”
I can tell Gina’s about to let loose on this guy Gina-style, and I’m pretty sure that is not going to help. I elbow her so she drops her fight. “We don’t really want to go in. I’m just looking for Damiano Zucco. Do you know if he’s here?”
The guy looks me up and down. “Damiano’s not here. How about you let me help with whatever you need, sweetheart?”
“What she needs is to find Damiano. Duh,” Gina adds in.
I throw her a look. Her attitude isn’t helping us. “Do you know where I can find him?”
He shrugs at me. It’s not a yes or a no.
“Can you call him for me?”
He shakes his head. “He doesn’t answer his phone.”
“Can you text him?”
He shakes his head. This guy is useless.
“I really need to see him. Is there any way you can help me find him? Please?”
He shrugs. “Tryouts are tomorrow at 2:00 p.m. All the top guys come in for that.”
“Tryouts?” I say with horror at the same time Gina says it with absolute glee.
He nods. “But the only way you’re getting through these doors is if you make the first cut.”
“Tell me about these tryouts,” Gina says, finally being friendly to the guy.
“Are you going to wear a one-piece or a bikini?” I ask Gina as I yank swimsuits out of my bottom drawer. I brought a whole bunch with me from California. You can swim in The Lake, Brian had said when he asked me to move out here to be closer to him. He didn’t mention that only diehards actually go deeper than their ankles because it’s zero degrees.
“Lacy bra and matching thong.”
“The guy said bathing suits are okay.”
“I know.”
I turn away from her before I smile. At first I was thinking that Gina offered to try out with me for moral support, but now I’m thinking she might actually be serious about it.
“Probably thigh highs, too.” She’s lying on her back on my bed, scrolling through her phone, playing a few seconds of a bunch of different songs, trying to pick one.
She’s been looking for a new job for a few weeks. And dancing is her thing. She’d be amazing at this. And apparently, the Cat is the premier strip club in Chicago, paying dancers more than a lot of lawyers make and not charging the dancers crazy fees for every little thing like the sleazy clubs apparently do, according to Gina’s online research.
“I’m going swimsuit.” Spending my teen years in San Diego, I practically lived at the beach. I’m just as comfortable in a swimsuit as I am in regular clothes. Honestly, sometimes I’m more comfortable in a swimsuit because I don’t have to worry about styling and accessorizing. Top and bottom, flip-flops, lip gloss, done.
“What about this one?” She plays a Brittany classic.
“For you?”
“No, for you. I’m already set.”
“Oh, I’m already set too.”
“Then why am I picking out music?”
I shrug. “What’s your song?”
“I’m going with an old school mafia don classic.”
I blink hard for a minute. “I have no clue what that would even mean.”
“It’s got to involve guns and killing but also be desperately romantic. And it’s got to be Sinatra, obviously.”
“Obviously,” I agree, though I have no clue why. “Wait—why?”
“Sinatra was practically in the mafia. But I’m going Nancy, not Frank.”
I’m utterly confused, but also I’m going to start freaking out if I don’t start practicing my routine.
Gina rolls onto her elbows. “You know you don’t actually need to try out, right? Once we get in the front door, you can just go find him.”
I shrug. “I don’t know. I think I need to show him that I can be what he likes.”
“You are what he likes. He’s been pretty clear about that.”
“I mean, show him that I can accept his world. That I’m willing to fit into it.”
“And you’ll show him that by showing your tits to all his friends?”
“The guy said we only have to dance. I’m not actually stripping, are you?”
She shrugs, then climbs off the bed and starts swinging her hips in front of the mirror, running her hands along her hips and thighs. She drops low so her ass is practically on the ground, then swings back up, flipping her hair. This girl was born to dance.
“So what song did you pick? No, wait. Let me guess.”
“Okay. But it should be pretty obvious.”
She freezes in place and stares at me in the mirror. “No. No, Paige.”
“Why not?”
“Have you ever even been in a strip club?”
I shake my head.
“It’s a lot of rap, some Top 40s. Think bass-pumping, high energy.”
“Dolly is high energy.”
“Dolly is G-rated midline energy. She’s, like, pump-you-up-before-you-go-to-the-club energy. She’s not bring-him-to-his-knees energy.”
I shrug. “She will be when I dance to her.”
Gina smiles wide. “Well, then. Okay, Miss Thing. I like this vibe on you. Jolene?”
No way I can taint ‘Jolene’ in case this doesn’t work out. “No, ‘9 To 5’.”
“Alright. Maybe that can work. Show me what you’ve got.”