Eye Candy (Holliday Family #1)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

CAROLINE

For some, it would be a challenge to act sexy with glitter up your nose, a G-string cleaving your hoo ha, and lash glue sticking your lid to itself.

For me, it was just another Thursday afternoon.

The trumpet bathed the room with its sensual throb and I moved through my choreographed steps—pas de bourrée, wink, drop the robe, feign shock—oozing sensuality and sweat under the harsh stage lights. My Black Swan routine involved slowly peeling off white, lacy layers to reveal a black underbust corset, scanty underwear, and studded nipple tassels. I’d twirl, the crowd would cheer, and I’d be done and dusted for another set. Tips please.

Except tonight, as fast as I spun and as boobily as I bounced, the room was silent.

The lights in my eyes made it hard to see beyond the front row—maybe someone had choked on a martini olive? That had happened to me once in Melbourne, and nothing killed an encore like a Heimlich-liberated olive flying into your feather boa .

On the last beat, I threw my arms in the air and posed, my breasts proudly jutting under their tiny modesty hubcaps.

“Let’s hear it for Summer Holliday!” The MC boomed through the loud speaker.

I waited in silence.

Surely, this audience was just slow to realize my set was done? I didn’t have anything left to take off without this becoming a completely different show, and that should have been their cue. For three eternity-filled seconds I stood there, waiting for applause and trying not to pant too obviously.

Then the slow sound of a single person putting their hands together echoed through the room. Humiliated, I nevertheless kept my showgirl smile glued in place as I collected my feathers and a single dollar tip from the stage floor.

What the fuuu… Fanny Brice is happening?

“Tough break, Kiwi,” the tech holding the curtain said as I brushed past him, trying not to cry.

Back in the safety of the dressing room, which doubled as the janitor’s closet, I let the tears go. The Dragonfly Den was my last chance at securing paid burlesque work in New York, and I’d had to quit my temp job to make the call time. Three years ago, I’d stopped touring with small festivals and moved to NYC with stars in my eyes, the usual cliché. I was originally from a small town in Aotearoa, New Zealand, and I’d naively thought talent and pluck would be enough to make it here in the city that never sleeps. I soon learned the secret was rich parents—or to get hit by a Lexus. Anything to be able to afford to take endless classes during the day and accept unpaid gigs for exposure at night.

Peeling off my pageboy wig, I ran my hands through my sweaty pink locks.

Without a burly job, I was losing hope on the dream front. And without a temp job, I was running out of time on the rent front.

On the vanity, my phone buzzed. I rolled my eyes when I saw who was calling.

“What, butt-breath? ”

“Hello to you too, shrimp,” my brother replied. The coffee machine at Dad’s café hissed in the background. “I thought you were trying not to swear anymore? You said it would make you more employable?”

“Shut up.”

“How’s that going?”

“Great.”

“You got a job?” The surprise in Mike’s voice killed me. “A real job, not running errands for your batshit flatmate?”

I turned my back on the single dollar tip sticking out of my makeup bag. “They say roommate here.”

“Sorry. Running errands for your batshit roommate .”

“Yup.”

Mike’s exhale blew out the phone line. “That’s a relief, Caroline. That’s what I was calling about. Me and Dad went to the bank this morning. It’s… not good. We can’t get an extension on the loan?—”

I moaned.

Mike raised his voice. “—it’s fine Caroline. Don’t be a drama queen. I can handle it. I just can’t send you any money this month, is all. I’m sorry. You know I would if I could.”

Like getting handouts from your younger brother wasn’t embarrassing enough.

I made listening noises as Mike told me about the meeting, and guilt ate me from the inside. I should be sending money home, not the other way around.

Maybe I could convince the Dragonfly to give me a second chance? This place wasn’t everything I’d ever dreamed of, but they paid their regulars well and had a reputation for being good employers.

Mike and I hung up, and when the club booker knocked at the door, I’d scrubbed the glitter off my thighs and was hopping around the room with one lash on, trying to jam a fluffy slide on my foot.

“It’s not going to work out. Sorry Kiwi,” Sal said .

Oh shhh… Sophia Loren.

“Five p.m. on a Thursday is a really hard slot, Sal.” I used my slide to quickly brush away a tear. “Maybe you could give me a nine? Or later?”

Sal was the walking epitome of the kind of alt-chic the Dragonfly Den catered to. The gray-haired white rocker wore an open leather waistcoat over a T-shirt for a band I’d never heard of, and the sides of his pompadour were shaved to show the red roses tattooed on his head.

Sal was shaking his head. “Sorry, Kiwi. Our performers have to be edgy. Fresh. Your uptown schtick is too tame here.”

Privately, I agreed with him, but uptown wouldn’t hire me either.

Smiling as sunnily as I could, I said, “Thanks anyway.” When in doubt, give ’em the Summer Smile. “Let me know if anything opens up.”

“Unlikely,” Sal said, not unkindly, but the words still hurt.

I nodded, my one surviving lash swinging from my lid, clinging as tenaciously to my lash line as I had to my dreams. I would have to go back to my tiny studio apartment and tell my roommate that nothing was wrong and rent wasn’t going to be a problem. Somehow, I would pull this month’s check out of my exquisite ass. I always did.

“I know you said you didn’t do privates,” Sal continued, “but Gerard, the guy who owns this place is out front. He wants to talk to you.”

Getting propositioned was bad enough, but getting propositioned by a club owner treating his venues like a dating service made me want to maim someone (him) with my curling wand.

I repeated firmly, “I don’t do privates. That’s non-negotiable. I’m a burlesque performer, stage only.”

I’d spent my whole career drawing firm distinctions between stripping, burlesque, and sex work, not because any category was any lesser, but because I was a burlesque artist. Period. Some cis men—and it was always cis men—saw a thong and took it as an invitation.

“He doesn’t want anything like that.” Sal looked offended. Good. “He just wants your time. Said he had a business opportunity for you.”

Bet the opportunity is his dick.

“Pass,” I said.

Sal shrugged. “Your call, Kiwi. If you change your mind, he’s the Gatsby-looking fuck sitting at the bar. Gerard owns this place and another one in Toronto, and he’s always hiring performers for his parties. Maybe he has some casual gigs uptown that would fit your style. If it were me, Kiwi, I’d hear him out.”

He waved and I was alone again.

I stared at my dollar bill. Washington stared back. Haughty bastard.

Eventually, I went out to the bar and listened to what Gerard had to say. The resulting twenty-minute conversation, held over the sticky counter of an alt nightclub, was about to change my entire life.