Chapter Three
The beat of CeCe’s song “All Boots” pounded in my chest as the women of the Vault danced in the small spaces between the packed tables.
The three bartenders were on top of the bar, swaying their hips to the music.
All of them in various states of dress—none of them showing more skin than the average woman who came into the Dirty Plank on a Saturday night looking for a hookup.
Some of the women had on suede bralettes with lots of long fringe.
Some were in cutoff shorts that would make Daisy Duke proud, others were in low-rise jeans with shiny belt buckles. All of them in cowboy boots.
The dancing wasn’t choreographed, per se, servers just moving around the tables giving the patrons a show.
Some moves were more suggestive than others, but none of them involved lap dances or touching.
It was energetic, sexy, fun, playful, entertaining.
What it wasn’t was sleazy or erotic, nor were men shoving dollar bills at the dancers.
Poppy stopped by the table I was sitting at, put a little extra swing into her hips, and smiled.
She was one of women in cutoffs, but she wore a Johnny Cash concert tee that gave off eighties vibes with the strategic cutouts and the fabric knotted above her belly button, giving the onlookers just a tease of skin.
It lasted three minutes, and when it was over, the patrons hooted their appreciation and the servers went back to work.
I peeked around the room. No men leering. Sure, there were admiring glances, and sure, again, those glances lingered on asses and cleavage, but it wasn’t anything I didn’t put up with while working at the Plank or hadn’t been on the receiving end of while at a nightclub.
“Well? What’d you think?” Poppy asked.
“It was . . . cool,” I admitted. “Sexy but not . . .” I trailed off, not wanting to offend her.
“But not trashy,” she finished for me.
“Yeah, that.”
“I talked to the manager, Muriel. She said she’d hold off putting out feelers for a new girl. But she needs to know by tomorrow so the new girl can be trained before we’re down another server.”
Shit. That didn’t give me much time to think.
I didn’t need to look around to know the Vault had more of a lounge atmosphere than a bar.
It was classy, clean, and trendy with a touch of edgy elegance.
The drive up into the mountains would be a pain in the ass.
Not that it was far, but the windy roads in the early dawn would suck.
But the possibility of five hundred dollars per shift over the hundred and sixty a day I made at my second job was enticing.
Especially after today’s meeting. Sitting next to my mom watching her take one hit after another was a special kind of hell.
It was bad enough the man she adored was slipping away faster and faster, but the latest financial blow was going to be crippling.
“Everything will be fine,” my mom told me as we walked out of the nursing home, unable to hide the tremble in her voice.
Nothing was fine. Nothing would ever be fine again.
Which made my next statement asinine.
“I’ll let you know in the morning,” I told Poppy.
But I already knew what I needed to do. The truth was even if the Vault was a sleezy, take-all-your-clothes-off-and-dance-around-in-your-undies type place, I was going to say yes. Thankfully it wasn’t that.
“Cool. Are you gonna stay awhile? Obviously tonight’s a country theme. Next dance is in two hours.”
I wanted to sit in a bar for two more hours like I wanted a hole in the head.
I’d already worked eight hours today, then sat with my mom listening to my father’s doctor explain his decline that necessitated him moving to a different (read: more expensive) wing of the home.
That was after getting three hours of sleep last night—or this morning, as it were.
And besides, I worked in a bar; I now avoided them like the plague when I wasn’t on the clock.
But still, I gave Poppy what she wanted. Not because I was a pushover—okay, maybe I was—but I loved seeing the beaming smile my friend was aiming my way. And if I was considering this, I should sit through another song and people watch the members.
“Yeah, I’ll stay.”
“Awesome. Normally I only work a three-hour shift. But since we’re down a server, we’re all working longer shifts to cover. Normally each server gets a four-table section. One song per shift. That’s to keep the entertainment fresh,” she explained.
Five hundred dollars for a three-hour shift, I reminded myself and ordered another diet with extra lemon.
When Poppy brought back my drink, I handed her a twenty and waved off my change.
Her eye roll was dramatic but her ‘you’re paying for your daddy’s care, sis.
No tipping’ was heartfelt. She was right, of course.
I was paying the lion’s share of my dad’s care, but I was still me, and Poppy was on her feet slinging drinks while I was sitting at a table.
Therefore, my refusal to take my change wasn’t heartfelt—it was forceful.
She gave in. I smiled. Then, two hours later, I watched the women put on another show, this time to Jason Aldean’s “She’s Country.” Thirty seconds into the song I was tapping my strappy-wedge-heel-shod foot to the beat.
And yeah, the women swung their hips, spun, stomped their boots—it was sexy as hell but not trashy.
I could do this.
Once again, Poppy stopped by my table when the song was over. I stood to leave, pulled her into a hug, and whispered, “Tell your boss I’m in.”
Poppy pulled back but kept her arms around me. “Shit. Really?”
“Yeah. You were right. This place is cool.”
“I’m so freaking excited.” She beamed.
I couldn’t say I was excited, seeing as the reason I needed a second job wasn’t exciting—it was depressing. But I was excited to give up my crappy second job in favor of more money and maybe some sleep.
“Miss Baughman, are you ready to leave?” the doorman asked, and I now felt like an ass for not remembering his name.
“Yes.”
“I’ll have your car brought around.”
I made a mental note to ask Poppy if the servers’ cars were valeted or if there was an employee parking lot. The outside wasn’t pitch black around the outside of the club, but the lighting was soft, offering an intimate feel. The parking lot was the same.
I had the tip ready by the time my Mustang was delivered.
A pre-health-crisis purchase that I was equal parts grateful and guilty I’d dropped a wad of cash on.
It was flashy, loud, and unnecessary. It was also the culmination of hard work and saving.
The day I bought my baby, I’d been damn proud to write the check.
It was my one and only big-ticket purchase, one that had made me feel like I was an actual adult.
It wasn’t lost on me I’d been thirty, and now five years later I no longer felt like an adult—more like a beaten-down woman careening toward middle age with nothing to show for it.
No house.
No husband.
No kids.
And an apartment I could barely afford and a father who I loved more than life but who only recognized me one out of every ten visits, if I was lucky, and a mother who was heartsore and working herself to the bone to take care of the man she loved.
This adulting shit sucked.
I wanted to rewind time back to when I was six and my dad had me out on my first surfboard.
I wanted to go back to the quiet times sitting in the ocean with my dad in the early-morning hours, waiting for the waves to wake up.
Before I was a teenager and got wrapped up with friends and boys and choosing to hang out with them instead of my dad.
More than anything, I wanted that time back.
No, that wasn’t right. More than anything I wanted him well.
I wanted to see the spark of happiness in his eyes when I came into the room.
I wanted to hear him pepper me with questions about my life.
I wanted to hear him tell my mom she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes on.
“Sweet ride,” the valet said, pulling me from my depressing thoughts.
I handed him the folded bills and muttered my thanks.
It wasn’t until I was waiting for traffic to clear to make my right onto Wildcat Canyon that I scrolled through my playlists, found my favorite country tracks, and queued them up.
Dasha’s pop-country woman-scorned anthem started. I turned it up, until the bass was punching through my speakers and I could lose myself in a really great song and the throaty growl of four hundred and eighty horses under my baby’s hood.
Fifteen minutes later, with Carly Pearce crooning about a red can and gasoline, I merged onto the 67. By the time Carly was giving her last warning to her cheating ex, I shifted into sixth, completely ignoring the speed limit, making an otherwise forty-five-minute drive home into thirty.
Though, in hindsight, I should’ve driven slower.
After all, there was nothing waiting for me in my apartment but loneliness and a boatload of stress.