Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 113710 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113710 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 569(@200wpm)___ 455(@250wpm)___ 379(@300wpm)
It isn’t solely Camille’s dad on my mind lately. Camille takes up just as much space. Our bond was immediate, as if I’ve known her since she was born. The way we connected was healing. Her nervous smiles and the way she reached for my hand when scared soothed the pain that tore through my heart long ago.
I feel hollow knowing I probably won’t see her again. She’s materialized in my dreams as often as her father has this past week. I wake up missing both her and the sense that I belonged.
As I reach for my mascara, I remind myself that I can’t fix anything by wondering what could have been. I’m here because it’s good, quick money, and stripping is work you can find anywhere, no matter where intuition leads you.
I’ve moved around a lot the last three years, never staying long enough to put down roots. Carlisle is my latest stop. I love its old historic buildings and the river weaving through them, but I don’t see myself staying long.
It isn’t home.
Though I’m not sure where home is anymore.
Shaking my head, I clear away the gloomy thoughts that will slice my already ridiculous tips in half. Before the kerfuffle last week, I was close to achieving the dream milestone I’d set last month. I can’t reach my goals with attachments, so I can’t let distractions keep me from getting into Salvator’s good books. I need to perform tonight more than I need my next breath.
My costume hangs behind me. It’s a metallic-silver bikini with fringe detailing that catches the light, paired with fishnets that have seen better days. I slide into them, the fabric cool on my skin, then pin my hair back to put on a wig. Wigs and contacts are more effective than Superman glasses. They conceal nearly as many features as masks do.
The music from the main room pounds through the walls. It’s a steady thump that matches my heartbeat. Peeking into the hallway, I spot Mia, one of the other dancers, leaning against the wall, scrolling endlessly through her phone.
“How’s it looking out there tonight?”
She glances up, her expression resigned. “Quiet.” She grimaces. “Dead, actually. I’ve never seen it this slow. Hopefully it’ll pick up once all their wives go to bed, but right now…” She shrugs before tucking a strand of her dead-straight hair behind her ear. “I wouldn’t count on it.”
Disappointment crushes me. I desperately need the money from tonight’s event. It’s meant to inspire me. Rent is due, but I also need more motivation than sparks that might be imaginary and the pleading eyes of a girl who shouldn’t matter to me but somehow does.
I muster a grin before making out that I’m not panicked. “It’s Monday. My last club didn’t get busy until late on Mondays.”
Mia nods, agreeing with me, but she doesn’t look convinced. “Yeah. That’s what I keep telling myself.”
With my performance review with the owner still an hour away, I throw on the uniform the waitstaff wears and then head out to the bar, the heels of my knee-high boots clicking on the sticky floor.
Sicilians don’t have the tipping culture of the United States, but the drinkers are generous when they’re served by one of their favorite dancers.
The club is dimly lit. Only neon signs behind the bar and the disco ball spinning on the stage provide light. The bar smells as it always does—of spilled beer the staff wipes up a dozen times and peanuts even the patrons avoid.
I grab a cloth and wipe the counter, though it’s already clean. It gives me something to concentrate on besides the worry burrowing in my chest. I’m three thousand short of this month’s target, with only six days left.
A couple of regulars sit at the far end, nursing their pints and watching Keisha strut her stuff on the main stage. I pour a pint for one of them, with the foam rising just right, then slide it along the bar. He nods his thanks, but his eyes stay fixed on the stage. I don’t mind. The quick murmur of “Keep the change” is exactly the response I’m aiming for.
After serving another handful of patrons, their appreciation mimicking that of the regulars, I glance at the clock. It’s still early. The sun only set an hour ago, so it’s understandable that the footpath outside remains empty.
The air feels heavy with anticipation, or maybe that’s just me, hoping for a rush that might not arrive.
While checking my makeup in the mirrored backsplash to make sure the glitter hasn’t smudged, Salvator walks in from the side door. He glances around the club, searching for someone. When his eyes connect with mine behind a row of empty chairs, I wave at him, my face showing no emotion.
He doesn’t return my greeting. With a grumble that sinks his usually puffed chest, he walks into his office and quietly closes the door behind him. He must have a meeting before ours, because the only time he isn’t on the floor is when he’s up to something shady.