Page 33 of Twisted Prince
And firmly close the door on my opportunity to work for Boston Chic.
* * *
“It’s not funny, Hannah. It was mortifying!” I exclaim as we stand in the back of Big Mike’s Diner while I prep another pot of coffee.
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry. I know it’s not funny,” she says, trying her best to stifle her snorts of mirth.
“You’re a bitch,” I snap, even as I join her laughter.
“Yeah, but did you just… hand the trash back to them after you filled it up?” she asks. “I mean, I would have if I were you. What jerks.”
That makes me laugh even harder. “Oh, man. I should have! No, I literally set it on the table and ran. No goodbye, no sorry about that. I literally just booked it.”
“Oh, man. I would have loved to see their faces.”
Slowly, the smile dies from my face, and my eyes drop as I pick at the peeling corner of the coffee maker label. “Yeah,” I agree half-heartedly.
“You still worrying about paying rent?” Hannah asks, her voice softening as much as her thick Boston accent will allow.
I nod. “I know I have some time to build up a bit of savings, but how am I supposed to make money once the baby comes? I can’t afford rent and daycare on a server’s paycheck.”
“I know you said no strip clubs, even though those girls make sick money for the hours they work?—”
“That’s a hard no, Hannah. They have to be willing to do lap dances and get all up in guys faces and…” I shudder. “No. Not happening.”
“You didn’t let me finish,” she presses. “I heard you loud and clear the last ten times. But have you ever thought about Pearl’s? It’s that burlesque lounge off Beacon Street. It’s like a high-class establishment or something, and I hear the girls make awesome money. Plus, they offer housing and daycare for single mothers if you sign on with them full-time. A friend of my cousin’s started working for them a few years back, I guess, and she couldn’t be happier there.”
“What’s burlesque?” I ask, suspecting I won’t like the answer.
“Well, okay, so here’s the thing. You might have to do a few performances in some skimpy outfits or something. But it’s not just like stripping on stage. And from what I understand, the guys never get to touch you.”
Worrying my lip, I consider what she’s saying.
“Just go check it out after your shift. You have, what, ten more minutes ’til lunch ends? And if you decide it’s not for you, then no harm, no foul. But I hear they’re hiring, and I’m sure they’d snap up a girl like you in a hot minute.”
Against my better judgment, I stand outside the front doors of Pearl’s a half hour later. The hours say they don’t open until 5 p.m. But when I grip the gold rod handle and pull, the heavy door swings open without so much as a sound.
No one’s at the host stand, though a sign tells me to wait to be seated. After several minutes of hesitation and craning my neck to see around the corner, I walk past the sign and down the ramp into the main room.
It’s a massive establishment with several floors of dinner seating looking out on a rather impressive stage. The main dining area bumps right up against the stage, with the performance space set high enough so everyone can see.
To my right, at the back of the dining room, is a long bar with red leather bar stools spaced evenly along its length. Soft clinking informs me that someone is messing with glasses somewhere out of sight.
“Hello?” I ask, stepping up to the bar and leaning over it.
A tall woman with a sharp black bob cut and an impressive amount of eye makeup straightens to look at me.
“I was hoping I could speak to someone about a job. I heard you’re hiring?”
“You’ll want to talk to Keoghan about that,” she says, pointing to a man reclining leisurely in a booth near the back of the dining area.
Blond curls cover his head, and he has a casual confidence, his dress shirt open several buttons and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Colorful tattoos cover nearly every inch of his exposed arms and neck.
“Thanks,” I say, and taking a calming breath, I head straight for him despite the two other men he sits with.
His blue eyes find me before I reach the table, and he watches me with mild amusement as his buddies turn to watch me approach as well.
“Hi, I heard you were hiring and came to inquire about the dancing position,” I say. “Melody O’Mara,” I add, extending my hand. And thankfully, it’s steady even though my voice wavers dangerously.
