“I’m not a dumbfuck,” I spit, not quite surewhyI feel the need to defend myself to him.
“At least not tonight you aren’t,” he half-agrees in a patronizing tone. “You lost your chance the minute you left him with a hard-on. Your loverboy just paid three grand to take two of our girls to a private room upstairs.”
Calvin left with strippers? Something about that bit doesn’t ring true. Calvin might be a slut, but whenever he’s here for me, he’s here forme. Yanking my fist from his grip, I take a step back. “You’re completely misunderstanding—”
“None of my business, right?”
Oh, sonowit’s none of his business? He just told me all of that to hurt me because he thinks Calvin means something to me. And instead of walking away, my dumbass is standing here defending myself to him.Why? Why do I care what this fatphobic, discriminating jerk even thinks of me? Who’s he to judge what he doesn’t even know about?
My self-worth doesn’t hang on his opinion of me. It never has. That’s why I never stopped applying to Cookie’s Treat no matter how many times he turned me down, and look at me now. I’m the head chef in his domain and he can’t do shit about it. And for that, he hates me.
Maybe this is his strategy. To shame me so I’ll want to leave the job. Or provoke me so I’ll punch him in the throat and end up getting fired.
Ha! Nice try, freckle face.The only power this sonuvabitch can have over me is what I give him, and that’s a privilege this jerk will never get from me.
Instead of reacting further, lest he thinks me weak, I give him a saccharine smile. “Nice talking to you, Mr. Walsh.”
Then I turn and sashay away, exaggerating the sway of my ample hips in a dick-hardening way that only badass curvy gals can.
Once I’m back at the stage with my girls, I wave the hostess over and request another stack as before, on Calvin’s tab. By the time I leave here, his tab will be through the roof, the bastard—not that it’ll do much damage to his deep pockets.
While one of the dancers encourages Lissa up on stage and proceeds to give her a topless lap dance, Mira, Kim, and I have a blast shelling bills on the stage.
“So, here’s some tea: Cal got engaged a few weeks ago,” I tell Mira.
She snorts and throws more bills at the stage. “What an unlucky bitch.”
“Andhis side chick crashed the engagement party. She’s seven months pregnant.”
“So,twounlucky bitches then.”
I snicker. “He’s shamelessly despicable.”
“The fuckboy of all fuckboys,” Mira agrees.
When the hostess returns with a fresh stack of cash, I tell her, “Bring us another bottle of champagne. The most expensive one you have. On Mr. Granger’s tab.”
I split up the cash among us. “In honor of the unlucky fiancé and pregnant side chick, let’s blow as much as we can tonight!”
“Whoo hoo! To douchebags and sexboys!” Kim squeals.
“It’sfuckboys,” I correct, knowing she’ll blush from the word.
Growing up in a religious home her whole life, Kim is far from being a worldly, defiant rebel like Mira and me. She winces at curse words and reddens during open sexual topics. But she’s in a strip club for crying out loud.
“Leave her alone,” Mira scolds me, all while stifling a snicker. “Baby, you can call that slimy asshat whatever you want.”
“To douchebags and promiscuous men!” she tries again.
“Come on, seriously?” I mouth to Mira. And we can’t help it, we both burst out laughing.
~
We leave the club drunk off our asses and cackling like hyenas.
“Wait,” Lissa slurs, “how are we getting home?” The birthday girl has had the time of her life for sure.
“Kim,” I say, “weren’t you supposed to be the DD?”
