Stripped (Stripped 1)

It’s not enough. I don’t have months; I need income now. I keep hostessing, and keep looking for something better paying.

Again and again the gentleman’s club crops up in my thoughts. I know enough to know I’d make good money.

Finally, the semester is over and I have two weeks to come up with tuition, room, and board. It’s a staggering amount of money. Thousands and thousands of dollars.

Decision time.

I shoulder my purse, shove the nausea down, and get on the bus. It’s one of the new red and futuristic-looking ones. I have my earbuds in, and I’m listening to Macklemore, “Ten Thousand Hours,” a song I came across online by accident. I bob my head to the beat and focus on the words, the smooth, passionate flow of his rhythm and the beauty of the lyrics. I try not to think about what I’m about to do.

I’m nearly successful in pretending I’m just applying for any other job. But then the bus rumbles to a stop and I get off, stepping into the blistering heat. My wedge-heel Mary Jane shoes clack on the cracked sidewalk, and I follow the broken squares the three blocks to the door of the club. It’s a low red-brick building with a faded white awning. The name is written across the blacked-out windows in yellow neon tubes: Exotic Nights Gentlemen’s Club, and next to that is the hiring notice. There’s no phone number listed, no address, no notice of hours of operation. Just a single door, through which is visible a short hallway/foyer. It’s broad daylight, and the tiny parking lot off to the left is empty except for a single car, a white early-nineties Trans Am, the T-top open. My hands tremble as I clutch the sun-heated metal of the door handle. I taste bile, but I force it down.

There’s no chime when the door opens. The hallway, which is barely ten steps long, ends at another door, this one a basic black wooden slab with a round brass knob, which squeaks as I turn it. I can barely breathe as I take my first step into the club, into the first and only bar establishment I’ve ever been in. The lights are all on, illuminating fifty or so small, round black tables clustered around a semi-circular stage. A silver metal pole extends from the stage to the ceiling, and a bank of lights, currently turned off, point stage center. A bar runs the length of the club on one side, and there are booths along the other wall, cracked red leather and tacky-looking Formica with battered metal napkin dispensers and salt and pepper shakers.

A man sits at the bar, in front of him a short glass full of amber liquid and ice despite the fact that it’s barely three o’clock. He’s short, even sitting down, and he has black hair slicked back, movie mobster style. He’s wearing a shockingly bright Hawaiian-pattern button-down shirt and tight black slacks.

He hears me come in and turns toward me, throwing out a perfunctory, “We’re closed—” But then he sees me and cuts himself off, stands up.

My eyes are drawn to the pointy-toed snakeskin shoes, and then the bulging belly visible beneath the shirt, and then the gold rings on six of his ten fingers. He has a scruffy, scraggly goatee, a round face, and quick brown eyes.

“Well, hey there, darling. What can I do for you?” His voice is high-pitched but smooth and suggestive.

His gaze travels blatantly from my face down to my br**sts, lingering there for a long time, and then moving down to my hips and back up. I’m dressed as I normally am, in a pair of fitted but not skintight jeans and a button-down green sleeveless blouse.

My voice won’t work. I can’t make the words come out. I take a deep breath and force them. “I saw the sign…and I—I need a job.” The southern twang in my voice has never been more pronounced.

The man comes forward and shakes my hand. His palm is clammy, his fingers thick and his grip weak. “I’m Timothy van Dutton. I’m the manager. Why don’t you come sit down here?” He pats the back of the high swivel chair next to his. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Just some ice water, please.” I try to smooth the twang out, but it doesn’t work. I’m too nervous.

He scurries around the bar, scoops some ice into a glass and squirts water into it from a soda gun, then slides it across the bar to me before coming back around and taking his chair once more. “So. What’s your name?”

“Grey. Grey Amundsen.”

“Grey. That’s a pretty name.”

“Thanks.”

“So, Grey Amundsen. You’re here for the job opening?”

I nod. “Yeah. I…I’m at USC, and I…I need a job.”

He rubs the mustache on his upper lip and then his chin, perusing my body yet again. “Have you ever danced before?”

“Danced? I thought—I thought this was a…you know. A strip club.” I whisper the last two words, barely able to get them out.

Timothy laughs. “Most of my girls prefer the term ‘exotic dancer.’ So, I can probably safely assume you’ve never danced before.”

I really need this job, so I’d better put some effort into getting it. I have make him think I can do it, even though I’m not at all sure I can.

“I’m a dancer. I’ve been trained in ballet, jazz, and contemporary. So…I’m a dancer. Just…I’ve never danced like—like that before.” I gesture at the stage, the pole.

“I see. So why would you want to do this, then? It’s not for everyone. It takes…a certain kind of skill. You can’t just get up there and take your clothes off. It doesn’t work like that. You have to make them want you.” Tim’s eyes haven’t really left my br**sts the entire time he’s talking to me.

I ignore it.

“I know how to perform. I’ve done several recitals before. So…I know how to perform.”

He laughs. “This is a whole different type of performance, sweetheart. Now, don’t take this the wrong way, but you look like you’re about to piss yourself. So why don’t you be honest with me?”

“I really need this job.” I stare at the sticky bar top, refusing to meet Timothy van Dutton’s eyes. “This may not have been my first choice of job, but…I’ll learn.”

Timothy doesn’t answer right away. He lifts the glass to his lips and takes a sip, hissing slightly after he swallows whatever is in the glass. His gaze sweeps up and down me again.

“Stand up.”

I obey, and he twirls his finger in a circle. It’s the same gesture Mrs. LeRoux used to have us do a pirouette, so I do one.

“That was pretty-looking, but do it more slowly.”