A Little Too Hot

Chapter Five

THE KNO CK ON the door sends me flying. I leap off the sofa as it opens.

“Time’s up,” Nora says, peering through the crack.

I look back at Harrison, who’s still on the sofa, looking a little stunned.

“So . . .” What? What do I say? Not, “This was fun,” or “See you later.” Instead I say, “Thanks . . . I guess.”

He stands. “Thank you. This was nice.”

“Nice,” I repeat, rolling that over in my head.

Nora reaches in for my arm and starts tugging.

“Okay, well . . .’Bye,” I say as she drags me through the door and closes it.

“This isn’t the Dating Game, girlie. No pleasantries required. When your time’s up, you just leave.”

I cringe a little. “Sorry. I’m not very good at this stuff yet.”

She gives me a look, then leads me back to the dressing room. “When you’re done changing, check in with Ben. He’ll have your tips sorted.”

“What do I do with my costume?” I ask, plucking at the tuxedo collar of my vest.

“Leave anything that needs to be washed in the bags in the corner. We send it out so it’s ready for you when you come in tomorrow.”

“I’m coming in tomorrow?”

She pulls the pen out from behind her ear and scratches her chin with the end of it as she looks over the notepad that always seems to be in her hand. “We’re open Tuesday through Saturday. I’ve got you on center tomorrow.”

I nod and close the door. When I confirm I’m alone, I let out the giddy scream I was restraining and do a little happy dance. “Yes!”

Twenty minutes later I walk from Ben’s office into the club with $546 in my pocket. Apparently, Hot Guy Harrison left a fifty on the table in the VIP room for me. Adding quickly in my head, that comes out to three hundred and fifty bucks he dropped on me tonight. It leaves me wondering how much set guys for movie production companies make.

It’s after last call, so the stages are dark and the bar is emptying out. I catch my eyes sweeping over what’s left of the crowd, looking for him. I don’t see him, but I see Jonathan. He’s on a bar stool, grinding against the blonde standing between his spread knees who has her tongue halfway down his throat. A blonde who’s not Ginger. This is why I don’t see him settling down anytime soon. He’s amazingly pretty, and girls throw themselves at him—same as I did. He just doesn’t have it in him to resist.

As I step up next to him, I notice the two double shots of Jack on the bar in front of him. I clear my throat and tap him on the shoulder. “You want some Ginger with that shot?” I ask.

He unsuctions his face from the blonde, who glares past him at me as he turns to look over his shoulder.

“Red!” He drops the blonde and spins his stool to face me. “Holy shit! I know we said we’d never do the nasty again, but that performance really made me second-guess my decision.”

I shove his shoulder, and he’s just drunk enough that I nearly knock him off his stool. He knows I was on the rebound the night we slept together. “Get over yourself. You weren’t that good.”

“Jon,” the blonde behind him whines.

He glances over his shoulder at her as if he’d forgotten she was there. “Oh. Hey. So, my friend’s here. You can take off now.” He turns back to me and lifts his glass. “To hot redheads who can fuck an entire room from the stage, and make every guy feel like it was just for him.”

I roll my eyes and we shoot. This time I beat him by at least half a second.

Behind him, the blond skulks off as Gina pours us another shot.

IT’S NOON WHEN I wake up on Jonathan’s sofa. I pick up my phone and scan my texts, same as every morning, but so far nothing from Mom. It’s warped, I know, but I’m so used to her to-do lists every morning that, as much as I hated them, and usually didn’t to the things on them just to spite her, I miss them. I think about calling her, but what would I say? I’m not going to beg her to let me come home. Doing so would show her that I can’t take care of myself. It would prove her right.

My gut tightens in that way it always does when I think about our last conversation. I remember how disappointed she looked when she told me she was done with me. But the kicker? Apparently I’m a bad influence on my eight-year-old brothers. God forbid I should corrupt the golden boys. She gave me twenty-four hours to get out and that was that.

If nothing else comes of this, I want her to see that I’m not a waste of space. I don’t know if it’s retribution or redemption that I’m after. All I know is that either of them will prove her wrong about me, and that’s all I really care about.

I push the blanket Jonathan gave me when we got home last night to the side and sit up. Last I remember, he and Ginger were in his room, fighting. She was here waiting for him when we got home at sometime after three, and she was super pissed. Can’t say I blame her. They were screaming so loud when I finally turned off the light and went to . . . sofa, I can’t believe I actually fell asleep. But as I sit here trying to shake off my hangover and wake up, it becomes glaringly apparent Ginger didn’t make good on her threat to rip Jonathan’s dick off because, based on the rhythmic knocking of his headboard against the wall, he’s clearly using it at the moment.

I drag myself to the kitchen and start the coffee, then stand here staring at the pot until a full cup has dribbled into it. The heating plate hisses as I yank the pot out from under the drip and pour the contents into my mug. I’m holding it to my face and burning my mouth on the sweet nectar when Jonathan’s door clicks open.

I look up, and wish I hadn’t, because the only thing he’s wearing is his extensive ink, and the condom he’s in the process of peeling off as he crosses to the bathroom. And I’m suddenly feeling like I’ve made a huge mistake. Do I really want to live here with a guy I’m not dating, but I’ve already seen naked more times than his mother ever did?

Ginger stumbles out of the room behind him in one of his band T-shirts, her spiky white-blond hair looking how it always does—just fucked—and her black eyeliner smudged, giving her a distinct raccoon look.

“Hey, Red,” she croaks as she staggers into the kitchen. She makes a beeline for the coffeepot and pours a cup. I hold out my mug and she refills it, then I shuffle out to the sofa and curl into the corner, cradling my mug to my chest and breathing in the steam so no caffeine escapes.

Jonathan comes out of the bathroom in a pair of jeans that he probably left on the bathroom floor last night. “Kevin wants nine hundred,” he says as he drops onto the sofa next to me.

“A month?” I ask, my eyes bugging out of my head.

He nods.

“To sleep on his sofa?”

He nods again.

“But aren’t you paying nine hundred?”

“Yep.”

“So, if I’m paying nine hundred, and you’re paying nine hundred, what’s he paying?”

He shrugs.

I roll my eyes as Ginger comes out of the kitchen with her mug and a granola bar, sitting on my other side. “Jon says you got a gig at Benny’s.”

“Yeah, for now. Jonathan got me hooked up.”

She gives Jonathan a “what the fuck?” look. “You brought her to that flesh pit on purpose?”

He holds up his hands as if surrendering. “Hey, she needed a job. I got her one.”

I scrunch my face. “If Kevin’s going to charge me nine hundred a month to sleep on this sofa, I’ve got to sock away some cash.”

“Yeah, well . . . if it were me, I’d tell Kevin to go fuck himself,” she says. “And I can help you find a real job, if you want. One that doesn’t involve pandering to the lowest common denominator and endorsing the double standard.”

“I hadn’t thought of it like that,” I say. But then I remember the stack of cash in my bag. “You know . . . I think I’m going to stick with this for a while and see how it goes. But, thanks.”

“Whatever,” she says. “And, if Kevin’s seriously charging you nine hundred, you definitely need to find a new place to live. There are a hell of a lot better places than this for that kind of money,” she adds with a flick of her eyes at the apartment.

I burrow deeper into the sofa and sip my coffee. “Well, if you hear of any, let me know.”

“You got it,” she says, then leans in and presses her shoulder into mine. “But as long as you’re living here, can you do me a favor and remind Jonathan to keep his dick in his pants?”

“I’ll do my best, but I can’t promise anything.”

“My dick was in my pants all night,” Jonathan protests, “until you took it out.”

I don’t mention the blonde at the bar because, technically, I don’t think he’s lying.

Ginger cuts him a look, then pushes up from the sofa. “I gotta get ready for work.” She takes her coffee and disappears behind Jonathan’s door.

“Speaking of work, when do you go back?” Jonathan asks.

“Tonight. Nora put me on center stage.”

Jonathan sits up a little straighter. “Are you shitting me?”

“Um . . . not as far as I know. Why?”

“You just need to watch your back. Center usually goes to the girls with seniority. There are a couple of them who are going to be pissed.”

The truth is, I’m not nearly as excited about going back tonight as I thought I’d be, and I know why. Dancing for Harrison got me hotter than I want to admit. There’s something about the way he watched me on stage—like I could actually feel his gaze—that was totally erotic. It’s depressing to think about going back there and not having him in the room for inspiration.

Ginger struts out of Jonathan’s bedroom, now fully dressed, and I do a double take. She’s in heels and a cropped black jacket over a green silk blouse and black pencil skirt. Her makeup is minimal and her hair is freshly gelled.

“Try not to fall dick first into anyone today, honey,” she says with a syrupy smile, and blows Jonathan a kiss before vanishing through the front door.

“Where does she work?” I ask Jonathan, staring after her.

“She’s a paralegal for the ACLU.” He flashes me that boyish grin. “Hot, huh?”

“How old is she?”

“Twenty-five.”

“Jeez, Jonathan. Didn’t know you were into older women.”

“Yes you did. You’re older than me and I’m into you,” he says, nudging his elbow into mine.

“Only by a few months.”

He shrugs. “She’s hot. I don’t discriminate.”

I suck down the rest of my coffee and hand him my empty mug. “She knows you too well.”

He takes it and goes to the kitchen to pour me a refill. “She just thinks she knows me too well. She really doesn’t know shit, because I haven’t screwed anyone else in the month we’ve been official.”

I roll my eyes. “You know grinding against fake blondes in bars counts, right?”

“Why should that count? If I was jacking off in the shower, would that count?” he says, coming around the corner to the living room with a beer in one hand and my mug in the other.

I shrug. “If you were making sense, maybe I could answer that question.”

“It’s the same thing,” he says, handing me my cup and dropping into the sofa.

I roll my eyes. In order to argue with him, I’d have to untangle his twisted logic, and that’s just too hard this early in the afternoon.

We curl into the sofa and watch the Doctor Who marathon, reciting all the best lines, until it’s time for me to get ready for work. I’m surprised when he follows me out the front door.

“You don’t need to come tonight, you know. I’ll be fine.”

He grins. “I’m not going for you. Or,” he adds with a smirk, “I guess I am. I’m even going to stay sober tonight . . . at least until you’re done—just so I know I’m not imagining how hot you are up there.”

I roll my eyes but don’t fight him. I’d rather have the ride than take the BART.

When we walk in, Jonathan heads toward Pete in the DJ booth, and I head for the dressing room. I push through the door and find a black girl at the makeup table, and a brunette with legs up to her eyeballs, sitting on the sofa, slipping on a pair of red nylons.

“Hey,” the black one says, spinning the stool to face me. “You must be Newbie. We heard you were all that last night.”

“Yeah. Hi. Sam,” I say with a lame finger wave.

“I’m Izzy and that’s Brittany,” she says with a nod at the brunette.

Brittany looks up from straightening her nylons just long enough to glare at me.

Great.

“It’s usually more crowded in here,” Izzy says, waving at the room, “but Nora’s still short girls, so Brit and I are doing doubles.”

“Son of a bitch,” Brittany growls from the sofa. I look over and her red dagger of a thumbnail has poked through her nylon, running it all the way to her toes. “Fucking cheap things Nora buys,” she says, ripping it off.

Izzy turns back to the vanity table and finishes with her eyes. I drop my bag near the sofa and find all my stuff in the closet, folded into a box labeled with my name. As I tug off my shirt and start to change, I feel Brittany’s eyes on me, but I don’t turn around.

“Where did you dance before?” she asks, reaching past me into the lingerie closet.

“Um . . . I haven’t really done this before,” I answer, looking over my shoulder at her as I button my vest.

She rolls her eyes. “Figures. Nora doesn’t know her ass from first base.”

“Cut her some slack, Brit,” Izzy says from the vanity, teasing her hair into an Afro and spraying it in place. “She bailed Ben out last night.”

Brittany grabs a new nylon and gets in my face on her way back to the sofa. “You’re new,” she says, running a finger under the tuxedo collar of my vest. “The guys like fresh meat every once in a while. But they always come back to the best, so don’t get used to it.” She brushes past and drops onto the sofa again.

I put on my garter and shorts, then find a empty vanity chair and slip on my nylons. I really don’t want to piss anyone off. I wish Nora hadn’t given me center.

As if I conjured her by thinking her name, she slips into the room. “You girls almost ready?”

Izzy stands from the table. “Good to go.”

Brittany just grunts at her.

“I’ll help you with those boots,” Nora tells me as I clip my nylons to my garter.

Brittany moves to the closet to find her shoes as I’m reaching for my boots. “You fit into those?” she asks with another glare as I pull them down.

I shrug. “They’re a little big, I guess, but not too bad.”

Her jaw tightens as she drops her shoes to the floor and slips them on, then stomps past Nora out the door.

“She tried wearing those,” Izzy says, “but she’s an eight and they ripped her feet apart.”

Nora takes them from me as I sit on the sofa. “Don’t mind her,” she tells me with a flick of her eyes at the door.

“She’s usually on center,” Izzy says from the door with an apologetic squint. “She’ll get over it.”

What am I supposed to say? “Okay.”

She nods and pulls the door shut behind her.

Nora helps me get my legs strapped in, then I throw on some makeup and I follow the others out. When I step through the door behind the curtain onto center stage, all three stages are dark. But just as I peek through the curtain, Big Pete’s voice starts over the music. “It’s the bewitching hour,” he purrs as the stage lights to my right flash on. “And the lovely Izzy is going to lock you in her spell,” Pete adds as she starts to writhe on stage in her kinky witch costume. “The only way out is to sell your soul to the devil,” he says as the stage lights to my left illuminate. “But when the devil looks like Brittany, you’re gonna be paying her to steal your soul.” Brittany spins around her pole in what I now see is a devil costume.

I step through the curtain onto my stage as Pete says, “Or you can give in to sin and let yourself be seduced by the scandalous, salacious, sensual, smokin’ hot Sam!”

My eyes drop from Big Pete and Jonathan, up in the DJ booth, to the crowded pit below my stage in anticipation of the flash of blinding light. And the instant before the stage lights flare in my face, my gaze locks on Harrison’s.