Bad Nanny (The Bad Nanny Trilogy #1)(84)
“What's wrong with you?” Tiffany asks, coming over to press the back of her hand against my forehead. “You don't look all that great.”
“I'm fine,” I lie because I wish I were fine. Or that I was back in Berkeley. I suck in a deep breath and sling my purse into the locker. “Just tired is all.”
“Sure, sure. Boy trouble, right?” I look at Tiffany with my brows raised.
“Not everything is about boys,” I tell her and then it's her turn to raise her brows at me.
“Well, not everything is, but that face, that look of disappointment, that's got man trouble written all over it. Who else in this world do we depend on that could let us down so thoroughly?”
“I'm not depending on anyone,” I say, more fiercely than I probably should. But I'm not. I always take care of my own business, always have. My parents were supportive, sure, but I was always second place to Ingrid. I felt like the backup heir, the just-in-case kid. Even now, based on my mother's text message, she still hasn't grasped how hard this is for me.
Oh, and she said she had several voicemails from Monica that she hadn't wanted to listen to yet because, you know, Monica always has something to say. Can't wait to hear about my aunt's gossip this time.
“That's a girl,” Tiffany says as she moves back and smiles at me. “And well you shouldn't. Now, if you'll excuse me …” She takes a mock bow and disappears up the steps and into the club, the thumping bass beat teasing the soles of my feet through the floor.
Robyn watches me for a second and then goes back to her phone. The other girls are pretty close here, but I don't feel welcome yet. Maybe I never will? Maybe I don't care if I ever do? I don't want to be here long enough to be part of their family, I think meanly as I sit down at one of the mirrored vanity tables to my left and start to fix my makeup.
In a few days, when Zayden's gone and my sister's house is quiet and empty feeling with just me and the girls in it, what am I going to do? I really need to call Nelly up again and see if she'll reconsider watching the kids … even if she is an endangered sea crustacean.
My mouth twitches as I stand up and head over to the curtain, letting myself into the main part of the club. Although California has a ban on smoking indoors—even in a strip club—the place still reeks of smoke and weed and the sound of clinking glasses and male laughter makes my skin ripple.
Tiffany is onstage, swinging around the pole and swishing her blond hair, her tutu discarded, wearing nothing but a tiny G-string. Technically since the club serves alcohol, full nudity isn't allowed, but everyone here knows if you pay the right price you can get a private nude dance in the back.
But not from me.
No f*cking way.
I reach up to check my ponytail, slicking my hands over the shellacked hair as I move across the back of the room, my heels loud against the tiled floors. The rest of the building is carpeted in dark green with little gold circles on it, clean but old and smelling of smoke. This place is the only strip club within a four hour radius, so it doesn't have to be special; it just has to exist.
One of the bouncers, a guy whose name I can never remember, nods at me as I hit the two steps up to the second stage and put the most fake ass smile on my face known to man, breathing deep through my nose and trying to pretend that I don't notice the group of rowdy college guys near the end of the stage.
Only … I actually do.
Crap. Crap. And f*cking crap.
One of the dudes laughing and shaking dollar bills in the air is Dan the Douche, my study partner for survival analysis, and Tinley's ex-boyfriend. Great. Just great.
I think about retreating back behind the curtain, feigning a sudden illness or something, but our manager's standing across the room staring at me, his eyes narrowed and lips pursed. I'm on close watch after missing that first night apparently. Or maybe he just doesn't like me. I notice when he talks to the other girls, they look away, at the floors or the walls or the ceiling. I stare the man straight in the face, even that first night when I was crying.
Okay, I can do this. I can do this. This is about me supporting me, supporting the girls.
I step up onto the stage in black heels as a sensual rock song breaks into the room, and wrap my hands around the sleek black surface of the pole. I'm not the best dancer here, but I manage, swinging around in a slow circle as I warm up to the temp, my heels sliding against the floor.
My right leg lifts up slowly and I lay it against the pole, leaning forward like I'm stretching or something, like this is just a warm up for a workout. That's how I've been getting through this, pretending each dance is a different event. Keeps my mind off of the eyes below me.
I draw my leg back, knee up and swing my hair back, my long ponytail flying dramatically as the men cheer and shout. Because we serve alcohol here, they're supposed to stay six feet away from the dancers at all times, but dollar bills rain down on the stage anyway. Anything to get me to come closer, I guess.
Oh, and did I mention the special around here is called dollar titties? Wave a buck around like the college boys at the end of my stage and get a girl to come and shake her boobs in your face. I hate this. I hate it so much.
My eyes close as I let go of the pole and bend down low, coming up slowly and flicking my ponytail over my shoulder, my red corset and skirt making me feel more secure. It's when those things come off that I feel the aching numbness start to take over.