Trusting You (Second Chances #2)(72)

The Mad Hatter was a “gentleman’s club.”

AKA: a strip joint.

And I was here to interview to be their newest stripper.

Desperate times called for desperate measures. I tore my gaze away from the sign and put my hand on the door. As I did, it swung open and a huge wall of a man stepped outside. He had skin the color of midnight, with arms the size of my thighs. His head was completely bald and he wore a black T-shirt that looked like it was going to burst at the seams because it was stretched so thinly across his massive chest.

Automatically I took a step back.

He smiled and it almost ruined the intimidating effect he had over me. Almost.

“Sugar, I think you’re in the wrong place,” he drawled, a thick southern accent lacing his tone.

Did he just call me sugar?

“I’m here for an interview,” I said, lifting my chin.

He grinned, flashing very white teeth. “Well, you definitely have a look that will drive ‘em crazy.”

I looked down at my cotton floral sundress with little cap sleeves. Was he being a smartass? I hadn’t exactly known what to wear to a job interview where the job required getting naked.

“You gonna let me in or what?” I said, crossing my arms over my chest and glaring at him.

He threw back his head and laughed. Then he stuck out his humungous hand. “My name’s Tyrese. You can call me Ty. I’m the bouncer here at the club.”

I slid my hand into his. “Harlow.”

“Miss Harlow,” he drawled, pulling the door open wide, motioning for me to enter. “Welcome to the Mad Hatter.”

*

The place was actually pretty nice. For a strip club. Excuse me, for a Gentleman’s Club, as was so proudly displayed on a sign beside the bar. The bar ran along the entire back of the establishment, with large mirrors against the wall where the alcohol sat on glass shelves and bartenders worked behind a chest-high wooden bar with many armless black leather stools slid up to it for seating. Every seat at the bar was taken except for the very last two on the end.

I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do. I was a little out of my element.

Okay, a lot out of my element.

Of course the first rule when trying to blend in is not to stick out. So I spun away from the bar, catching a quick glimpse of myself in the mirrors behind the bar as I turned, and suppressed the urge to shudder. Or laugh.

Ty was right. I did look lost.

The first thing I did was stop staring at myself in the mirror and turn, facing outward into the club. My eyes narrowed a bit, hoping to erase that doe-eyed innocent look and replace it with a more flinty, edgy expression.

I had no idea what flinty meant. But it sounded like I should look that way.

However, when my brain actually processed what I was facing—what I was seeing—and I forgot to be flinty.

The club was the shape of a giant square, with the bar making up one of the sides. In front of the bar, the floor was filled with round tables of various sizes. Some fit two people, some five. All of them had long pastel-pink table cloths that draped to the floor. Around the bottom of each tablecloth was a black ribbon with a giant black bow.

The chairs were all black leather and in the center of each table was a black top hat with what looked like beverage menus sticking out of the top.

The floors were all hardwood. Since it was fairly dark in here I couldn’t be sure, but if I had to guess, I would say the floors had seen better days but still had a high gloss so I figured it was being waxed or cleaned.

The walls were all black but were lit up with bright-pink neon signs in the shape of curvy women, top hats, and martini glasses. From the ceiling, lights hung that looked like giant orbs of low light, kind of like there were a million moons shining in the sky.

But the lights, the tables, and the neon signs weren’t what the people in here came for.

No.

They were here for what was on stage.

The stage sat directly across from the bar and ran the entire length of the building. It was currently dark and empty, with wide black curtains hanging on each side. A part of the stage jutted out between the tables like a runway, and I could see the rope lights lining the edges, but they were dark as well.

A waitress walked by and my mouth about fell open. She wore black shorts that were smaller than most of my underwear, black fishnet stockings, black stiletto heels, and no shirt.

Okay, she was wearing a shirt. But, really, I don’t know why she bothered. It covered nothing.

It was basically a pastel-pink string bikini top—no, scratch that—it was a pair of nipple pasties on strings.

She had really long, straight bleach-blond hair pulled up in a super-high ponytail and a black bowtie around her neck. As she moved, the light reflected off the shimmering body powder she had applied liberally to all her exposed upper body.

She moved through the crowd with a tray, handing out drinks, smiling, flirting, and leaning down over men suggestively.

Were they going to want me to do that?

No, Harlow. They’re going to ask you to wear less.

If that thought wasn’t enough to scare the flowers off my sundress, the music playing over the sound system cut off and people began to cat call and cheer. Then a new song began to play. One that didn’t have words. It was one of those sexy songs that accompanied people jumping out of cakes on TV shows.

There was some movement on the darkened stage, and I watched, wondering what was going to happen next. As the music played, a blue-ish toned spotlight came on over the center of the stage.