Folk Around and Find Out (Good Folk: Modern Folktales #2)(3)

“You cannot be serious.” An application? Dancers didn’t fill out applications. Clearly, she had no idea how this worked. Like most clubs, none of my dancers were employees. They were independent contractors. Yes, they auditioned; yes, they completed payment forms and signed a work services agreement. But there was no application, no interview.

“I am serious. And I came prepared.”

I counted to ten and searched my club for a camera again. Beau did not emerge from some hidden spot and declare this a prank. My eyes returned to Charlotte, flicked over her. What the hell?

Under my perusal she straightened her back, her breasts pushing higher and forward in a move that looked purposeful. “I’m in really good shape, exercising is my only hobby, and I know how to dance.”

“You know how to dance . . .” I searched for Beau again. Nothing about this interaction made a lick of sense. Perhaps I was dreaming? It’s a possibility.

“I do.” Her chin lifted. “I’ve been taking classes and my instructor says I’m quite good. She even wrote me a reference.” Charlotte turned and began digging in the little purse she brought.

“No—no. I don’t need a reference.” Debating whether or not to pinch myself, I ultimately decided against it. If this were a dream, I wanted to see where it would go. I hoped Oscar the Grouch didn’t show up and chase me around with that peanut butter sandwich again.

Ignoring my last statement, she placed the folded-up piece of paper on the bar and smoothed it out with her fingertips. “Here’s the letter of recommendation. You can see here, I have excellent endurance and I can even play the trumpet while I’m on the pole—”

“Did you hit your head?” I made a face, leaning my hands against the bar top and scanning her forehead for an injury. Playing the trumpet while swinging on a pole? In what universe would that ever be sexy?

Her expression flattened.

“Blink twice if you’re in danger.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“Or is this a dissociative fugue? Which personality am I talking to? Let Charlotte come out for a minute.”

“Hank,” she seethed through clenched teeth. “Why are you giving me a hard time? Do you need more strippers or not?”

If this were a dream, she’d already have her top off. Thus, I decided I couldn’t possibly be asleep. “I need more dancers, yes. But I do not need, nor do I want, you—or your emotional support trumpet—in my club.”

She flinched. “Why not?”

Perhaps she was serious about dancing, but she couldn’t possibly be serious about asking me why I’d never allow her in here, and I wasn’t spelling it out for her. In fact, we were done talking. She’d taken up enough of my time. I turned away without another word, lifted the hatch, and left the bar. Walking past where she sat, I crossed toward the back. She could show herself out.

But then she called after me, “I need the money.”

Her startling words and her imploring tone brought me up short. She needs money? That couldn’t be right. Her ex-husband came from money, lots of it. The only thing Kevin had ever done right in his life was being born a Buckley. My father had been friends with the high society patriarch from North Carolina. I’d gone to boarding school with Kevin’s older brother and the dude was as rich as he was insufferable. And he was staggeringly insufferable.

I glanced over my shoulder.

She hopped off the stool, her eyes wide with panicked pleading. That’s when I comprehended the rest of her outfit, skimpy cutoff jean shorts paired with three-inch spiked heels. Her long, firm, pale legs went on and on, up to narrow hips and a narrower waist. The woman was tall and strong and had an exceptional body: perfect athletic proportions paired with a natural D-cup. I frowned.

Well, now, hold on. Wait a minute.

Trumpet or not, she’d be a sight to behold on the stage. I didn’t have anyone on the roster near as tall as her with her kind of muscular shape. April was tall, long and lean, and platinum blond. I scratched my chin. If Charlotte could dance like she said, then—

NOPE! No. Absolutely not. Have you lost your mind?

I gave my head a rough shake. No way in hell was I bringing on Charlotte Mitchell. Looking like she did, and given her angelic reputation, I had no doubt she’d bring in new business. At first. It would be a coup for the club and all my dancers would benefit; new business was good for everyone.

But then what?

I could see her up on the stage, but dancers made most of their income from lap dances at tables and giving private dances in the champagne room. She wasn’t a Carli or a Tina or even a Hannah. She was smart, but she wasn’t shrewd or calculating enough to dance in my club. If she had been, her weak-minded husband never would’ve left. He would’ve been too afraid.

In this business, you were either the giver or the taker, and all my dancers were takers. I made sure of it.

Not to mention, folks would try to run me out of town. Again.

There’d be backlash for certain. Loads of it. And only recently had I finally been able to go to Daisy’s Nuthouse for a cup of coffee and a snack without having to worry about dingles on my donut. Living my best life did not include dingly donuts.

I sighed. “Charlotte—”

“I need the money,” she repeated, stalking closer and twisting her fingers. “And I’m not asking for special treatment. I’ll audition, like anyone else. Treat me like I’m anyone else.”