Folk Around and Find Out (Good Folk: Modern Folktales #2)(4)

Well. That would certainly be a novelty for her, she who received differential martyrdom care wherever she went and expected nothing but the best from people. She’d get none of that here. She’d be chewed up and spit out. Successful dancers had hard limits, firm boundaries; they knew their worth and demanded the customers pay them their due. Most women weren’t raised that way and—as far as I knew—Charlotte was exactly like most women.

But I couldn’t say that. Her hackles would rise, and I’d already given her too much of my time and way too much of my attention.

Instead, I said, “If you’re doing this for money, then this ain’t a good fit. You wouldn’t make much to start out, not for six months, at least. New dancers get the shitty shifts, afternoons during the week and mornings on the weekend, making yourself available to fill in for other dancers when they need to call out.”

She bit her lip, chewing over my words before saying, “That’s fine.”

I lifted an incredulous eyebrow. “Oh really? You can dance in the afternoons? What about your teaching job?”

“School is out for summer.”

“It’s August. What happens when school is back in session?”

“Then I’ll . . . figure it out.”

“Not good enough.”

“I’ll—”

“No.”

“Hank—”

“No,” I said firmly, my patience at an end. “The answer is no. You’re not worth the trouble.”

It’s possible that if she’d caught me on a different day, I would’ve had more tolerance, I might’ve been gentler and calmer. But I was tired of entitled morons dictating to me how to run my business. If I gave an inch, she’d probably demand that I add a dedicated meditation room to the club. And a chapel. And a sauna. And a tiki bar.

Besides, who the hell did she think she was? If she wanted charity, she’d come to the wrong place. Some of us lived in reality. This was my club. Mine. And even though it was often more trouble than it was worth, I had my people to think about: sixteen professional dancers, three bouncers, a bartender—all of whom relied on me and this club to put food on their tables. Unlike her, I never took or gave handouts.

Charlotte rocked backward, her eyes flashing and her hands coming to her hips. “What exactly is your problem with me?”

“You’re still here,” I gritted out, my temper ballooning. But given her past dirty looks, what her ex-husband had done to my business, and all the spit I’d been served in my food, was I surprised she’d pissed me off? No. No I was not.

Huffing, Charlotte’s mouth formed a grim, angry smile. “Fine. Then I guess I’ll leave.”

Finally.

“You do that.”

I turned and continued toward the back without waiting for the sound of her departure, determined to forget about her intrusion the moment she was gone. Down a bartender, bouncer, and a bookkeeper, the last thing my club needed—the absolute last thing—was renewed townie scrutiny courtesy of saintly Charlotte Mitchell.





CHAPTER 2





CHARLOTTE





“Men are always ready to respect anything that bores them.”

MARILYN MONROE, MY STORY





“What’d he say? Did you get the job? When do you start?” My aunt was on me the moment I slid into the passenger seat of her 1992 BMW M5.

“No.” I closed my door with more force than necessary, then cringed. “Sorry,” I said, apologizing for my thoughtlessness. Her car was falling apart. We’d had to remove the front bumper last week when the right side had fallen off and began dragging on the road.

The only excuse for my thoughtlessness was the bitter burn of humiliation that still stung my cheeks and blazed in my chest. It usually took a lot to embarrass me. Or, apparently, a mere ten minutes with Hank Weller. I did not feel like myself.

“What happened?” my aunt asked breathlessly, her tone thick with despair.

“He wouldn’t give me a chance to audition.” Ugh!

I sucked in a breath, telling myself to calm down.

“Oh thank goodness.” A hand from the back seat settled on my shoulder, my mother’s voice gentle. “Even though I don’t understand why he wouldn’t let you audition—you’re ten times prettier than Hannah Townsend, or Tina Patterson, or any of those girls—I can’t say I’m upset.”

“Betty!” Aunt Maddie twisted in her seat. “Charlotte’s plan is our best chance to find Heather. How can you say that?”

I let my aunt and my momma argue for a bit—they’d been bickering about my plan all week—while I simmered in my options. I did not agree with my mother’s assertion that I was prettier than Hannah or Tina. I’d planned to interview as a stripper first, but then bring up the possibility of applying for his open bartender position if he didn’t think I had the looks to be a dancer. Problem was, I had no experience being a bartender either.

Covering my momma’s hand where it still rested on my shoulder, I patted her fingers while I turned to give her a tight smile, interrupting their argument. “Hey. We’ve talked this to death and we already agreed, my plan is the fastest way to find Heather. Can we stop fighting and just figure out what to do next?”