Folk Around and Find Out (Good Folk: Modern Folktales #2)(8)
God either had a wicked sense of humor or He was plain wicked.
“Sorry,” I said, lifting my eyes to the ceiling of my aunt’s car. The cloth above me was water-stained and sagging. “But it’s true. I’m not worried about taking my clothes off in front of people. But I am worried about my cousin.” I turned to my aunt again. “Let’s go to The G-Spot. I’ll see if they’ll let me audition, and then we’ll take things from there, okay?”
My aunt started the engine and nodded, visibly holding back more tears. I sent her a smile and buckled up.
I’d never been particularly close to my cousin—she was over ten years younger than me—but she was my family. Family came first. Always. I didn’t have spare money to hire a PI, and I believed Hannah when she said no one would answer our questions. We couldn’t go to the police since Heather was wanted in Florida for violating the terms of her parole.
I’d offered to infiltrate the clubs and pose as a stripper. What other option did we have? This was it. This was the way. And there was no use sitting in a parking lot, debating it for the hundredth time.
As much as I’d dreaded seeing and speaking to Hank again, I wasn’t dreading the prospect of stripping—at The Pony or at The G-Spot. That said, I wasn’t jumping for joy about it either, but I saw no reason to complain. It was something that needed to be done to locate my cousin while also not bringing her to the attention of law enforcement.
And doing what needed to be done without second-guessing myself or complaining about it was my superpower. When I died, my gravestone would probably read, “Charlotte Mitchell, she got shit done.”
CHAPTER 3
HANK
“One should as a rule respect public opinion in so far as is necessary to avoid starvation and to keep out of prison, but anything that goes beyond this is voluntary submission to an unnecessary tyranny, and is likely to interfere with happiness in all kinds of ways.”
BERTRAND RUSSELL, THE CONQUEST OF HAPPINESS
In the same way Charlotte Mitchell’s visit had contributed to a ruined Sunday, echoes of her pleading voice corrupted my double bartending shift on Monday. Likewise, thoughts of her long legs and frustrated expression had intruded on Tuesday while I worked after hours to catch up on payroll.
I wasn’t obsessing, I was . . . curious. And wary. And suspicious.
Was she trying to sabotage The Pony? Did I need to watch my back? Did she hold a grudge because her ex had met Carli at my club?
Or, if she was telling the truth, why did she need money? Why didn’t she have enough? If she was looking to dance at The Pony, then she must’ve been desperate. Had Kevin Buckley’s family stopped paying child support? That seemed unlikely. I knew the judge who’d delivered the decision in her divorce proceedings. I could call and ask. I also knew the Buckleys. I could—
Wait a damn minute. Why do I care?
Glancing eastward over Bandit Lake, I dropped the cooler and tackle box I’d been carrying toward my boat, set my hands on my hips, and frowned at the orange and yellow gradient of the early August sky. I’d never been one to fret over the bad business decisions of other people. Charlotte had made a bad investment and now she was paying for it. She’d been an adult when she married Kevin. Her willful ignorance of human nature, lack of wisdom, and inability to read people wasn’t my problem.
None of this was my business unless she targeted my club. Then I’d have to do something. Until then, living my best life did not include wondering about Charlotte Mitchell’s financial solvency.
Decided, I bent to pick up my cooler and tackle box, then stepped on to the boat.
But to my eternal irritation, and likely due to my lack of sleep, I found myself unable to stop ruminating. When I was younger, she’d been a fixture at the Winston homestead during my school breaks. At least I was fairly certain the tall, sporty girl with messy blond hair, scraped knees, and a smart mouth was the same girl who’d grown up into the tall woman with honey-colored hair who’d made my life hellish for the last two years and then walked into my club on Sunday. If memory served, Beau’s youngest brother, Roscoe, and Charlotte had been friendly in high school.
Yeah . . . I think that’s her.
She’d been funnier then, and opinionated, talkative. She would ask me what book I was reading and then had a hundred follow-up questions when I told her the title. The one time we’d played Truth or Dare together, she’d always chosen dare. Nothing seemed to embarrass younger Charlotte, and I vaguely remembered admiring that about her.
Or that girl wasn’t Charlotte? I’d have to ask Beau to be sure.
Lowering to my haunches, I flipped open the tackle box and withdrew a fly. Since she’d returned to the valley a few years back and Beau had made a point of introducing us at the Friday night jam session—this was months before her divorce from Kevin, but after he’d already started frequenting my club—I’d been immediately attracted to Charlotte’s outside. Not sure there existed a straight man in Tennessee who wouldn’t be.
She’d smiled politely at the time, shook my hand, said without feeling, “Nice to see you,” and then dismissed me. I hadn’t been surprised. I was the local strip club owner after all; I was used to folks pretending I didn’t exist. Yet, for reasons unknown, Charlotte Mitchell was the only person on God’s green earth who’d ever been able to piss me off with a single, contemptuous look.