Fumbled (Playbook #2)(3)

“I hate you,” Charity says as soon as I step on the floor.

I jerk my head back. “What did I do?”

“Sadie said you couldn’t find a corset in your size and you might go home.” She sets her empty tray on the bar and uses her free hands to gesture the length of my body. “But you’re still here lookin’ like your tits are about to slap you in the face and Phil just pulled me from the high rollers.”

The thing with Charity is, even though I’ve worked with her for the last two years, I still don’t know how she feels about me. She either has the best, driest sense of humor, or she loathes me.

My heart says I’m her favorite person on the planet.

My brain, on the other hand, says she’d run me over if given the chance.

“If it makes you feel better, I can’t breathe. There’s a high probability of me spilling a drink all over someone tonight and getting fired.”

“One can only hope.” She points at the tray Nate, one of the bartenders tonight, is loading with shots and cocktails and throws a sideways glance my way. “VIP. You’re up.”

What a peach.

You’d think with a name like Charity, she’d be obligated to be kind.

She turns to leave and I call out to her back, “Thanks, Char-Char.” She doesn’t turn around, the slight stutter in her step the only indication she heard me at all. Maybe nicknames and Charity don’t go together. Point taken.



* * *



? ? ?

THE EMERALD CABARET is in an old building in Historic Downtown Denver. I never knew such classy clubs existed until I came here. It’s almost like a speakeasy of sorts. The bottom floor is a steakhouse that costs a mint—not that I know from personal experience, I’ve never eaten there—and the upper two floors are the club. They had it remodeled so the third floor is the VIP section. It’s completely open to the lower floor, and from what the performers have told me, they had to special order the silks for them to be long enough to do all the aerial tricks they do. There’s also a private stage and a couple of private rooms I have no desire to ever step into.

Every night I take a second to appreciate the girls.

It is freaking art. You have to be strong as hell to do some of the Cirque du Soleil stunts they do. I swear, some nights I leave with my heart in my throat because of secondhand fear of these women flipping and twisting down the silk headfirst.

Most nights, though, I’m just in awe.

And thankful. Because of their skill set, we are filled with a certain kind of client. Besides a bachelor party here and there, we mostly serve the lawyer or businessman trying to have fun and make deals without seeming too sleazy. And not the football-playing variety. Something I made sure of before I accepted the job.

It was the only question I had during my interview, and Phil’s firm (and angry) no is the reason I’m here.

And for two years, it’s held up.

I walk up the stairs, feeling the strain in my calves that never seems to fade even though I’ve walked up them hundreds of times. I reach the top step and Dane, my favorite security teddy bear, lifts the velvet rope so I’m allowed to share breathing space with these very important people. I see Sadie clearing empty glasses off the table in front of the stage that Ruby (real name: Hannah) is slaying on. The silk is twisted around her ankle and going behind her head as she twirls and flips. I square my shoulders, put a little extra sway in my hips, and plaster a smile on my face. I take comfort in knowing I’m rocking the shit out of my sequined corset and my legs look fab in my sky-high heels and stockings.

This is my gig. I am Meryl. I am Julia. I am Sandra. I got this.

I repeat the mantra in my head on a loop until I round the table and take a deep breath to greet my new group of customers.

Then I see him and everything is forgotten.

Everything tonight, at least.

Not the bus ride across town. Not Mrs. Moore staring with disgust at my bloated midsection, telling me he didn’t want me. Not all my dreams going down the drain.

Not the white-hot burn of rejection.

No, that’s all crystal clear.

But where I am and what I’m supposed to be doing? Poof. All gone.

I grab the tray with my free hand when my shaking causes the drinks to rattle, and I start to back away. I can’t decide on a pace, so it’s an awkward dance of moving too fast and looking like I’m fleeing (accurate) or walking too slow and drawing attention to myself for looking suspicious (also accurate).

I have tunnel vision on Dane and the velvet rope to freedom when an arm brushes against my shoulder. Every tightened muscle in my body unravels like a jack-in-the-box and I spring forward.

“Shit!” I screech, throwing my hands in the air trying to stop it, but helpless as I watch my tray and all the drinks go flying in the one direction I need them not to go.

The liquid drenches the poor man from his too-long, light brown hair and thick beard covering his strong, square jaw to his chocolate leather loafers as the glass tumblers crash to the floor around him. The dark amber liquid dripping down his perfectly straight nose, despite the fact that he broke it in high school, is a vivid contrast to his ivory skin. All his friends manage to jump up—narrowly avoiding smelling like a distillery for the next year.

“What the fuck?” he roars, rising to his feet faster than someone his size should be able to and attracting the attention of every person on the third floor. Even the DJ scratches the record. “You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me!”