Page 33 of Boyfriend of the Hour

I should have known the girls weren’t going to work on my boss. I wasn’t sure if Tom even liked women—had never seen him even blink at his female staff or any of the near-naked go-go dancers. I should know. I used to be one.

So, I tried another tactic. Pity.

“Tom,please. I just really need the money. You don’t understand—my grandmother moved to Italy, and I have to find a new place to live, like yesterday.”

Tom stroked his gray mustache and gave me a side-eye. “Joni, you fed me that line four months ago when you wanted the promotion. And again two months again. And again last month.”

“Yeah, but this weekend, it actually happened. Honest to God, Tommy, I’m sleeping on a lumpy sofa in my sister’s auto shop right now. Please, just two extra shifts so I can stop smelling like motor oil and afford a room somewhere that’s not also a rat’s nest.”

“I don’t need the staff,” Tom reiterated, though he pulled at his mustache nervously. “But…” He looked down at my knees. “One of my dancers did call in sick tonight.”

I practically jumped. Well, I would have if I could have. “I’ll do it.”

One of Tom’s caterpillar-shaped brows lifted. “What about your knee?”

“My knee can handle it for one night,” I said. “I won’t do anything crazy. Stick me on the end where no one really watches, and I’ll just, I don’t know, gyrate. I’ll make standing around look like the best moves of the night. You know I will.”

Before he could argue, I was already stepping out from the bar.

“Where are you going?” Tom asked.

I grinned and held up my phone. “Taking my break. I gotta call for some reinforcements so I can get ready to go on.”

“Are you sure you can dance?”

Rochelle scanned me up and down with the same doubtful expression my boss had worn all evening. We stood in the middle of Tom’s office while I put on one of the costumes she’d brought me from Diamonds, only ten blocks away. The silver booty shorts, matching crop top, and thigh-high boots were maybe alittlemore revealing than I would typically wear, but I figured if the outfit got through a pole routine, it would be fine for wriggling around on one of Opal’s platforms.

“How can you move in this?” I asked as I tugged boots over the fishnet stockings, then pulled at the tiny silver top that barely covered my upper bits. “It feels like it would come right off. I’d rather be naked.”

The boots were a little big—Rochelle’s feet had about a size on mine. The shorts, however, were almost as small as myunderwear, to the point where tugging them out of my butt was probably a losing battle.

“Well, that is the end goal,” Rochelle commented wryly. “Not until I want it to, though.”

I turned to the mirror to examine my appearance. My hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail, and I’d taken some extra care with stage makeup that wouldn’t come off when I was sweating. It was a long way from the jeans, tank tops, and Vans I usually wore behind the bar. But the outfit felt like home to me. It was meant for the stage. Where I was meant to be.

“It looks good,” she said. “And by the way, Kyle said hedoesneed another server or two for the gambling clubs. Did you want to meet him?”

I bit my lip. I probably should have said yes. Frankie’s money was burning a hole in my backpack, but no decent landlord was going to give me a place without more income.

Something was still holding me back, however. I couldn’t quite make the jump from honest and poor to shady and, well, less poor.

“Ask me tomorrow,” I said finally. “If my knee does all right tonight, I bet I can get Tom to give me back my platform Thursday through Sunday. Then, if I bartend a few other nights a week, that should be enough to get out of the breakroom.”

Rochelle nodded. “Just let me know.”

We packed up her stuff, and she walked me back to the bar, where things were already starting to pick up for a Thursday night.

“I’ll wash the costume and drop it at your place tomorrow,” I said as I rounded the bar to finish my shift before eleven, when I’d officially move to a platform for the first time in months. “You want a drink?”

Rochelle looked doubtfully down the bar. “Uh…”

“Shut up,” I swatted through the air at her. “I can make you a rum and coke, bish.”

She chuckled. “Let’s see you try it, then.”

I started pouring the drink, but already Rochelle was shaking her head. “Jo, that’s bourbon, not rum. Try again,mami.”

“Freaking brown liquor bottles all look the same,” I said back.