LONDON
I’m getting ready for work when my cell phone rings. Promise’s name lights up the screen. I answer, placing the call on speaker to finish applying my eyeshadow. “What’s up?”
“I’m calling in for an impromptu girls’ night. Cain is on munchkin duty, and I desperately need a cosmo and a conversation that doesn’t involve potty training or motorcycles. I already talked to Sadie and Ruby, and they're in.”
Fuck. I hate lying to my best friend. “I’m sorry, Promise, but I can’t make it.”
“What? Why? You bailed on us last time, Lon.”
God, I feel like a shit friend. “I know, and I’m sorry. It's just, today drained me.”
“How is your mom?” Promise’s tone changes to one of concern.
I sigh. “Today was a challenge. I hate this, Promise. Two days ago, she was herself. Cracking jokes and asking me about work. Then, today, she was agitated and didn’t remember who I was. Finally, I had to leave so the nurse could get her to settle down.”
“Oh, Lon. I’m so sorry. I wish there was something I could do.”
“Thanks, Promise. Just hearing you say that helps.”
“I’ll always be here for you, Lon. The club too. You’re not alone.”
I stare at my reflection in the mirror and watch as a single tear rolls down my cheek.
I’m desperate to ask for help and lean on my friend, but my pride won’t allow it.
Not only did I inherit my sassy mouth from my mother, but I also got my strong sense of pride from her.
Being raised by an incredibly strong, independent single mom will do that to you.
Growing up, it was just Mom and me. My father bailed on his family when I was a baby, so I have no memory of him.
In anger, Mom burned every picture of him after he left.
When I was five, my kindergarten class was having a daddy-daughter party.
That was the first time I asked my mom about my father.
She explained things to me the best way she could.
Mom also let me ditch school that day and instead took me to the strawberry festival.
I may not have grown up with a dad, but I was never made to feel like I was missing out.
“Lon, are you still there?” Promise asks.
I shake my wandering thoughts away. “Yeah. I zoned out a minute there.”
“I’m going to let you go so you can get some rest then. I’ll talk to Ruby and Sadie about rescheduling girls’ night.”
“Don’t do that,” I tell her. “You should go out and have some fun.”
“Yeah, maybe. Or I could ask Piper if she wants to catch a movie. You get some rest, and I’ll see you at the office on Monday. Or if you need me before, call, okay.”
“I will. Thanks, Promise.”
“Anytime, babe.”
I end the call with Promise and note that I only have thirty minutes to be at work.
I’ll just have to finish my hair and makeup there.
Walking into my closet, I slip my sneakers on and grab my duffle bag.
When I walk out of my apartment, I’m relieved to not see the creepy dude who lives across from me.
I’ve been living in the same complex for a few years now, and although it’s not in a great part of town, I’ve never really had any trouble with it aside from my neighbor.
He doesn’t do anything per se, he just makes it a point to let his beady little eyeballs linger where they shouldn’t. The dude makes my skin crawl.
I can’t help letting my thoughts drift back in time on the drive to work, thinking about how unfair life has been for my mom.
She deserved so much better than life has given her.
I once asked her why she named me London.
She said she’s always dreamed of traveling, and London was number one on her bucket list. For years, I swore I’d take my mom on that dream vacation.
That day never came, and now it’s too late.
I blame myself, too. I kept putting it off, thinking we had more time.
My mother spent her entire life devoted to me, giving me everything and even working two jobs to send me to college so I could achieve my dream of becoming a lawyer. But what about her dreams?
Before I know it, I’m pulling up in front of Pink Paradise. The club is located twenty-five miles outside of New Orleans. I chose this club because I have slim chances of running into anyone I know.
“Hey, London, Tony is looking for you,” Journey tells me the second I breeze through the back door.
“Tell him to keep his pants on. I’ll be there in a minute.” I go to the dressing room and throw my bag in my locker. Behind me, Kimmy struts in, wearing a hot pink thong and head-to-toe body glitter. She has a massive smile on her face. That can only mean one thing. “Good night?”
“You know it. You should get your cute ass out there while the getting is good.”
“I am. I’m going to see what Tony wants first.”
I exit the dressing room, walk down to the end of the hall to Tony’s office, and find him sitting behind his desk.
Tony is an older man, and if I had to guess, I would say he’s pushing sixty.
He stands at least six feet tall, has broad shoulders, and is a little bit of a gut, but otherwise is in good shape.
He keeps his gray hair back in a ponytail and wears god-awful eighties windbreaker tracksuits daily.
Tony runs his club with an iron fist and doesn’t stand for any bullshit.
He also respects and protects his girls.
I knock on his door. “Hey, Tony. Journey said you wanted to see me?”
Tony looks up from the stack of invoices on his desk. “Hiya, darlin’. Come in and have a seat.”
“Everything okay?’ I ask, sitting in the chair across from him.
“There’s somethin’ I wanted to discuss with you.”
“Okay,” I say, confused.
“Listen.” Tony rubs the back of his neck. “Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t come to you with this shit. I respect that you want to keep this part of your life private, considering what you do for a living. You have your reason, and I’d never say shit to a soul.”
Another thing about Tony is that he knows everything about everyone who steps foot into his club.
I don’t know how or where he gets his information, and I’ve never asked.
All I know is he knows who I am, what I do for a living, where I live, and he knows about my mom.
And it might sound crazy because I’ve only known Tony for less than two months, but I trust him.
I’ve seen firsthand how he cares about his girls and all his employees.
When I say he looks out for everyone here, I mean it.
“I know you wouldn’t, Tony. I appreciate that. Really.”
“I got your back, sweetheart. Which is why I wouldn’t be askin’ this of you if I had another choice.”
“Ask me what?”
Tony runs his hand over the top of his head. “Amara has gotten herself in some trouble with that new fella.”
Suddenly, I’m on alert. Amara is one of the dancers here. She’s twenty-two and the sweetest girl—way too sweet and shy for this place. Everyone here, especially Tony, looks out for her. “What about her? Is she okay?”
Tony shakes his head. “Showed up tonight with a black eye, busted lip, and a sprained wrist. She tried to hide it under makeup, but the bruises were clear as day.”
My hands ball into fists. “Was it that son of a bitch boyfriend of hers?”
Tony’s face turns hard. “After some coaxing, she admitted it was. I wanted to go after the son of a bitch myself, but you know Amara, she got scared.”
“That bastard can’t get away with putting his hands on her,” I fume.
“I agree. I had Journey take her to the hospital, and she was able to talk Amara into pressing charges. Amara said this dude has money and connections. She’s terrified.
I’m not sure if that’s true or if the fucker has been blowin’ smoke up her ass to make her think he’s somebody.
I’m on the case and gonna find out what I can. ”
“What do you need from me?” I ask.
“If Amara is willing to go the distance, I want to hire you as her lawyer. It’s not really my style to go by the books, but this is the hand I’m playing for now.
If I look into this guy and shit looks too dangerous, I’ll pull you back.
I’m asking you because Amara will trust you. Also, because I know your reputation.”
I smirk. “My reputation?”
Tony leans back in his chair. “Don’t you make grown men cry?”
I roll my eyes. "I guess I do have a reputation.”
After talking with Tony, I head back to the dressing room to prepare for my set. I keep this part of my life separate from my everyday life. I know I shouldn’t feel ashamed, but I do. I take my clothes off for money to care for my mother.
What would my mom think of me if she knew?
What would my friends think?
Unfortunately, I feel shame due to society's portrayal of women. The judgment should actually fall on everyone else. I mean, I look at Journey and see a single mom who works her ass off to take care of her two kids. Her youngest son has a disability, and she started working at the club two years ago to afford sending him to a private school. Then you have Kimmy, whose parents kicked her out when she turned eighteen. She didn’t let her shitty parents stop her from making something of herself.
She works at the club three nights a week to pay for her tuition.
Those who genuinely know these women, the sacrifices they have made, and know their hearts could only sing praises.
Nobody chooses dancing as their first option.
I know I didn’t. It was the only option where I could make enough to keep my mother in Golden Hills.
Who would have thought those pole dancing exercise classes I took back in college would be helpful?
At first, Promise and I signed up for the classes on a dare.
Back then, pole dancing was not as popular as it is now.
Promise made it through three classes before ultimately deciding it wasn’t for her.
To be fair, my best friend is not very coordinated.
However, I loved it. I kept at it, attending class at least three times a week for about two years.
I gave it up when life got busy, and school kept me in the trenches.
It turns out that all these years later, working the pole is like riding a bike.
I'm securing my wig when Lucas, one of the bouncers, walks by and raps his knuckles against the dressing room door. “You’re up, London.”
“Okay.” I stand and give myself one last look in the floor-length mirror. The long, wavy red wig I wear to cover my natural black hair makes my amber eyes pop. The wig, coupled with the heavy makeup, makes me look like a different person, which was my main goal when I started working here.
“Knock 'em dead," Journey sings songs as I strut to the stage. This is the part of my night where I mentally turn off all emotion and block out the fact that dozens of eyes will be on my body. Each person in the crowd becomes a blur, a nameless face, a means to an end. I’ve gotten good at getting lost in the music and ignoring the shame and humiliation that comes with the job. I’d do anything to ensure my mother is taken care of.
That includes taking my clothes off for strangers.
As soon as I climb the steps behind the stage, the DJ plays “Crazy Bitch” by Buckcherry.
The room is dark, aside from the low hue of strobe lights illuminating the stage.
Taking a deep breath, I plaster on a fake, seductive smile and slowly step onto the stage.
With each exaggerated sway of my hips, I draw the attention of every red-blooded man in the room.
Running my palms up my body and along my breasts, I confidently approach center stage.
Once I reach the pole, I hold onto it with my right hand and circle it.
Closing my eyes, I get lost in the music.
With my back to the audience, I hook my leg around the pole, completing my first spin before swiftly transitioning into my next move, where I face the pole and then, with both hands, pull myself up.
I end my transition with a fireman slide.
Once my knees hit the stage, I throw my body back, thrusting my breasts toward the ceiling.
Next, I make a show of running my palms against my belly before slowly removing the tiny scrap of material covering my breasts.
The ringing in my ears and my heart pounding drown out the catcalls and whistles.