Page 118 of The First Taste

My dad is probably leaving me another hate filled voicemail as we speak. If he knew where I am right now, knew what I was about to do to earn money, he would scream so loudly that I’m pretty sure he would have an aneurysm.

But I have to earn money. Enough money to pay my father back for every last cent he’s ever spent on teaching me to become a perfect, graceful ballerina. I’ve calculated the cost and it is well over two hundred thousand dollars.

He’s made it very clear that unless I come up with the money, I will follow his rules and do whatever he says until the day I die.

That knowledge slithers through my stomach as I close my locker and spin the combination.

“Lily, Brandie, Misty!” A dark-suited man sits by the door, reading off names. “One minute warning, girls.”

Behind me, the dancers’ changing room is loud and busy. Huge makeup mirrors and well-lighted white desks line one wall. White director’s chairs are placed at intervals, each one of them currently supporting a stripper. They talk to each other as they lean close to the mirrors and perfect their lip gloss or apply another layer of blush.

I slide into the seat at the very end, feeling self conscious. I’m wearing what amounts to a tiny black bikini underneath a white kimono with clear six inch stilettos. My hair is teased and blown out, my makeup looks almost garish under the room’s soft lights.

For any other job, I would look insane. Sliding a glance down the row of dancers, I feel like I fit in just fine.

“Candi, Baby, Daisy,” the man sitting next door the door reads off. “You’re up next, ladies.”

The dancer to my left gets up just as Mia struts in the room. She sees me and comes over, her caramel-colored body glistening with baby oil and glitter. She clutches the top to her red bikini in one hand, tossing it on the desk as she throws herself into the chair beside me.

“Fucking cheap assholes,” she says, sounding perky even though she’s complaining.

She produces a neat wad of cash from the red triangle of fabric between her legs, shaking her head. She starts counting the cash as she glances at me. “I got a bunch of frat boys. They’ve obviously never been to a spot this nice and they didn’t behave themselves. And to top it all off? They hardly tipped anything, even when I took them back to the private rooms. It was basically a huge waste of my time.”

I scrunch up my face. “I hope you told security to kick them out.”

She chuckles. “You’re damn right I did.”

I glance at her outfit, noticing a snag in her fishnets. I perk up. “You can fix that,” I say, pointing it out to her. “A little hairspray and some clear nail polish will do the trick.”

Mia flashes me a puzzled glance. “Girl, I do not have time to be fixing a pair of tights. The men like to rip them, I throw them away and buy new ones. It’s the circle of life.”

A tall, dark skinned dancer in a black babydoll dress stands up. “Anybody got some baby wipes? I ran out.”

Mia glances over at her, then looks back at me, rolling her eyes. She leans closer to me. “No way am I giving that bitch anything. We double teamed a bachelor party together last week and I think she stole from me.”

My eyes widen. “Really?”

Mia nods, wrinkling her nose. “Yep. I have no time or energy for these hoes. I’m busy working it, trying to find a patron.”

I pause. “A patron?”

She looks at me with a sigh. “Yes. A patron. Someone that will pay for my services. Someone with a fat wallet that will take me out of here.”

I bite my lip. “Pay for you to strip privately, you mean?”

She huffs out a laugh. “No, honey. Any man can get that here for a few hundred dollars. A patron gets you any way he wants it, as often as he feels like it. In exchange, he pays for an apartment, a car service, all the fancy clothes you could want…” She looks at herself in the mirror, leaning close to examine her reflection. “I’ve heard that a few girls even married their patrons.”

My eyes widen. “Oh! That’s pretty huge. I wonder what those girls did to get noticed?”

She shrugs, eyeing a group of girls coming through the door. I turn and look at them, laughing and wearing street clothes.

“New girls,” Mia says, smacking her lips. “They all just turned eighteen, I bet. And they’re wearing designer labels. If I had to put money on it, I would guess that they live at home with their rich daddies, who don’t know that their little girls come here to get their ho on at night.”

I purse my lips. “I bet you said something similar about me not that long ago.”

“True. You have proven yourself, though. If your daddy has money, you wouldn’t know it from looking at you.” She pauses. “No offense. I’m just saying you don’t act entitled.”

I blow out a breath. “I am actually working here, trying to earn money to pay my dad back for private school. I’m never, ever going to owe anything to anyone ever again after working here for a year.”