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Fancy

“Fancy, where are you going?” my manager shouts out as I head down the hall. “You can’t just take off. I was coming to see you. We need to talk about something.”

“It’s been dead for the last twenty minutes. All the tables are in play. I texted you. My relief girl is late again, and I need to pee.”

“Wait…”

Damn, I hate this job. I hate the jerk who pretends to manage. I hate the owner and his sleazy buddies. I hate my life.

Hitting the bathroom, I take care of business then wash up. Glancing in the mirror, I take in the uniform I’m forced to wear. Like a Playboy Bunny wannabe. One more thing I hate.

It pays the bills, mostly, I remind myself.

Being a hat check girl is better than working the floor and trying to navigate all the grabby hands.

My mother tried to get me to be a stripper with her.

She thought it would be cute until one of her friends pointed out the men would realize how old she was when they found out I was her daughter.

Then she was going to try and pass me off as her sister.

Hell no. Not only did I not want to be her sister, I wasn’t crazy about being her daughter.

Not totally fair. She loved me in her own wacky way.

She just loved all the male attention more.

At least she always gave me fair warning when she was bringing someone home and I’d have time to lock myself away in the upstairs rooms of our house.

The older I got the more I just stayed there, living separately.

I study my image. She had bottle blonde hair, I’ve got chestnut brown hair. She had brown eyes. I have dark blue. At five foot eight I was an inch shorter but had bigger boobs until her implants. I love to read and learn. She loved men, and attention.

I miss her. She wasn’t much of a mom, but she’s all I had. Damn my life.

Pushing from the counter I go to my locker, grab the piece of fruit I brought and head out the alley door. Screw it. By law I get a fifteen-minute break.

Finishing my apple, I walk a few feet down the alley to the dumpster and toss in the core. As I turn, my heel gets caught in the crumbling cement. Flailing, I catch the side of the dumpster, my foot comes out of the shoe, and I slide down landing on my ass.

Can this night get any worse?

Gently wiggling the shoe so as not to break the heel, I finally get it free. Grasping the side handle of the dumpster for support I stand, lean forward and slip the stiletto back on.

I hear the back door of the club open and mumbling voices. Preparing myself for a lecture from my manager, I debate how long I can stay hidden. Although the voices sound familiar, it’s not my manager. Shoe secure, I stand, glance over the dumpster, and freeze in place.

Two of the bouncers are holding a struggling man in front of them as a guy I’ve never seen before punches him repeatedly. I recognize the victim as Phil, an old boyfriend of my mom’s. My friend.

Shit. What kind of trouble has he gotten himself into? He’s normally harmless unless drowning in the bottom of a bottle. Suddenly the new guy reaches into his pocket and pulls something shiny out. He thrusts the item into Phil’s gut and drags it upward.

“NO!” I scream.

All three men turn toward me.

Oh shit. RUN!

Spinning, I race the opposite direction kicking off the stiletto’s as I go. Taking the first side street to my right, then the next left. They don’t shout but I hear heavy steps echoing behind me. Two more sharp turns. I glance back, but don’t see or hear anyone.

Get inside. Get around people. They won’t kill you with witnesses.

The third door I try opens and I rush in from the alley. I’m in a short hallway with two doors on each side and a dressing room curtain tied open at the opposite end of the hall. The first two doors I try are locked. To my relief, the third opens.

A dressing table with an array of makeup, hair sprays and boosters as well as decorative fake pearl and diamond tiaras. A chaise lounge is in front of me and to the right is a clothes rack with more than twenty wedding gowns.

I’ve ended up in one of the wedding chapels.

Perfect. Locking the door, I rifle through the dresses until I find one that will fit.

Stripping off my strapless corset and shredded black fishnet stocking I shove them into the trash.

The dress is torso hugging with a wide V-neck bodice.

I’m only able to zip the lower part of the dress and button the top two buttons at the neck on the back of the bodice.

Screw it. It will have to do. The veil will cover the gap.

I just wish it would also cover my face.

I’m debating if I can reverse a second veil to cover my face when the doorknob rattles.

Less than a minute later the door flies open and two men in leather jackets push through the entrance.

“Darlin’ you look lovely. No more primping. It’s almost time for the ceremony. Come along,” the one with dark hair drawls with a cheeky smile.

Shaking my head I step back, running into the wall.