CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Stacey
I wasn’t sure what happened. One moment, I’d been having an argument with Stanley backstage and the next, I was in a private room, about to do my first one-on-one dance.
“No private shows,” I protested. “I only dance in public, on stage.”
But Stanley was insistent.
“You think you can make money the way you’re going?” he asked scornfully. “What, you get tipped two hundred, three hundred per night?”
I was silent. It wasn’t the tips I was working for, it was the control, the independence, the boost to my self-esteem that drove me to the Donkey each night.
Because, yeah I’ve been performing regularly, this has become my home away from home, the place where I’m most myself, where I feel good and whole. I wish there were some other way, that I could release tension by rock-climbing, cycling up a storm at Soul, or playing bridge, but none of it works. Instead, it’s dancing at the Donkey that’s my out, that keeps me sane.
And it’s been awesome. The endorphins start going when I’m onstage, and pretty soon I’m letting go, letting myself shake, shimmy and shiver without abandon, giving myself up to the gods of music, rejuvenating myself.
Sometimes I wonder if people recognize me, if they realize I’m the disgraced Stacey Light who’s been all over the news. But then again, the clientele here doesn’t seem up on current events. Oh yeah, it’s that bad, the patrons are hillbilly rednecks all the way.
But it suits me, and to keep my job I had to appease Stanley.
“Okay fine,” I pouted. “But what goes on back there?”
“What do you think?” he huffed, eyebrows waggling. “This ain’t no G-rated joint.”
I sighed impatiently. Of course the Donkey wasn’t G-rated, girls don’t take it all off in Disney movies. But I wanted some guidelines.
“Yeah, but what are the rules?” I pressed insistently. “I can’t just go in there without knowing anything.”
“Listen,” wheezed Stanley. “It’ll be fine, the customers have already pre-paid,” he said. “Plus, these are old clients and girls always like them. You will too,” he promised, eyebrows waggling.
Bullshit. Stanley would say anything to make a buck and the pre-payment meant that he’d already taken his cut, he wouldn’t be coming backstage to harass me about it later. But I shook my head stubbornly.
“No,” I said flatly. “I’m not doing any private shows.”
Here’s when Ebony butted in.
“I couldn’t help but overhear,” she said silkily, “Inga is scheduled to do a private?”
“Oh yeah!” crowed Stanley. “To the tune of five thousand, yep, five G’s pre-paid,” he said, patting his pockets.
And damn, but his suit pockets were puffed-out, like he had wads of cash crammed inside.
That made Ebony light up with I-don’t-know-what. Greed, maybe? Envy?
“Stanley,” she purred. “Why don’t I do the dirty instead? Inga is new, she doesn’t wanna to go back there, how about me instead?” she flirted, striking a pose with her hip cocked out, hands on her waist.
I had to admit, Ebony was gorgeous. An African queen, she enhanced the look with feathers on her g-string, a tribal headdress, and palm fronds as props. If you wanted to bang the Queen of the Nile, then Ebony was your girl.
But Stanley shook his head.
“The customers have asked for Inga specifically,” he said. “No exceptions.”
And that got my attention.
“Customers, plural?” I asked slowly.
“Oh yeah, there are two,” he cackled. “And massive down there, fifteen inches each.”
Suddenly, I knew who it was. It had to be.
“I’ll do it,” I said quickly. “Just let me get ready.”
Ebony shot me a dirty look but Stanley smiled condescendingly.
“It was the money, right?” he sneered. “That’s what got your pussy wet, isn’t it?”
I shook my head at him, disgusted, but no matter. He was the middleman, a necessary evil in this encounter.
“I’ll meet you in back,” I said. “Just bring them to the room in ten minutes. Knock first,” I called even as Stanley sauntered away.
“Sure girlie-girl,” he called, his voice fading with the distance, the hubbub drowning out his singsong tones. “You got it coming!”
And I knew I did … but it wasn’t going to be what my brothers expected.