Standing in the strip club dressing room, I stared at my image in the skimpy uniform I’d been handed by Stan, my absolutely lovely new boss at this fabulously classy establishment. The man had handed me the clothes after looking me over with utter respect—not at all like a letch.

Not even my inner sarcasm made me feel better.

I’d showered right before heading over, but five minutes in Stan’s presence and I wanted to spend a week in the hottest shower I could find. And he hadn’t even seen me wearing this ridiculous getup yet.

The so-called dressing room was more like a big closet. Skimpy bits of stripper costumes hung off nails and hooks driven into plastered walls painted black. There were two small tables with mirrors, strips of LED lights above, and assorted, dirty-looking makeup tubes and bottles scattered over their surfaces.

Overhead, a bank of buzzing fluorescent lights made my silver spandex bra sparkle. Although it was supposedly my size, 32C, flesh bubbled out of the cups that barely hid my nipples, and the shorts—or should I say panties—were smaller than most of my underwear.

I turned around to look at my ass and tugged at the fabric. It was no use. No matter how hard I tried, the garment came a couple of inches short of covering my butt. I’d have to make sure I never bent over. Which might be difficult given the height of the tables I’d seen out on the club floor. They looked designed to make the wait staff bend.

The door to the dressing room opened, and I immediately crossed my arms to cover my over-exposed boobs.

“Hi!” A woman who looked slightly familiar smiled. “I’m Melodie.” Tanned and curvy, with gorgeous long black hair, she reached out her hand.

I risked breast exposure to shake. “Hi. I’m Jade.”

She grinned. “Real name or stage name?”

“Real name.” I frowned. She thinks I’m a stripper?

“Didn’t mean to offend you.” Melodie tossed a small pink backpack under one of the tables and shrugged out of a light hoodie. “Jade. It’s a nice name.”

“Thanks. My dad chose it.” He’d named both Crystal and me. I thought better of asking whether Melodie was her stage name. Probably was.

She pulled off her shirt. Braless, she rifled through the costumes on the wall, and I felt a little dumb trying to cover up my skimpy bra, with her so clearly comfortable half-naked. I turned back toward the mirror.

“You’re new,” she said.

“First night.”

The door opened again and another woman walked into the room. She had ultra-blond hair, an orange tan, and over-inflated boobs—all obviously fake.

“Hey, Angel,” Melodie said. “This is Jade.”

Smiling, I reached out to shake Angel’s hand.

She glared at me. “You’re not supposed to be in here. Dancers only.”

“Oh, sorry.” I looked over to Melodie, who’d stopped searching through the costumes and was putting rouge on her areolae.

“Where am I supposed to change?”

Melodie looked over. “It’s no biggie, but the waitresses change in the bathroom, and there are lockers just inside the kitchen where you can store your purse and shit.”

“Thanks.” I picked up my stuff and drew a deep breath, bracing myself to face whoever might be outside. “Who runs the kitchen?”

“Why?” Melodie shimmied out of her jeans.

I looked away after noticing she was both panty-less and hairless down there.

“I’d rather work in the kitchen than serve cocktails.”

“No, you wouldn’t.” Melody slipped into a G-string, then came over to join me in front of the mirror. “The kitchen is super gross. Plus Stan pays the cooks shit.”

“Oh.” Sounded as bad or worse than the jobs I’d quit.

“You should make good bank waiting tables, though, as long as you keep your orders and the money straight. Don’t let the bartenders rip you off,” Melodie added. “Make sure they don’t overcharge you. And keep track of your tips. Tuck them in here.” She tugged on the waistband of my skimpy silver panties.

“Thanks.”

She stepped back, eyeing me critically. “Can you dance?”

“Dance?”

“If money’s what you’re after—and really, why would you be working here unless you need money—you’d do way better dancing. You’ve got a cute little bod. Make the most of it.”

“No way,” I said too quickly and probably too sharply, given how Melodie raised her eyebrows.

Now I’d offended her. “I mean… I don’t have any experience. I’d probably suck.”

Melodie shrugged.

“Why are you still in here?” Angel shot me an angry look.

“Don’t listen to Miss Grumpy.” Melodie nudged my hip with her curvaceous one, then a look of realization came over her face. “I saw you the other day, right? At Shitty Melrose?”

“Shitty what?”

Melodie grinned. “Shitty Melrose. From that 90’s TV show Melrose Place? My mom used to love it. That’s what I call Shady Oaks ’cause it reminds me of the apartments in that show—but shittier. I saw you there, right? With Nick?”

“Oh, yeah.” I nodded. “You were coming home from a run or something?”

“That’s right, neighbor.” She grinned. “You moved into 311?”

“Yup.”

“I’m in 302, across the courtyard, if you ever need anything.”

“Thanks.” I headed toward the door.

Angel stepped in front of me. “You know Nick?”

“He’s my next-door neighbor.”

“Stay away from him.” Angel’s eyes narrowed, and she stuck out her balloon-like tits.

“Excuse me?”

“Hands off him, bitch. That man and his big dick are mine.”

“In your dreams, Angel,” said Melodie.

Angel shot Melodie a murderous look, then redirected it at me.

“I’m serious,” she said, poking her finger into my chest. “Lay a hand on Nick, I’ll cut you.”

I squared my stance. “Touch me again, and I’ll cut you.”

Angel backed off a bit, clearly all bark. I didn’t plan to lay a finger, or anything else, on Nick, but I was not about to be intimidated by this chick.

“Besides,” Angel said, “if it’s one of the Downey brothers you’re after, you should go after Keagan.”

“Keagan? Who’s that?”

“Don’t you know anything?” Angel shook her head, and the balloons on her chest bobbed. “He’s the Downey brother in charge. The smartest, the richest.”

“And the hottest,” Melodie added, then went back to applying her lipstick.

“Seriously, though,” Angel said. “Hands off Nick.”

“Fine.” I pushed past her and into the hall.

Once outside, I leaned back on the wall, trying to process the interaction. According to my dad, Nick was the one who’d arranged the deal—the head honcho, the one pulling the strings. But if Angel and Melodie were right, it sounded like Nick had someone tugging his strings. Someone named Keagan. Was I showing gratitude to the entirely wrong guy?