CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Karlie
My mind whirred as I stood in line at the lunch counter, woodenly picking up some food.
“Black bean soup, honey?” asked the lunch lady, smiling kindly.
I smiled back like a robot, nodding my head.
That’s how it’s been for the last week. I’m on auto-pilot, acting like everything’s okay when inside I’m a mess, my emotions turbulent, liable at any second to burst into tears or melt into a sobbing puddle.
I can’t help it. The NCAA investigation is going on this very second, and there’s nothing to do but wait. But it’s killing me inside, taking all my energy just to keep it together, not to let this completely take over my life.
I scooted down the line with my lunch tray, absentmindedly reaching for a Diet Coke before pulling out my wallet to pay.
And suddenly my eyes snapped to life. Because who was at the cash register but Jimmy Long, leering at me like nothing had happened.
“Hey Karlie,” he said, his breath smelly and stinky even from two feet away. His face was so shiny that the oil was almost visible, his collar stained with sweat.
“Hey,” I mumbled back, looking down, my face flushed. I was embarrassed and angry at once. Here was the source of our pain, the so-called whistleblower on our own personal Deflategate. How much I wished I could rewind time so that I’d never met this guy.
But suddenly a wave of rage overtook me. Who was this person to dictate my life? Why was he able to cause me immense pain, and threaten my brothers too? The unfairness made me choke, the anger swelling inside, making me see red, the clanging of bells loud in my ears like an internal siren going off.
But I struggled to keep my emotions in check, showing nothing to the world.
“Hey Jimmy,” I said, my voice deceptively mild. “How’s it going?”
“Oh you know,” he said, ringing my food up. “It goes. I guess it’s going for you and your brothers too, isn’t it?” he said smarmily. I wanted to punch his face, knock out some of those brown, tobacco-stained teeth.
But I forced myself to focus, not let my emotions get in the way.
“Oh sure,” I said lightly, “Life goes on, you know. By the way, I was wondering when you’d be coming by the Donkey next?”
Now it was his turn to grow beet red, the color mottling his skin. I bet he hadn’t expected me to tackle the issue head on, much less say the word “Donkey” out loud. But he recovered quickly.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, scoffing. “Never heard of the place.”
“Oh yeah?” I said sweetly, giving him a coy glance. “Joy says hi by the way.”
If possible, the dickhead turned even brighter red, purple almost, the top of his head practically popping off with excitement and embarrassment. Because yeah, I’d asked around if anyone had seen Jimmy Long that night, who’d been talking to him. And what do you know, the girls remembered a lech coming backstage that night acting like he owned the joint.
“Girl, why you wanna know about a guy like that?” asked Ebony, a seasoned dancer in her forties. “He’s got no money.”
I shook my head. Trust Ebony to stick to the basics. No money, no dance.
“Because he owes me cash,” I said slowly. “I think he took a cut of my tips.”
Now this was serious business. We were there to get paid and had a right to know if our earnings had been tapped.
“How? Why?” asked Snooker, a cute little blonde, bouncy and twenty-one at most.
“It’s the night I did the blue light,” I said. “The football team sent a guy backstage afterwards with a wad of cash. My earnings,” I clarified. “But their delivery boy took some of that for himself, so I’m trying to figure out who saw him, how he pulled it off,” I said.
“Man, that’s low,” whistled Ebony. “You tell us when you figure it out, kay girlie? We don’t need no cheaters like that.” She walked off, her ass wiggling with the feathers attached to her panties.
But Snooker wasn’t so quick to go. She obviously had some info.
“I think I remember that guy,” she said slowly. “Was he really ugly, with bad skin, bad hair, a midget about yea tall?” she asked, gesturing with her hand.
I nodded slowly.
“Yeah, that sounds like Jimmy,” I confirmed.
“Well,” continued Snooker, “after you danced that night you were kind of passed out afterwards, remember?” she said. “You were lying on the lounger over there, resting, and this dude came in. He had money for you, but he was acting like he was boss around here, like we had to do whatever he wanted.”
Us girls hate that. Sometimes patrons come backstage and act like the Prince of Persia, we’re their concubines cum personal servants, there to do their bidding. The entitlement emanates in waves off these guys and worst of all, they usually don’t have any money.
But Snooker continued.
“He came backstage and he was trying to feel up girls with both hands, practically dropping the money, his boner out and waving,” she said slowly.
Oh god, gross. The worst type of client.
“Yeah, so Joy took one for the team,” said Snooker. “She grabbed the money out of his hand, knelt down, and then gave him head.”
I gasped. Sex backstage was commonplace but had Joy done it just to drive him away?
Snooker nodded.
“Yeah, she really did it,” she confirmed. “She took that dong in her mouth, it was practically crusty, he was so dirty, and got him off just so that he’d leave.”
I was shocked, shaking my head, but suddenly knew how to get this ball rolling.
“Tell Joy thanks,” I said tightly. “I owe her one.”
“I will,” said Snooker as she walked off, her look sympathetic. “She’ll be on later this week, you can tell her yourself if you see her.”
I nodded, turning to adjust my costume, getting ready to go on-stage. And as the music started, I began dancing like a she-devil, using my elasticity to do splits, aerobics, flinging around titty and ass like no other. But my mind was far away because I was forming a plan, how to make things right after this horrible blow to the twins’ athletic careers.
And now Jimmy Long was right in front of me in the lunch line, dressed in a paper apron, a yellow visor on his head as he rang up my soup.
I smiled sweetly at him.
“Joy says hi, by the way,” I repeated, my voice coated in sugar. I could tell he knew who Joy was. Even when strippers use fake stage names, a client knows. They always know.
Jimmy stuttered, grew red, and began sweating under the fluorescent lights, aggravating his acne problem.
“Come back and see her,” I purred. “She’s on Thursday night at midnight for a blue light. You’ll like it,” I added coyly. “Maybe you’ll get picked as the special guy!” I tossed off lightly over my shoulder as I grabbed my tray, turning away.
And with satisfaction, I saw Jimmy standing with his mouth open, gaping after me, his narrow shoulders trembling with anticipation, his breathing fast. It’d worked, I thrown the hook and the fish had bit. We’d see him this week … for sure.