Justine
“You can’t do it. Seriously. This is insane. I won’t let you.” Merica is yelling through the phone as I hold it away from my ear. “Stop right there, Justine. You need to think about this.”
What she doesn’t realize is that I’ve thought about this over and over again, and it’s the only viable alternative I can come up with. Out of desperation, I had a meeting with financial aid this morning, and it revealed exactly what I expected.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Porter, but you’re not a candidate for any of our conventional loans unless you have someone who can cosign for you. But here are a few other options you might consider.”
Those other options were each more unattractive than the last, and exactly the kind of crippling debt and interest rates I expected.
Cash is king. There’s a reason for that saying, and sitting in the parking lot of the Déjà Vu, I see plenty of people coming and going, likely with their wallets stuffed full of it.
I feel like the world’s biggest cliché. What brings a good girl like you here? Oh, I just need to strip my way through law school. I can almost see the oh sure nods I would get. Obviously it’s a cliché for a reason, and I’m sure more than one aspiring lawyer has taken this path. The grad from last year’s class the girls had been talking about during the meeting obviously had.
So, what’s worth more? My sense of modesty or my financial future? It’s not like I’m signing up to be a prostitute. I can just strip and take the tips. I don’t have to do any . . . extras.
“I’m already here, Mer. I’m just going to go inside and ask for details. I’m not committing to anything.”
She’s silent for a solid ten seconds before replying. “If you don’t call me in half an hour to tell me you’re okay, I’m driving over there myself. I don’t care if I have to bust down doors and break you out.”
I can’t help but laugh. “It’s a strip club, not a harem. You won’t have to break me out. I promise I’ll call you as soon as I’m out.”
“You better. I swear, if I find a gray hair in the next month, it’s all your fault.”
“I love you, Mer.”
“Love you too, Jus. Be careful.”
We hang up, and I survey my surroundings to get my bearings.
The fence around the parking lot provides a certain measure of anonymity to the Deja Vu’s clientele, and for that I should probably be grateful. I climb out of my car, and a horrific thought enters my head as I step onto the uneven pavement with shaky legs. What if I see someone I know?
No, not possible. Don’t put thoughts like that out into the universe, Jus. You know better. Positive thoughts only.
I straighten the short black skirt I never returned to Merica after that night at the bar. The night Ryker Grant kissed the hell out of me and I used his bulge to get myself off in the back hallway of a bar.
We all know how that story ended.
Digging deep, I find the self-confidence I need to own what I’m doing. It’s honest work for honest pay.
I reach the black door and push it open to find a large man in a black shirt standing behind a tall counter just inside the doorway. His expression doesn’t change when he sees me.
See? No big deal. I got this.
“Cover for ladies is five dollars tonight,” he tells me, stamp held aloft, ready to mark the back of my hand.
Do I tell him why I’m here and ask how I go about applying for a position to work the pole? My other option is paying the cover and slinking around inside, hoping to figure out who I need to talk to.
Practicality wins out. “I’m actually not here to watch. I’m here to apply for a job.”
This time his eyes widen a fraction, followed by a once-over. I know what he’s seeing, because I put a lot of time and effort in front of my mirror tonight.
Dark hair I curled into “beach waves” after watching a few online tutorials, smoky eyes that I think stayed on the side of sultry rather than raccoon. The push-up bra I’d splurged on boosted my already ample boobs into the tight V-neck of the black tank I paired with my skirt. Black strappy heels, also borrowed from Merica and never returned, completed the look, and made my average-length legs look long and toned.
“You sure?”
“Yes. Could you point me in the direction of the hiring manager?” I’m not sure how formal strip clubs are about the HR hierarchy, but I don’t know who else to ask for.
He jerks his head toward the black door across from the counter. A heavy bass beat thumps beyond it, and neon lights peek out from beneath.
“Marv’s office is in the back of the club. He’s the only manager we got. But I gotta warn ya. He’s hired three new girls for the stage this week, and I doubt he’s looking for too many more. There’s a cocktail waitress position open, though.”
A cocktail waitress position won’t make anywhere near the kind of cash I need. “Where in the back is his office?”
“Through the doors, across the club to the back left corner. There’s a hallway, and his door is the first on the left. Says Manager on the door. You can’t miss it.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.”
He gives me a short nod, and I head to the door. A healthy what the fuck am I doing runs through me.
This is just a means to an end.
Purpose driving my every step, I push open the door, determined to find Marv and get myself a job.