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what kind of lighting do you want?” He settled onto a stool in the corner of the booth. “I’m thinking, blue filter. It goes with the song.”
    “Whatever you think,” Madison said, since she had no idea about things like that. “I’ll see you later.” She headed for the door with a clumsy wave.
    “Good luck!” Cesar called after her. She could hear the grin in his voice. “You can bet I’ll be watching.”

Chapter 8
    During the long week following Madison’s decision to work at the club, she dreamed about it constantly. They were Gothic nightmares where The Gentlemen’s Club was a dark, cavernous dungeon filled with grotesque men, like something out of a David Lynch movie.
    In reality, the club was exquisitely appointed, with dramatic flower arrangements in huge vases, white linen tablecloths, and expensive-looking couches and chairs arranged around gleaming black coffee tables. And the men were surprisingly normal looking.
    Madison spent an hour in a shadowy corner of the club, watching the other dancers work the floor, and drinking vodka tonics. Many of the girls had arrived by mid-afternoon, and were scattered throughout the upstairs dining room and lounge, chatting with clients and giving table dances. Since Madison had no idea what a table dance entailed, she studied them carefully, memorizing their moves. She knew that there was no contact allowed, but was surprised to see just how close the women got to their clients. They usually slipped in between the man’s legs and moved sensuously, sometimes leaning in close so that their breasts were mere inches from the client’s face. She couldn’t begin to picture herself doing that to a man, but the vodka had eased her nerves a bit. And she knew there was no turning back now.
    At last, the moment she’d been dreading arrived. Cesar called Madison’s stage name on the speaker system, which meant she was next on stage. Despite the warmth of the vodka, she felt an ice bomb go off inside her, sending frozen shards through her entire body. She tossed back the rest of her drink and got to her feet. Rather than sending her off balance, the vodka steadied her. After several deep breaths, she headed downstairs where a security guard pointed her to the backstage vestibule.
    Madison sat on the cushioned bench, eyes closed, hands on her knees, willing her heart to slow. Vera was on stage, and the Miley Cyrus song she’d chosen blared through Madison’s mediation. It was no use. She opened her eyes and peeked out to where Vera was moving stiffly around the stage, like a bad wedding dancer. Then she unceremoniously pulled the dress over her head and dropped it on the floor. Her moves were mechanical, almost robotic, as if she were doing it for the hundred millionth time. She continued the awkward dance, dressed only in a yellow thong, moving side to side with bent elbows, her small, brown breasts lightly bouncing. Madison tried to comfort herself with the fact that she was following a pretty lousy act.
    She could see just beyond the stage, where a smattering of men in suits sat looking up at Vera in a catatonic daze, as if staring vacantly at a television set. Enzo told her that the men downstairs were just day-trippers who paid a cover at the door. They were usually just there to drink. Still, there was a dress code, and they mostly looked like businessmen on a break from the office. Upstairs, the tables were crowded, which filled the air with the din of chatting voices and clanking silverware on plates. No one upstairs was watching Vera.
    Finally, the music faded and Vera clopped off the stage. She gave Madison a scrunchy-eyed smile as she stood before the mirror, pulling her dress back over her head.
    “See you upstairs, amiga,” she said, turning quickly to go. “They told you about going upstairs, right?”
    Annie Lennox drifted through the speakers, and Madison felt her stomach flip over. She shook her head.
    “After you dance the main stage, you have to