Clothing and costumes
hung everywhere. Scattered stiletto heels, along with open trunks and suitcases
filled with thongs, G-strings and other lingerie formed a Victoria’s Secret
obstacle course. To Kat, it looked like an overcrowded cabin at some sick
summer camp for throwaway girls.
She might have become one of those throwaway
girls. Abused, addicted, and incarcerated in a waking nightmare of drugs,
alcohol, and easy money. Luckily, some instinct, some survival mechanism, kept
her away from the drugs and alcohol that made most of her fellow dancers
victims of one sort or another.
The air in the room hung thick with perfumes and
nail polish, punctuated by female sweat. It was an odd, pungent odor much
different from the sterile laboratory smells of Kat’s day job at Advanced
Genetic Technologies. She tried not to breathe too deeply.
While her lab technician day job gave her health
insurance and a sense of being a respectable member of society, something her
mother had claimed she would never be, working at the club gave her cash. And
in Kat’s economy, cash was king.
She pulled on a thong, a tiny pair of shorts, and
a skimpy halter-top. Along with her natural makeup, the outfit gave her a cute,
girl-next-door look. A look that she knew certain men would pay a premium for.
She looked at herself again. Not bad. Not bad at all, but not perfect. Not that
it mattered. Guys never saw the flaws that she saw in herself.
She sat at her makeup station and put on a pair
of relatively modest, five-inch heels. She did not care much for the porn-star
heels that some other girls wore. She checked the large clock on the wall at
the far end of the room. Nine o’clock, almost showtime . Just another
night in paradise.
She stood and picked her way across the dressing
room toward the door leading out to the club. At the last station, she glanced
at her reflection again. Nope. Not bad at all .
A small bulletin board hung next to the door. She
checked the Friday night schedule. She didn’t have to be on stage until fifteen
after ten. She pushed the door open and stepped into the club. She paused,
letting her eyes adjust to the dim, smoky interior. Alcohol and cigarette stink
replaced the perfume and makeup smells of the dressing room.
Kat strolled through the club, smiling and
stopping to say hello to men she recognized. She stopped in the middle of the
club, glanced around, and spotted the man she was looking for — Bruce York.
She watched Bruce watch her as she walked toward
him. He always watched her, ever since he first came to the club. And that was
exactly how she wanted it. Bruce, this Kat’s for you .
Her smile grew brighter at her silly twist on the
archaic beer commercial. Bruce smiled back at her as if the smile had been for
him instead of about him. Foolish man.
Bruce sat alone in a booth reserved for VIPs. Kat
lifted her chest slightly, placed one foot in front of the other and let her
hips roll just a bit more than usual as she approached the booth. Her eyes
locked on Bruce’s and she slid in beside him. A two-hundred-dollar-a-bottle,
but actually third-rate, champagne sat on ice at the table. Bruce held a
half-full glass. She leaned toward him and kissed his cheek. A pouty red mark
tattooed his face.
Bruce looked older than his fifty years. Medium
height and on the heavy side, he had short, thinning, black hair that never
behaved. Unremarkable defined him.
“You started without me,” she sulked in mock
disappointment.
“I didn’t want to drink soda and you know I can’t
mix beer and champagne,” Bruce apologized. “Besides, I knew you would be out
soon.”
“You take me for granted, Bruce. What if I had
another customer? You’d have had to drink the whole bottle by yourself and then
what would you do?”
“Go to the bathroom a lot?” he said through a
silly grin.
Kat laughed. Thirty girls worked on Friday
nights. Any other guy would have told her not to worry, that he would’ve found
someone else