by Vivian Ward
It’s very elaborate. She’s making a baseball cake that’s white with red threads and tiny stars of icing surrounding it. I don’t think I’ve seen stitch work that good on a real baseball. She’s definitely got a knack for this thing.
“Actually, I was going to ask if I could pay you half of your babysitting this week and catch up on the other half next week?” I wince, hoping she’ll say yes.
“Girl, you know that’s fine. You want to do half this week and then split the other half up over the course of two weeks once you get your second job?”
“Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you!” I squeal and throw my arms around her.
The disgusted look on her face as she stares at the cake makes me look down, and that’s when I realize I made her mess up some of the edging.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, backing away from her.
“On second thought,” she teases for a second. “Nah, it’s fine. I can fix it. So, is that what are you going to wear for your interview?” she looks me over.
“Yeah. Do you like it? I mean, do you think it’s okay? I’m not even sure if it’s an interview, exactly.”
Smoothing the material over my flat stomach, I get the wrinkles out and give her a little twirl. It’s not anything fancy, just a basic black dress that has an outer lace lining with a black rope necklace and a pair of black flats that have silver beading on them.
“You look cute,” she says.
“Cute? That’s it? Is it bad?” I ask, running a hand through my hair in an attempt to add a little body to my chestnut locks.
“Stop being such a worry wart. You’ve practically got the job. Just go talk to your little man crush and find out what the hours and pay are; you’ll be fine.”
I can’t wipe the stupid grin off my face.
“Man crush? He is not my man crush!”
“Puh-lease!” she rolls her eyes at me. “Every time you mention his name your face lights up. I can tell that you like him.”
I sigh and drop my shoulders.
“Yeah, but it’s not like anything will ever happen. He’s way out of my league. He always has been. Plus if I’m going to be working with him, it wouldn’t be very professional to go there.”
“Don’t you have to drive over to the East Side?” she asks.
“Yeah, that’s the address on his card. It’s just outside of Cahokia.”
“You better get going. Traffic getting over that bridge going from downtown St. Louis over into Illinois is going to be a bitch at this time of day. Why would he have you come in at 4PM anyway?”
I shrug as I bend over and kiss Cam on top of his light brown hair as he sits on the couch watching his cartoons.
“I don’t know. He said I’d be working nights so maybe he wants me to come in between lunch and dinner shift when it’s less busy?”
“Good luck,” she says.
“Thanks. I’ll pick him back up as soon as I’m finished,” I tell her as I walk out the door.
What are the odds that right as I’m telling Jo how I need a second job that Chase walks in and tells me that I can be an evening cocktail waitress where he works?
I’m so glad that my luck is finally beginning to turn around. All I have to do is catch up the electric bill and mortgage payment, and we’ll be good as new.
As I drive down Route 3, I turn down the radio and begin paying attention to the addresses. According to the directions that I printed, I’ll arrive at my destination in under one mile.
It’s weird, I don’t see any restaurants. I pass a gas station, a dollar store, a big brick building and before I know it, the addresses have gone up to the next thousands.
“Shit! I must have passed it,” I say, making a U-turn in an empty gravel parking lot.
Paying attention again, I try to make out the numbers on all of the buildings that I’m passing, but they’re almost completely eroded away or they’re just missing all together.
I pull into the near-empty parking lot where the big brick building is to try to look around so that I’m not blocking traffic on the main road and that’s when I notice the address right above the double glass doors.
4129.
That’s the same address on the card that he handed me but it certainly doesn’t look like a restaurant. I scan the building for a name and that’s when I see, “The Pink Pouch.”
Eww, that’s a gross name for a restaurant. Why would anyone refer to their restaurant as a giant, empty organ? Who would call their stomach a pink pouch?
Whatever. I don’t really care.
All that I care about is that I’ll make some extra money so I can finally get caught up on all of the bills that I’m behind on and maybe stash a few bucks away in case of an emergency.
Just as I’m getting out of the car, he spots me as he carries a large black trash bag across the parking lot. Tossing it into the dumpster, he waves and jogs over to me.
“There you are. I thought you got lost.”
“I almost did,” I confess.
He looks even cuter than he did the other day when he came into the diner wearing his gray track outfit. Today he’s wearing a pair of stylish black slacks, a pair of shiny dress shoes and a silver button down shirt.
As crazy as it is, the two of us match.
Black and silver.
“Are you ready to go in? I’ll give you the tour and you can fill out the paperwork so we can get you put on the payroll,” he says.
“That’s it? Just like that?” I ask.
I’ve got to admit, I’m a little shocked by how easy this is. He can just hire me like that, no approval from anyone or anything.
“Yep, just like that,” he smiles.
His cute dimples pop out at me and stir those weighted butterflies around in my belly.
“Are you the manager here?” I ask as we begin making our way toward the double glass doors.
“Co-owner is more like it,” he opens the door for me.
I step inside and that’s when I realize this isn’t a restaurant and The Pink Pouch isn’t referring to a stomach.
The shiny black stage with three stripper poles, grabs your attention the moment that you walk in. Each area of the stage has its own pole. There’s one stripper pole on the left, one on the center, and one to the right. There are a row of chairs directly surrounding the stage and multiple tables filling the room.
My stomach has just left my body as I realize what I’ve gotten myself in to and my mouth goes dry. This isn’t a restaurant; this is a strip joint!
Chase is completely unaffected by it and nonchalantly strolls through the place, leading me over to the bar that’s to the right of the stage.
“Let me give you a tour,” he says, paying no attention to the fact that all color has left my face.
He walks behind the bar where there is a small set of swinging doors.
“This is the kitchen,” he waves his hand around the small kitchen. “We don’t cook a lot but we do serve a variety of appetizers. Also, we take care of our staff so if you’re hungry on your break, you can grab yourself a bite to eat.”
He turns to look at me as though I should respond but I’m not sure what to say. I’m not even sure that I want to work here. I’ve never even thought about working in a place like this.
“No charge. Everything is on the house,” he adds.
Finally, I nod because that seems to be the appropriate thing to do.
We head out of the kitchen and walk behind the bar again, making our way to the open area where we just were when we entered through the double glass doors.
“This is what we like to refer to as the lounge,” he says, waving his hand around the empty room. “This is where all of the gentleman collectively gather to watch the entertainment.”
My eyes focus on the chairs lined up around the stage. I can only imagine what the men must look like gawking at the dancers, or entertainment as Chase called it.
“If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you the private rooms,” he says,
spinning on his heel as he takes off past the stage.
Walking past the lounge area, we approach a hallway with several doors on either side.
“These are the private rooms. As you can see, there is a door to each room to conceal the patron’s identity and to give the girls the privacy they need with the clients.”
My mouth is hanging open as thoughts race through my mind; a million thoughts.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“Mhmm,” I nod.
He stops for a minute and studies me.
“You’ve never been inside a strip club, have you?”
I shake my head no. I’m not sure why but I feel embarrassed.
I got pregnant so young that I never really had the opportunity to go out and experience life. My days and nights were spent playing with Cam, cleaning the house, and reading or watching TV.
Garrett would have killed me if I would’ve suggested going out for a drink to just a regular bar, let alone a strip club. I didn’t even go to my first bar until a month after our divorce.
An old high school girlfriend and I went to a quiet hole-in-the-wall bar for a couple of drinks and we didn’t stay very long because I wanted to get back home to Cam.
“No, I haven’t. I’m sorry but I don’t know if I can do this,” I say.
“Oh boy,” he runs his hand through his hair. “Listen, I know that places like this always have a bad reputation but we keep it classy here.”
My eyes focus on the light stubble lining his jawline and his gorgeous eyes.
“Out there,” he points to the stage. “Men are never allowed to touch the girls in any way, shape or form. Our private security makes sure of that.”
I look around and see no security, and it doesn’t make me feel very good.
“He’s not here right now,” he says as though he can read my mind. “Zeke comes in and works from 6PM to 4AM and trust me, when guys see him, they think twice before doing anything.”
“I see,” I say, my voice small.
“And these private rooms, the Champaign Rooms? They are for private dances. No sex goes on in these rooms at all. Our girls know the rules and they’re very simple. No sex with any of the clients, ever.”
My eyes focus on each of the doors lining the hall. There are a total of six rooms; three on each side of the hall. It makes me wonder how many girls work here and how busy they are to need that many rooms.
“Also, there is a no-dating-at-work rule. Employees are not allowed to date each other.”
I stop myself from giggling. I bet his sister made that rule just for him. He was always known as a bit of a player in high school, never settling down and it appears things haven’t changed much.
“Also, we do not allow any of our staff to date any of the clients. Come on,” he says. “Let’s go have a seat at the bar.”
Without any hesitation, he leaves me standing in the hall as he strides across the lounge.
Chapter 4
Chase
It’s very obvious that Melanie had no clue that she was coming to a gentleman’s club.
Everything was fine until we got inside; that’s when I saw her tense up and go white as a ghost. She seemed a little unsure in the parking lot but as soon as she saw the stripper poles, her face dropped.
I tried to make light of the situation by just giving her a standard tour so she could learn the layout of the place without focusing too much on the fact that we’re standing in the middle of a strip club, but I couldn’t help the fact that I kept getting tongue-tied around her.
The only way to avoid sounding like an idiot around her was by eluding eye contact with her and to keep moving, so that’s exactly what I did. I started the tour and pressed straight through until the end.
Now I’ve got her sitting across from me on a bar stool and the dim light makes her face appear softer and more feminine.
I’m glad I brought up the rule about no dating because right now, I can already tell that I’m in trouble. Technically, she’s not an employee yet but it would be very unprofessional.
Taking out an application, I slide it across the slick marble counter and pass it to her. She looks hesitant, like she’s not sure if she should fill it out or not.
“The hours are somewhat flexible,” I begin. “We could really use someone between the hours of 8PM and 4AM but if you need to come in an hour later or earlier, we can work around it,” I say.
She grabs the application and looks it over for a second before turning her glance back up to me.
“You said that you were co-owner here?” she asks.
I nod and place my hands stiff against the countertop as she shifts in her seat and crosses her legs in the opposite direction so that her body turns just ever so slightly, giving me the perfect profile view of her face.
“Yeah, I own half of the place but I’m the one who runs it so if you want the job, it’s yours. We could definitely use the help and I’m sure you can use the money.”
She bites her bottom lip that’s coated in thick lip gloss and I wish it were my teeth sinking into her soft skin.
“Who are the other owners, or the other owner?” she asks.
“Abby, my sister, and I both own it,” I answer.
Her bottom lip slides out from her teeth as her mouth pops open and forms a little ‘O’.
“Are—are you sure you don’t have to run this by her first?” she asks.
I laugh. The thought of me having to run anything by my sister is ridiculous. Abby doesn’t know over half of the staff’s names. I bet if I asked her to name our top two entertainers, she couldn’t even begin to imagine who they are.
She’s way out of the loop because she leaves everything for me to deal with. The only thing Abby cares about is coming in for the previous night’s deposit, doing the books and spending her share of the cash.
Part of me wishes she did more with the place, but in a way, it’s sort of a blessing because she’s a pain in the ass. Everything has to be done her way or the highway.
At least with her out of my hair, I can run things as I see fit and make sure everything around here is taken care of as it should be—or at least how I want it done.
“She hates me. Are you sure you don’t have to check with her first?”
I don’t know if Melanie is genuinely concerned about my sister or if she’s just looking for a way out, but I’m not letting her bail on me that easy. She’s got what it takes to work here and I need her help.
“No,” I place my hand on top of hers and it feels like I’m touching pure silk. Her skin is so soft and her tiny hand is dainty inside of mine. “I promise. I make all of the decisions around here. The chances of you actually seeing her or talking to her are slim to none.”
“But what if—,” she starts.
“But nothing,” I cut her off. “Look, she comes in to do the money every day around the same time. She doesn’t look at time cards or payroll names. I could probably hire an extra dozen girls and she’d have no clue who the new ones were. She literally pays attention to nothing around here.”
And that’s the truth. She’s only worried about getting in and out of here; nothing else.
“I—I don’t know,” she finally breaks down. “I’ll have to think about this. When you said that I’d be working as a cocktail waitress, I envisioned myself running drinks from one dinner table to the next.”
She stops and waves her hand around the room, making dramatic gestures toward the stage.
“Not working in a place like this.”
“A place like what?” I ask her.
“You know,” she looks around to make sure no one is around us. “A stripper place,” she whispers.
If she only knew the amount of money that she could make here compared to what she makes at the diner, she wouldn’t talk about a ‘place like this’ like that anymore.
All of my girls who work here are proud to work at The Pink Pouch. For the most part, the clients are respectable men who have large
bank rolls to spend, and they spare nothing on the girls that I bring in.
Every girl who works here is beautiful and talented. They’re not your typical girls you’d find working in an East Side strip club. They’re clean and they’re classy; no drug habits, no hookers.
We’re like a family here and we look after each other, and on the rare occasion when things get heated, Zeke makes sure the fire gets put out. The men get put out on their asses with a warning to never come back.
“I’m not trying to pry but I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation with your co-worker when I came in the other day.”
Her head drops and her chin rests against her chest as her eyes flutter closed. Her gorgeous eyes peek through her long, dark lashes that are coated with mascara.
“Oh,” she says.
“Listen, I’ve seen a ton of girls in your shoes; single mom, no help from the dad, and you’re just trying to make ends meet. The difference is, we’re all family here and the girls here will welcome you with open arms. You’ll make enough to get caught back up on your bills and stand on your own two feet again. There’s nothing wrong with serving guys a few drinks while they unwind. Okay?”
She’s not the first one I’ve had to give this pep talk to, but every word of it is true. Melanie has the perfect body for this job and her face belongs on the cover of a magazine. As pretty as all of the girls who have ever worked here might have been, they don’t hold a candle to Melanie.
Cracking half of a smile, she opens her purse and tucks the application inside.
“Let me think about it. I don’t know how I’d work the morning shift at the diner and work the night shift here.”
I’m taken aback by her comment.
“Wait? You don’t mean you’re going to try to work both jobs, do you? You’ll make more than enough working here. You can kiss the greasy spoon diner goodbye once and for all,” I tell her.
“What?” she asks, surprised. “I can’t leave the diner!”
I’m shocked. I thought for sure that leaving that dead end place would be the first thing she’d want to do. There’s no money in it so I can’t imagine why she’d want to be there.
