by Brenna Zinn
“You said you want to make the audition cut. I’m here as a favor to you, and Nicko is here from Dallas to help me teach you.” Tatum yanked her arm from Steele’s grip and rubbed where his beefy fingers had pressed into her flesh. “We went through college together. He’s a trained professional. He knows what he’s doing.”
“I don’t care if he came from Timbuktu and has a wall full of degrees in dance.” Disgust burned behind Steele’s brown eyes. “There’s no way I’m going to be touched, groped, or in any way manhandled by some fairy. That’s not the way I roll.”
Anger, raw and powerful, rushed through her blood. She rapidly tapped her foot, avoiding the temptation of kicking the ignorant Neanderthal so hard his butt hit his shoulders.
Prejudice. If there was one thing she couldn’t abide, prejudice was at the top of her list. How many times had she witnessed her gay friends and classmates deal with the cruelty associated with uneducated remarks, slights or out and out discrimination? How many times had she suffered something similar but less severe because of her unusual height?
“Listen here, you meathead,” she hissed, coming within a foot of his overinflated body. Standing as tall as Steele, she looked him square in the eye while jamming a finger into his solid wall of a chest. “If I ever hear another thing like that pass through those thin lips of yours, I’m not only going to have your ass tossed out of this practice, I’m going to make sure you never set foot in Iron Rods again.”
Of course, she had no idea exactly how she’d kick Steele out on his ass, but that didn’t stop her from making the threat. The dumb knuckle dragger had her so mad, she was spitting tacks.
Tatum grabbed his chin and forced his head to turn toward Nicko. “You see my friend over there? He happens to be one hell of a stripper up in Dallas. His tips average somewhere between four hundred and six hundred.”
Steele glanced back at her, unimpressed. “A weekend?”
“No,” she ground out, her Southern accent thick as pecan pie filling. “A fucking night. So if you want to step up your game and your cash flow, you had better clean up your act and show my friend the respect he deserves.”
“A night? You sure?” Skepticism threaded his flat voice.
“Yes. A night. Even Thursday nights. If you don’t believe me, ask Nicko yourself.”
Steele scowled. Somewhere in his dense head the slow cogs of his brain appeared to be turning. After a long moment, he nodded. “I guess I can have him show me a thing or two.”
A thing or two. Oh, please. You need a dancing primer.
“That’s mighty big of you.” She blew out a puff of air, causing her sweaty bangs to fly erratically over her heated forehead. “But so help me Jesus, say one wrong word, just one, and you’re done. You might want to clue homie over there in on the deal too. Are we crystal clear here?”
“Ya,” he grunted. “We’re clear.”
“Good.” She took him by his elbow and led him over to her friend. “Nicko, Steele. Steele, Nicko.”
Nicko would have to have been both blind and deaf to misunderstand the nature of the aside she’d had with Steele. Instead of holding a grudge or being angry, Nicko stuck out his hand.
“You ready to do this?” Nicko asked.
Steele hesitated, but shook her friend’s hand. “You really clear four hundred a night?”
“On a slow night. I usually take home closer to six.”
That piece of information didn’t slip unnoticed by Gangsta G. The young dancer, who had been checking messages on his phone, whipped his head around so quickly, it was a wonder he didn’t get whiplash.
“Are you serious?” Gangsta G’s eyes were as large as the big Tito’s Vodka logo printed on his cap.
“As a heart attack. But not all the guys I dance with do as well. The ladies shell out big bucks for guys who know how to dance as well as shake their money maker, and I’m not talking about your backside.” Nicko swiveled his hips then thrust his pelvis in one commanding movement. “Ladies today know the difference between good strippers and bad strippers, good routines and the lame stuff guys are trying to pull off on the fly. The women in the clubs have been hit by the economy just like everyone else. They’re there with a fistful of dollars, but generally only one fistful. They know they have to make that money work for them. They can be choosy who they give their cash to. So we, the dancers, have to always be at our best if we’re going to make any kind of living. It’s a dog eat dog world out there.” Nicko smiled, his teeth white against the dark caramel of his skin. “And I’m a very popular Chihuahua with sharp fangs.”
Oh how she loved her friend. Smart, funny and abundantly talented, he didn’t need her help in setting Steele and Gangsta G straight or fending for himself. If the dopy duo had any sense at all, they’d kneel at Nicko’s feet and beg him to teach them everything he could.
“Okay then, let’s get started.” Tatum gave each dancer a handout outlining the choreography for his routine. “I know what I’ve written probably doesn’t make much sense to you now, but by the time we’re done today, it will. When you practice on your own, which you will, right?” She looked at both the dancers and waited until they both reluctantly nodded. “Then you can use this paper as a guide to help you remember all the steps. Any questions before we get started?”
Gangsta G held up his scrawny arm, his cell phone clutched in his hand. “How long we gonna be here today? I need to let my mom know so she can pick me up when we’re done.”
Tatum stilled and felt a bead of sweat roll down her chest. She didn’t know if she should laugh or cringe. She’d already checked his driver’s license. He truly was nineteen years old and legal to dance in a strip club, but the young man seemed almost too immature as well as too gangly to strip in front of women.
“I don’t know how long we’ll be. It really depends on your ability to learn the steps and then time to work in some finesse. Possibly all day,” Tatum answered.
“I can take you home.”
To her surprise, Steele stepped up and made the offer. The muscle-bound dancer seemed to be watching out for the young man, though why he did so was anyone’s guess. Considering the young dancer apparently didn’t have a car, lived at home with his mother and was working toward being a stripper, she was glad to see someone watching out for him.
They broke off into two groups, and for the rest of the day she and Nicko rotated between working with Steele and Gangsta G. While Nicko focused on pole work and techniques for better stripping, Tatum concentrated on the dance routines.
At least twice during the practice, she could have sworn she saw Bennett’s face peeking through the window of the studio door, causing her stomach to drop to the wood floor. But each time she glanced back, double-checking her vision, he wasn’t there. Clearly her overtaxed mind and undersexed body were running amok. Her wishful thinking was creating his likeness in the oddest of places, as though he were some type of tempting ghost.
With all the work she had to do before Iron Rods reopened, including this practice session with the two dancers on the verge of losing their jobs, she had to stop fantasizing about Bennett and focus. But the sexual longing he had tapped into refused to stay suppressed. God, how she wanted another round in the rodeo ring with him. He was the type of beautiful but fierce stallion she would like to ride until both their hides lathered. Yippee-ki-yay, indeed.
And thanks to the extremely charming but talkative Dan “The Man” Camden, she knew more about Mr. Perfect than she probably should. The information had changed the way she looked at the tall, dark and handsome man from the East Coast. She had liked their spirited bouts and the way he made her body feel alive just from giving her one of his sultry hooded looks. But now she understood his tough exterior shielded a vulnerable side. A side he kept deeply buried.
After several hours of practice, Steele finally found some rhythm. Instead of looking like a caveman awkwardly shuffling his feet while simultaneously jerking his hips backward and forward, his movement
s became more fluid. The rough edges of his dance had smoothed out to something passable. The combination of his tight, well-defined muscles, his blatant sexuality and his newfound dance ability might just be enough to get him on the stripping team.
Gangsta G, however, turned out to be a bull of a whole other breed. No matter how many times she and the young dancer worked through his routine, he couldn’t seem to find his feet. His dancing skills consisted of yanking his tall, thin frame to and fro, while thrusting out his skinny arms and kicking his legs. He had zero sense of timing and couldn’t find a beat of music if his life depended on it. In all her years of dance, she’d never seen anyone fail so miserably at following even the most basic steps, let alone an entire choreographed routine.
Sensing his growing frustration, as well as her own, she called the practice to an end. “That’s a wrap, guys. I think it’s time to head home.” She did her best to sound impressed and enthusiastic as she spoke. “Steele, I think you really turned around today. I saw a lot of promise in your progress, not only with your routine, but your pole work. Nice job. Keep practicing on your own and hammer out your technique.”
She turned to Gangsta G and forced herself to smile. “And you came a long way today too. If you don’t mind, I’d like to talk with you privately while Steele and Nicko get the room ready so we all can leave.”
The young man’s face collapsed and his shoulders dipped low. “Sure,” he said, his voice heavy with disappointment.
Apparently her perky disposition hadn’t masked her intentions well enough. How could she help a kid who needed a job so badly he’d endured a day of being endlessly corrected and coached with absolutely no success?
She pulled him to a corner of the studio and handed him one of the towels she held. The room might be air-conditioned, but they had exerted themselves so long and hard, they were both drenched with sweat.
“So how do you think you did today?” she asked, dabbing the thick terry cloth towel on her chin and cheeks. If he said he thought he did spectacularly well, she was hosed. Somehow she’d have to find a way to let him know his perception and reality were about as close as the Earth and Venus.
Deep within his eyes, she saw a tortured soul. The sight nearly broke her heart. She understood what it meant to want something so badly her body ached for it, only to be let down time and time again.
“Not so good.” His gaze drifted to the floor and he tapped the wall with the toe of his sneaker.
Tatum drew in a breath and let it out slowly, trying to figure out what to say next. She wanted to help him. He looked too much like a lost puppy not to. Plus he’d said he needed to strip because he needed to pay for college. At least he was doing what he could to help himself. She had to admire him for that.
“Gavin,” she started, using the name she’d seen on his driver’s license. “I have other jobs at Iron Rods that might work out better for you than stripping.”
He looked up, his features glum. “That will make as much money?”
“Probably not. But it’s a job. I’m looking to hire at least one person to help Elmer clean and two or three waiters. With either job you’ll still make money. Good money.”
“Not four hundred dollars a night though.”
“No,” she agreed, sensing his disappointment. “But keep in mind, that’s what Nicko makes. You’ve seen him dance today. He’s taken dance classes most of his life. Have you ever seen a stripper dance like Nicko?”
“No.”
“Then let’s make a deal. You work at Iron Rods as a waiter. You’ll make minimum wage plus tips. If you’re a good waiter and work the ladies really well, you have a chance at making a lot of cash in tips alone.”
The grim set of his lips suggested he hadn’t given up on making the cut as a stripper. But there was no way in hell the Slim Jim of a man would get past the women asked to audition the dancers. Most of the ladies were presidents of sorority houses. She knew from her own experience at the university these girls weren’t exactly an easy crowd to impress, nor were they known for their high degree of sensitivity. They’d eat the gangly young man alive then spit out his bones.
“I’ve been wanting to talk to Lyle Truitt about the college scholarship he recently set up. I don’t know much about it yet.” She wiped down her shoulders and arms. The lie she’d just let slip by her lips was so Texas-sized she couldn’t even face him. “I could find out if you qualify for it.”
For the first time since she’d met Gavin, he actually appeared happy. He smiled and lit up brighter than the Zilker Tree at Christmas.
“Really?”
“Of course.”
Add another item to my long list of things to do. Talk to Lyle about setting up a scholarship fund.
“I’ll get in touch with you when we start the training for the waitstaff,” she added. “I want to make sure all y’all know what you’re doing so the customers are happy. If they’re happy, then y’all will get big tips. You want big tips, right?”
He furiously bobbed his head, making the logo on his cap blur.
“Good. Go get your things.”
After locking the door to the studio, they wearily trudged down the corridor to the front doors of the warehouse. The full day of dancing had worn them all out. Even Nicko, who normally had the energy of a wind-up toy, walked slower than usual as he dragged his big cooler behind him.
Tatum pushed the bar to the doors. Although the shadows spreading over the street and parking lot were long, the heat of the day still lingered. If she had any strength left in her body, the high temperature immediately zapped it.
Hopefully she would go home to find that not only were there no fire trucks or paramedic vehicles in the parking lot of her townhome, but Heather had successfully cooked an edible meal. Then she and her roomie could both relax with a bottle of wine. The image her mind created was so wonderful, her mouth actually watered.
As Tatum locked the outside doors, Steele lingered on the sidewalk and fiddled with the straps of his gym bag. Nicko and Gangsta G had already crossed the street to the parking lot.
“So listen, I want to thank you for your help today.”
The gratitude the big man expressed sounded genuine. A quick happy dance tapped its way across her belly. She’d actually made progress with another of the Iron Rods staff. The day had started out great with her meeting and was ending the same way.
“You’re welcome,” she said, masking her glee. “I think you’ll do very well at the auditions. I hope you take a minute to thank Nicko. He was a huge help.”
“Ya. You’re right. I owe him and you an apology. I said some things this morning that were out of line. I’m sorry.”
That act of contrition silenced the chiming keys in her hand. She turned from the double doors. “I appreciate that. Very much.”
Steele stepped closer. She could see the muscles in his neck working as he thought.
“I know I’ve already asked for your help with my audition, but I was wondering if I could ask another favor.”
“Shoot.”
“One of my daughters is trying out for the dance team at school. It’s a big deal for her.” He visibly swallowed. “Would you mind working with her too? It would mean the world to her if she can get on the team.”
At that moment the big man transformed from Steele the pumped-up stripper to Roberto Delgado, dad and family breadwinner. The metamorphosis completely caught her off guard and caused her view of reality to tilt on its axis. Just like her, this man had a life outside of work. A family who depended on him. She’d never thought of Steele that way, nor any of the other strippers up to that instant. The revelation shocked her all the way to her deeply embarrassed core.
“Yes, of course. I’d love to work with your daughter. What’s her name?”
“Catalina. Her friends, Yolanda and Andrenette, are also auditioning. Would you mind working with them?”
She nodded as tears threatened in the corners of her eyes. He trusted her with his child
and her friends. “Absolutely. The more the merrier. I’ve got a great place here to use until Iron Rods is renovated. May as well get the most from it.”
“Cool.” The tightness that had stiffened his shoulders and neck disappeared. “Thanks.”
“My pleasure.” And it was. She’d enjoyed every moment teaching him and Gavin in the dance studio. The experience of being instructor instead of student and seeing the progress of at least Steele had been incredibly rewarding. Her mind already raced with ideas she could use when working with the girls, as well as the music she would use.
The music.
Tatum glanced at her feet. She’d left her ancient boom box in the studio.
“Crap. I need to go back and get my CD player.” She unlocked the door and stepped inside. “Call me later and we’ll set up a time for the girls.”
He nodded and walked onto the street. “Thanks again.”
She retrieved her boom box, retraced her weary steps outside the warehouse and once again locked the double doors. Finally, she could go home. Lifting her bag and heavy portable stereo, she heard the sound of bootheels rapidly approaching. Tatum looked up. A man ran hell bent for leather toward her.
She blinked, trying to clear her vision. It was Mad Dog, she was certain. He wore a black T-shirt and black Western boots. His belly protruded over the top of his too tight black jeans. He’d cut his red hair short. So short she could see traces of his scalp between the fuzz of ruddy spikes he’d formed at the top of his head.
The former stripper appeared to be racing toward her, a switchblade in his right hand.
Chapter Ten
Mad Dog held the weapon high. The blade, long and wickedly pointed, glinted in the golden light of the fading sun. The unexpected and truly horrific sight rooted Tatum’s feet to the sidewalk. She should scream. She should run. Her body refused to cooperate. The unreality of the situation would not register in her brain. Instead, her mind took everything in as though she were sitting comfortably in a theatre and watching a terrible slasher movie that starred someone other than herself.
