The Shacking Up Series

by Helena Hunting

  It takes me a few more seconds to put together that I’m at a burlesque-style show. Not true burlesque, but a modernized variation. These women aren’t up on stage getting naked. Sure, their costumes are extravagant and skimpy, but it’s more about sensuality. There’s no pole to hump or swing from. I tried out for a role in a burlesque play recently. That was the time I fell on my face. Part of me wondered if karma was trying to do me a favor, but sitting here now, I know that it really was just karma giving me the middle finger.

  I take a seat at the bar and order soda water because a real drink will cost too much and I’ll be tempted to drain it in one gulp. The show is actually fairly classy, classier than the play I auditioned for. Any loss of costume pieces is strategic, and at no point does it become bawdy or pornographic. The dancers know what they’re doing, most of them, anyway. They appear to be professionally trained, but something is off about the routine. It looks like maybe they’re missing someone.

  I sip my soda water, but I’m thirsty, so it doesn’t last very long. The bartender comes over and asks me if I want another one. I check my phone, pretending I’m not sure if I have the time to drink more non-alcoholic beverages in a bar.

  She drops another drink in front of me without waiting for an answer. I open my purse, but she waves me off. “That one’s on me.”

  “Thanks?” I give her a questioning look and she just shrugs. “I must look pretty pathetic.”

  She tips a half grin as she wipes down the bar in front of me. “I saw what happened at the door. Figured you didn’t mean to end up in here. And yeah, pathetically sweet seems to be your deal.”

  I laugh, then sigh and take a sip before looking back at the stage. “They’re all trained, aren’t they?”

  “Most of them. Two of the leads went to burlesque school, the other girls have a dance background.”

  I watch the girl in the center. Her form is incredible. “What do the dancers make here?”

  “Depends on the girl, how many shifts they work, the crowd they draw.”

  “It’s not just an hourly wage?”

  “They can make a lot in tips on their solo numbers. Why? You looking for a job?”

  I glance her way. Her expression tells me she means it as a joke.

  I focus on the stage again. I have the training and the skill to learn those moves. They’re not outside of my repertoire. I probably watched Burlesque three million times. My father would have a heart attack if he found out I ended up having to take a job in a burlesque-style show because I don’t have money or alternative job prospects. Which might not be a terrible thing. If I can shame him enough, it’s possible he won’t allow me to work for him.

  I realize I’ve yet to answer her question. “Do you know if the manager’s hiring?”

  The bartender sizes me up, her gaze shrewd and assessing. “What kind of experience do you have?”

  I keep it vague. “I’m professionally trained.”

  She looks skeptical. “What kind of professional training?”

  “I took dance, voice, and acting in college.” I spin the glass between my palms.

  “Oh, yeah? Which college?”

  “A little arts college outside of the city.” If she asks me to get more specific there’s no way she’ll offer me any kind of audition, let alone a job so I ramble on, “I graduated two years ago, but theater’s a tough market to break into unless you know someone. I managed to get a couple of small parts, but it’s not steady. We all have big-city dreams, right?”

  “We sure do.” Her gaze drops to my purse; thankfully the brand name is hidden. “Come back tomorrow at noon if you’re serious.”

  I sit up a little straighter. “Really?”

  “I’m not promising anything.” She drops her card on the bar, and I snatch it up like it’s a hundred-dollar bill. “But they need a new girl, and you might just be a good fit. If you know how to move.”

  * * *

  I don’t hang around the bar. I leave a tip for the soda waters—not so much that it looks like I’m trying to buy myself a job—then head back to the street and program the address of the bar into my phone. I’m a seriously long way from home. Actually, I’m pretty close to my old neighborhood. The job is less than ideal, but it’s a job, it might be fun for a while to do something a little risqué, or risky, as it were, apart from my attempt to succeed in one of the most unstable careers in the city.

  It’ll just be temporary. Until an audition opportunity comes along and I can get my debt under control.

  It takes more than an hour to get home. I read articles on burlesque on the subway ride. The level of bawdiness varies greatly, but this club seems to lean to the more conservative, classy side, which is good. I don’t want a job that makes me feel like I’m on the verge of a career in stripping. That’s not a line I can cross. I’m jazz trained, so I should be able to handle whatever routines they throw at me. I treat it like I would any other audition. When I get home I put on my music videos and practice the one burlesque routine I’ve memorized since I saw the movie Burlesque.

  I set four alarms and plan my subway route for the morning. Then I go to bed and say a prayer to the financial stability Gods that I get this job.

  The next morning I receive a text from Bancroft minutes before I have to leave. I let him know I’m on my way to an audition and I get four leaf clovers and a good luck horseshoe in response.

  At eleven forty-five I’m standing outside the bar wearing what I hope is a reasonable audition outfit. Under a shift dress I’m wearing a black strappy camisole and a pair of black dance shorts. It’s simple and hopefully revealing enough. My shoes are in my bag. I brought both heels and flats, because all the women were wearing heels last night.

  The bar looks a lot seedier in the light of day than it does at night. I try the door, but it’s locked. Maybe there’s some secret back entrance I don’t know about. I root around in my purse until I find the card the bartender gave me. I changed bags this morning before I left. I’m still mourning the loss of the purse that I fear will forever smell of rotten appetizers, but I dumped a container of baking soda in there and sprayed it with some of Bancroft’s cologne, so I’m hoping to salvage it.

  Before I can find the card, the door opens. The bartender from last night greets me, except she’s wearing a suit, not jeans and a corset top. “Wow. I’m surprised you showed. You must be pretty desperate for a job.”

  “I’m just keen to have steady employment.” I maintain what I hope is an even smile. What else am I going to stay to that?

  She laughs and rolls her eyes, opening the door wide to let me in. The bar looks a lot different with the lights up than it did last night. The dark walls need fresh paint and the tables are chipped at the corners. I remind myself again that this is temporary as the bartender, who still hasn’t introduced herself, takes a seat and gestures to the stage. There are a few other employees milling around, a man lugging boxes, a woman carrying a notepad, but they don’t acknowledge me.

  “Is there a song you want?” she asks.

  I dig around in my bag and retrieve my portable speaker. “I brought music, just in case.”

  She arches a brow, but she flashes a hint of a smile. “Aren’t you prepared?”

  I have a feeling she’s being condescending, but I need a paycheck, and I’ve had to deal with my father for the past twenty-four years, so I’m used to being patronized.

  I drop my bag on a table, shed my sheath dress, and set up the speaker. I cue the music and take position.

  I spent the entire trip here giving myself a mental pep-talk. I’m pretending like it’s practice for the audition I’m supposed to have early next week, just prior to Bancroft’s return. If I can manage to get that role, I might not need this job anyway.

  I don’t look at the bartender while I perform the routine. I can’t, because I’m terrified of screwing this up. And if I see her look at me with disdain I know that’s exactly what I’ll do. When the song ends I finally look her way
again.

  Her hands are steepled under her chin, her expression pensive. “Where’d you say you went to college?”

  “I didn’t.”

  Her serious expression drops and she laughs. “That’s some pretty sophisticated training you’ve had.”

  I clasp my hands to stop from fidgeting. “I’ve been dancing since I was a kid.”

  “The routines are different than what you’re probably used to.”

  “I’m good with that.” Oh God, is she telling me I have a job?

  I cross my fingers behind my back while she taps her lip with a painted nail. She pushes out of her chair and crosses over to me. “Show me your arms.”

  “What?”

  “Your arms. I need to see them. Palm up.”

  I hold them out and she grabs my wrists inspecting my forearms. It takes me a few seconds to understand that she’s looking for track marks. Jesus. What am I getting myself into? “I don’t do drugs.”

  “You can never be too careful.” She drops my arms. “All right. You got yourself a job. I’ll give you some paperwork to fill out and a couple of videos to watch. You can move, but you’ll need to step it up if you want to make real money.”

  She sashays down the hall and disappears through a door. I pack my things back in my purse. This is the weirdest audition ever.

  She returns a minute later with three sheets of paper and a stack of videos. “Watch these and bring this back filled out tomorrow, same time. If you can handle working with my lead dancer, and she thinks you can hack it, the job is yours.”

  “When can we talk about wages?” I call after her retreating form.

  “When my girls tell me if you’re workable.”

  * * *

  The bartender, Dottie, is actually the owner of the bar. She isn’t the one who greets me the next morning. Instead it’s Diva, the lead dancer. I can’t tell if everyone’s names are fake or real or somewhere in between. She was the one who came into the bathroom post–baggie bombs. I sincerely hope she doesn’t realize I’m the one responsible for that.

  I pass the test, which consists of four hours of dancing in heels, lots of yelling, and several references to me being similar to a floundering walrus.

  I’m five-five and all muscle. There’s nothing walrus-like about me. Diva is harsh. She’s also an incredible dancer so I take the insults. It feels almost like a hazing. Like if I can take the bitchiness I get to be part of the cool crowd. What I really need to know is what kind of money is attached to this job. If it’s enough to get me out of the hole I managed to dig myself, I can deal with Diva for as long as it takes.

  Before I leave I’m set up with a schedule. For the rest of the week I rehearse daily from three to five and then I’m on stage for the first and second sets only, from eight until nine and then nine-thirty to ten-thirty. The third and fourth sets are eleven to twelve and twelve-thirty to one-thirty. Apparently that’s when all the best tippers are here.

  I won’t get to dance the late shifts until I prove myself, according to Diva. However, they are short a girl, so proving myself may not take all that long. Base wage isn’t great, but with tips I should be okay, better than my current two hundred a week stipend from Bancroft, at any rate. It’s a start, and that’s what I need.

  “How long do you think it will take for me to get on the third set?” I ask.

  Diva shrugs. “Depends on how long it takes before you stop screwing up the routines.”

  I should be happy as I get on the subway and head home—back to my temporary accommodations. But it’s just that—temporary, like everything seems to be in my life right now.

  I have another audition coming up, though. Maybe my luck has finally changed. Maybe I’ll be on to even better things sooner rather than later.

  Chapter 14: Dancing Shoes

  RUBY

  Being employed is very good for one’s ego, even if the employment is of a questionable nature. I’m choosing to look at it as a fringe role in a fringe-type production in order to make myself feel reasonably okay about the whole thing. I have a job. That’s the most important part.

  The potentially scandalous nature of the employment is secondary to the actual income I’m about to generate. And it won’t be provided by Bancroft. It means when he comes back I won’t be reliant on him for money. That brings me one step closer to self-sufficiency. I’d really like to see whether all this flirting will turn into something else, but not when it feels like I’m being bought or kept.

  That’s exactly what it’s felt like with my father; he paid for my education and my life, but it came with an expiration date and huge side of shame. It’s also how my mother seemed to exist for a long time. He bought her complacency in their marriage until she decided it wasn’t worth the price anymore. Moving to Alaska was an extreme measure, but I understand it better now that I’m getting out from under his bricks of money, and I never want to end up in that kind of situation ever again.

  When Bancroft calls later I’m all smiles. Until I realize I’m going to have to fudge my job title. Theater is one thing, burlesque isn’t quite on par with what’s acceptable employment in my world, and if it gets back to my father it won’t be good. I also don’t want Bancroft to know. He went batshit when he thought I was showing cleavage to one of Armstrong’s friends. He’d probably have a coronary if he saw what I was going to wear on a daily basis at work. I don’t need to deal with that at the moment.

  “You’re in a good mood,” he observes.

  I’m lying on his bed with Francesca, who’s playing in my hair. My feet are killing me, but I don’t care. I have a job.

  “I’m gainfully employed.”

  “That’s fantastic, Ruby. You had an audition? Or was it a job interview? Either way we should celebrate. I’ll order some champagne and you can open a bottle on your end.”

  “We’re not having champagne. It’s not that kind of job.”

  “It’s a job, that’s all that matters. Go get yourself a drink.”

  “You’re a little bossy aren’t you?” I don’t argue, though, I wouldn’t mind a drink, and sometimes it’s important to celebrate, even if it’s the little things. I pour myself a glass while he orders room service. I’m halfway through glass number one by the time his bottle arrives. Bancroft insists I top my glass up, so I do.

  “So tell me about this job of yours,” he says, as I make my way back to his bedroom, where I’ve left Francesca.

  If I’d gotten a role in an actual play it wouldn’t be an issue. But this is not quite the same. “It’s like . . . dinner theater.” They serve food there, so it counts. Sort of.

  “That’s good isn’t it?”

  “It’s a start and a paycheck.”

  “Both good things.”

  “Exactly. How about you? How’re things in London?” I settle back on his bed.

  “Running smoothly now. I’m looking forward to coming home. It’ll be nice to sleep in my own bed again.”

  “I bet. It’s a nice bed. You must miss it.”

  “I do. Especially right now.”

  “Why right now?”

  “Because you’re in it.”

  I prop the phone up against a pillow and rest my chin on my fist. I’m trying not to take that the way I want to. I lower my voice to a sultry whisper. “Are you jealous?”

  He gives me the evil eye. “Maybe a little.”

  “Just a little?” I stretch my arms and legs out, starfishing on top of the comforter. “Look at how much room I have.” I make a big production of rolling back and forth across the king-size bed. “It’s so firm,” I groan and roll to one side, then roll back the other way until I’m in front of the screen again on my stomach. “And it’s so big,” I draw out the word big and flutter my lashes, biting my lip through a grin.

  Bancroft’s tongue peeks out and then disappears. “You know, I’m going to be home soon and I’ll be able to get you back for all this tormenting.”

  “You think I’m tormenting you?”


  “Are you trying to tell me you’re not, with the way you’re moaning, rolling around on my bed, dressed the way you are.” He gestures to me from his side of the screen.

  I push up on my arms. My tank gapes at the chest as I sit back on my heels. It’s one of those ones with the built-in bra. I run a hand over my camisole. “What’s wrong with the way I’m dressed?”

  “Are you fucking shitting me with that question, Ruby?”

  “I’m ready for bed.”

  “I can see your nipples.”

  I cup my breasts. “It’s cold. The air-conditioning is always on full blast in here.”

  “Are you even wearing a bra?” Bancroft’s arm unfurls, the hand tucked behind his head is suddenly on the move, down his chest and then out of sight.

  I lean in, as if it’s going to change my view. “What’re you doing?”

  “Aren’t you going to answer my question?”

  His bicep is flexing. What the hell is he doing?

  “Ruby?”

  I shift my gaze up. “Huh?”

  “My question? Are you going to answer it or not?”

  I’m too busy trying to figure out where his hand has gone to pay attention to questions. “Um . . . what was it again?”

  “You’re not wearing a bra, are you?”

  “No.” His bicep keeps flexing, it’s mesmerizing.

  “What about panties?”

  Dear lord. When his voice drops like that it makes me want to take off all my clothes.

  “You should just do that.”

  “What?”

  “Take off all your clothes.”

  Shit. I must have said that aloud. “You want me to roll around on your bed naked?”

  “Yes.”

  “While you watch?” I can’t tell if he’s serious or joking.

  “Fuck yes. Or maybe just in your panties if you’re feeling shy.”

  Sweet baby Jesus. I’m pretty sure we’re crossing every platonic line there is tonight. I also think Bancroft might be a bit of a dirty boy, which is fine by me. “What if I’m not wearing panties?” I rise up on my knees which means only my chest to mid-thigh is visible to him.