I shoot a panicked glance at Jonathan. “No.”

“Then what makes you think you’re qualified for this job?”

I glance at Jonathan again and he nods encouragingly, but doesn’t jump to my aid. “Well . . . I’ve always liked to dance. And I think I’m okay at it, so . . .”

His gaze sharpens. “You need to be pretty damn sure you’re more than ‘okay at it’ if you’re going to stand half dressed on a stage in a crowded room and really sell it, my dear.”

A woman slips through the door and closes it behind her. She flips the pen out from behind her ear and slashes a line across the small notepad in her hand. “Brittany just called in sick. I’ve already got Izzy covering, and I’ve called everyone else and none of them can come in.”

Ben hangs his head and gives it a doleful shake. “Why is it so hard to find reliable help?”

“Sorry, babe,” she says, tucking the pen back behind her ear. “But it means we’re down a girl tonight.”

Ben lifts his head and looks at me. “You think you’re ‘okay at it,’ huh?” he says with a quirk of one thick eyebrow.

“She is,” Jonathan answers from next to me. “Totally hot,” he adds when Ben pins him in his gaze.

Ben’s eyes shift to me. “Fine. We can try it for tonight. You’re probationary. That means any screw-ups, I send you home on the spot with pay only. No tips.”

“Can I ask . . .” I hesitate and flick a glance at Jonathan. “What is the pay?”

“Minimum wage,” Ben answers, leaning back in his chair and weaving his fingers together over his stomach.

I feel my face scrunch into a wince, but I can’t stop it. There’s no way I can make nine hundred in rent on minimum wage.

“The tips here are great, Sam,” Jonathan interjects, reading my mind.

I look at him.

“The house takes sixty percent of everything you earn on the stage, part of which goes to the DJ,” Ben says with a nod at Jonathan, “and to our bouncers. The rest is yours.”

“So, that’s like . . . ?”

Ben looks a question at the woman, who’s still standing in the door.

“Averages about three hundred take-home,” she says. “Weekends can be as much as a grand.”

My mouth falls open. “A night?”

She tips her head at me in warning. “For our best girls, yeah.”

Ben stands. “Sam West, meet my wife, Nora. She manages my stage. She’ll get you set up.”

I look back at the woman. She looks older than Ben, and rougher around the edges. Her bottle-red hair is clipped back in a messy bun, and though her clothes look like they could be expensive, she’s too skinny to wear them well. I never would have guessed they were married.

She tucks her notepad into her back pocket and pushes the door open. “Come on, girlie. Let’s get to work.”

I SHOOT AN anxious glance back at Jonathan as I follow her out of the room. He gives me a reassuring smile and a wink.

The next door down the hall is the dressing room, I find out when she leads me through. To my left is a row of vanity tables so littered with tissues and cosmetics I can hardly see the mirrors. In the middle of the room is a black sofa, and the back wall is lined with white cabinets. The room is lit by flickering fluorescents and smells of a musty mix of sweat, hair spray, and cheap perfume.

“So, ground rules,” Nora says to me as we step inside. “This is not a strip club. We’ll find you a costume that works and it will stay on your body the entire night.”

“Good,” I say.

She looks me over and nods. “Good. Because that’s been a problem in the past.”

I feel my eyes widen. “Seriously?”

“Some of the girls figure out they get bigger tips if they flash the guys a little tit, but we’re not that kind of club.”

“Good,” I say again, relieved.

She nods and moves to a closet on the back wall. “Also, there’s no touching. They can slip tips into your costume, but if anyone gets inappropriate, Marcus and Devin will be on them like white on rice.”

“Marcus and Devin?”

“Our bouncers. That’s why you share your tips with them. They’ve got your back at all times. At the end of your shift be sure to ask one of them to escort you to your car or the bus stop or whatever.”

I nod.

She reaches into the closet and pulls out a hanger with a white flapper-dress-looking thing, beads dangling in long strands all over it. “Try this.”

I look around for a dressing room when she makes no motion to leave, or even turn around. “Here?”

She nods. “You need help?”

“Um . . . no. I can get it.” I turn my back and pull my T-shirt over my head, then start to slip the dress on.

“No bra,” Nora says from behind me. “Your job is to titillate. That works better when there’s a little tit involved. We never show them, but a little jiggle is a good thing.”

I unhook my bra and slide it off my shoulders, then slip the dress on. It’s super tight, and the neckline drops in a sharp V all the way to my belly button. The hem barely covers my ass.

“Drop your skirt.”

Until this moment I would have defined my favorite little black skirt as short, but it hangs a full four inches below the hem of this costume. I shimmy it down my legs and step out of it.

“Turn around,” Nora says.

I turn slowly, afraid to move too fast for fear of either my boobs or my ass falling out of this dress.

“Lift your arms.”

I only get them halfway up before my left boob springs free from the low neckline. I cringe and quickly tuck it back in, folding my arms over my chest.

“Oh, no, girlie,” she says with a shake of her head. “You are way too much for that costume.” She moves back to the closet and pulls open a drawer. “See if you can find something in here.”

I step up to her side, my arms still tight over my chest, and peer in. There are a lot of feathers and sequins, and every shade of nylon, satin, and microfiber you can imagine. It all looks super tacky. I dig to the bottom and see something black. I pull it up and unfold it. It’s a tiny satin halter vest with a tuxedo collar and three brass buttons up the front. “This is kind of cute.”

“Try it on,” Nora tells me.

I move back to the sofa and pull the dress off over my head, then slip the halter on, adjust the collar, and button the front. The top button is just below my boobs, and the bottom one is just above my belly button, so my belly ring shows in the V at the bottom of the vest. It’s super tight, so it enhances my cleavage, but I feel fairly secure in it, like the girls aren’t going anywhere.

“Cute thong,” Nora tells me, and I remember I’m not wearing my skirt. I look down to see which underwear I put on this morning. My strappy red thong—super comfortable microfiber. Functional and sexy. I never dreamed at the time I slipped it on that I’d be standing in it in Benny’s dressing room. But when life throws you curves . . .

Nora hands a pair of black satin shorts over my shoulder. “When you put these on, let the straps of your thong peak over the top. The guys’ll think that’s sexy as hell.”

I pull the shorts on and zip the one-inch zipper. They sit so low on my hips that letting the straps of my thong show isn’t going to be a problem. My butt is totally hanging out the back, just like the blond girl I saw dancing on the stage earlier.

“Oh, girlie. That is so hot,” Nora croons, a grin on her face and dollar signs dancing in her eyes. “All that black really makes your red hair and green eyes pop. They’re going to be creaming their shorts the minute you set foot on that stage.”

“Great.” I’m shivering from nerves even though it’s got to be a hundred degrees in there.

“You need accessories.” She pulls open a different closet, in which I see racks of wigs and hats, and boxes of boas and costume jewelry. She pulls a black bowler hat with a red satin band off the rack. “This is perfect,” she says, plunking it onto my head. “Simple and classic.”