“If you say so,” I say, straightening it on my head.

She pulls the next closet open and there are shelves of shoes. “What size are you?”

“Um . . . six, usually.”

“Hmm . . .” she says, looking over the selection. “Not sure what we’ve got that small.”

I look over the rack and don’t see anything with less than a five-inch heal. I pick a red shoe up and turn it in my hand, and suddenly I’m wondering about my health insurance. Have my parents cut that off too? Does Ben carry workman’s comp? Because one thing I know for certain is that I’m going to break every bone in my ankles falling off these things if I try to dance in them.

Nora pushes a few pairs of platforms aside and unearths a pair of black pleather lace-up thigh boots with spiky heals. “These,” she says, thrusting them at me. “They’re a seven, but they’ll be totally hot with that costume. You can cram a little toilet paper in the toe if you have to.”

She pulls open a drawer and hands me a red garter belt and black nylons. “Put these on under your shorts, then we’ll get those boots strapped on.” She prods me toward the sofa in the middle of the dressing room, and I slip my shorts off, hook the garter belt around me, and smooth on the nylons. She helps me clip them onto the garters, and when I slide my shorts back on, she shoves me into the sofa. I pull the boots on and they actually feel okay even without any toilet paper in the toe. It takes about a day to get them all laced up, but when I finally stand, I’m surprised at how secure my ankles feel in them. Maybe I won’t actually break anything after all.

“Take a look,” she says with an eyebrow wiggle and a grin, flipping the closet door closed so I’m reflected in the full-length mirror.

And, holy shit. I am totally sex incarnate.

“Last but not least,” she says, dragging me to a makeup table. “Your face.”

I sit at the vanity for the next ten minutes while she slathers layers of foundation and eyeliner and blush all over me. And then we’re ready.

Adrenaline floods my bloodstream and causes my heart to race at a coronary-inducing pace. I’m really doing this. I’m going to go out on stage and dance, wearing this. Honestly, the adrenaline is mostly from nerves, but partly from anticipation too. This could be super hot. I get to live out every woman’s fantasy of being the bad girl, for just a little while.

I wipe my sweaty palms on my shorts and blow out a breath.

“No backing out now, girlie. Let’s go,” Nora says, prodding me toward a door in the back of the room that I didn’t even notice before. It leads to a long, narrow hallway lit with flickering fluorescent tubes. We pass a door on the right, and the farther up the hall we move, the more the wall to my right vibrates with the pound of the heavy bass of the music on the other side of it.

“I’ve got Stephanie on the center stage and Izzy on the right, which leaves the left for you,” she says, stopping and laying her hand on a doorknob. “Remember, this is no different than selling anything else. If you want to score big tips, you need to move around the stage—show them what they’re buying. Move toward the edge of the stage for your tips often enough that you look approachable. Some of them will be a little intimidated by you, so smile and make a lot of eye contact. Most of them will want to put the money on you, which is fine, but as soon as that tip’s in your shorts or your top, move away. If you linger too long, they might get the wrong idea and try for more.”

Ohmygod. What was I thinking? All my adrenaline-charged blood rushes out of my head and I feel dizzy as I think about horny guys trying to cop a feel.

“I’m not sure I can do this,” I tell her, trying not to hyperventilate, but I’m shaking so hard my teeth chatter, and I almost bite the tip off my tongue.

She opens the door and prods me through. “If you know how to dance, you can do this.”

Hot, humid air slaps me in the face, and my whole body feels suddenly moist. The thin white curtain in front of me actually shakes with the pounding rhythm of the music. But my heart’s pounding even harder.

There are two other girls, I tell myself, who are going to be way better at this than me. Everyone will be watching them. It will be fine.

It will be fine.

Breathe.

I glance back at Nora, who nods at me and closes the door between us. Tentatively, I lift a hand and slip my fingers through the part in the curtain. The place is packed—much busier than when Jonathan and I came in an hour ago. Every table in the pit is full. There’s a crowd packed around both of the other stages and along the rail over the pit at bar level. There has to be at least a couple hundred people here.

I force my fingers to unclench, and take a breath to calm the shaking, then step through the curtain onto the stage. The other two are lit. I’m in the dark. So far so good. I reach up and slide my hat down over my eyes. I close them and sink into the music. My hips start to sway and the rest of my body follows as I lose myself in it. I can do this. Just concentrate on the music. That’s the key. I’m just dancing, like at any of Jonathan’s shows.

“We have a special treat for you tonight,” Big Pete’s voice purrs over the music. And that’s when I realize he’s lowered the volume. I tip my hat up and see Nora in the DJ booth with him, grinning at me. “In her virgin appearance on the stage, please give your biggest Benny’s welcome to the scandalous, salacious, sensual, seductive, Sam!”

He draws out all the esses, and, at the instant he says my name, a blue stage light flips on and blinds me. I stagger back a step and lift my arm to shade my eyes, but I still can’t see shit. Big Pete cranks the music again, and my eyes start to focus well enough to see there are guys beginning to gather at the edge of my stage.

Shit. I can’t do this.

I stand here literally quaking in my boots, frozen like a deer in the headlights, for what feels like the better part of the rest of my life. But then, as my eyes adjust, I see Jonathan leaning on the rail near the bar, looking across the pit at me. He raises his beer in a salute, then blows me a kiss.

I’m at his show, I tell myself. Just do what I do there.

I close my eyes and let my body pick up the pulse, feeling it move through my hips and shoulders. Gradually, my shaking slows as I let the music caress me from the inside out. I settle into the rhythm and my body responds like a lover to the music’s touch. I start to move again, swinging my hips at the will of the steady beat.

When it’s calmed me enough that I can breathe again, I open my eyes. Around my stage is a small crowd of mostly middle-aged guys. My heart is racing in my chest as I dance my way closer to the edge of the stage, toward a heavyset guy holding up a bill. I remember how Stephanie shimmied down and let someone slip a bill into her cleavage. I try to do the same thing, but it feels super awkward, so I give up and just squat down. He tucks the twenty into the waistband of my shorts, and I stand and dance around to the other side of the small stage, where another guy is holding up a ten. Once he’s tucked it into my top, I shimmy out of reach.

Maybe this isn’t so bad. Thirty bucks in five minutes. I haven’t fallen off my shoes, and no one’s made a grab for me. Maybe I can do this.

There’s a pole in the middle of my stage, and I press my back against it and grind my hips in a circle as I slide lower, spreading my knees as I wriggle down so my heels meet my butt. I lift my arms and grasp the pole above me, pumping up and down a few times before sliding back up. And all of a sudden there are at least a dozen twenties being waved at me from the edge of the stage. So I guess the pole is a big hit. I work my way around the stage collecting my tips, and just as I’m shimmying back to the pole, I see him.