“Why do people respect the package rather than the man?”
Michel de Montaigne, The Complete Essays
My day hadn’t been great even before she walked in.
I’d just returned from the funeral of my longtime bookkeeper. He’d died from old age in his sleep surrounded by his five kids, loving wife, and eighteen grandchildren while leaving me with a reconciliation mess and this month’s payroll to finish.
My newly trained bartender had sent a manifesto via text message, blaming his decision to quit on my unwillingness to build a dedicated meditation room and give him four paid half-hour breaks per shift to use it.
Three Diamond Whiskey bottles out of the six that had shipped from the distributor were broken in the crate. If you’re keeping score, that’s seven hundred dollars in Tennessee Whiskey and a crime against humanity.
On the plus side, the suit I’d worn to my parents’ funerals fit and I still looked damn good in it.
Of course, I didn’t know the newcomer was her at first. The door opened and closed, same sound as normal no matter who was coming or going. It was a Sunday mid-morning, still early yet for any of the dancers or bouncers and way too early for any customers.
But the moment she turned the corner and came into view, I gritted my teeth. Here we go. What could she want? She better not be selling Bibles.
“Charlotte.” Standing behind the bar, I crossed my arms and sounded unfriendly. She’d caught me restocking paper products and the three surviving bottles of Diamond Whiskey. I was only half finished with my current task, but nowhere near half finished with my task list for the day. I did not have time for pious Charlotte Mitchell.
As a rule, I had time for two types of folks: people I paid, and people who paid me. A small number of exceptions to this rule existed: a few friends from college and in town, like Beau Winston or Patty Lee, and any woman I’d set my mind on seducing, but even then, I made sure the scales remained balanced—give and take, tit for tat, even-steven. Point is, Charlotte was obviously not the former exception, and there was no way she’d ever be interested in becoming the latter.
“Hank.” She didn’t look at me, but she did paste on an obligatory-looking smile that pulled her full lips tight and came nowhere close to her green eyes. Tracking Charlotte Mitchell’s slow approach, I didn’t miss how she took her time and peered around.
I wanted to snark, “Lost? I believe the wallpaper and sanctimony store is closer to downtown.”
Instead, I ground out, “What do you want?”
I had no availability for charity cases, especially not this one. That’s what Charlotte was: Green Valley’s most infamously pitied citizen. A gorgeous—yet sadly, virtuous—teacher at the local elementary school and a bake sale-making, soccer mom SUV-driving, PTA-volunteering, hoity-toity, do-gooder single mother of four disease vectors (children) whose ass of a husband (now ex-husband, fella by the name of Kevin Buckley) had predictably run out on her a few years back with a nineteen-year-old exotic dancer.
One of mine, actually. I fought a grimace.
Carli Duvall—aka Bendy Bambi—had been a customer favorite, a talented dancer, a shrewd businessperson, and an asset to the club. Her regulars had complained for months after she disappeared, many taking their patronage to The G-Spot for a time and ultimately cutting into my bottom line. Less customers meant losing even more dancers. I’d almost lost the club and sheer stubbornness was the only reason I still operated it now. It had taken me over a year to recover from the mass exodus in the aftermath of her departure.
Don’t get me wrong. Like everyone else, I’d initially felt sorry for Charlotte; I think anyone would. All things considered, she and her kids were probably better off without him. Given who he was and what his family was like, no one should’ve been surprised by her ex-husband’s betrayal, but I did feel for the woman he’d duped and misused.
But then, while I’d been struggling to keep The Pink Pony afloat, people had blamed the club, and me by extension, for the dummy’s infidelity. When the news broke, Patty Lee—who’d finally agreed to give me a chance—had called things off right before our third date. Sure, things hadn’t been perfect, and our lack of chemistry left much to be desired. Still, after years of hoping, being dumped because Kevin Buckley left his wife had been incredibly frustrating.
It all sorta worked out. Patty and I were now relatively good friends; I sought her counsel whenever I needed a female perspective. And because she didn’t pull her punches or ever worry about sparing feelings, unlike my best friend Beau, I found her advice incredibly helpful.
That said, I’d never cared much for or craved local goodwill, but folks had never been that blatantly hostile before. Going out to eat without the expectation of someone spitting in my food or keying my car were privileges I’d ceased taking for granted. The backlash had shocked me; I’d seen Buckley’s infidelity coming a mile away. Why anyone who’d met the bastard felt surprised by his choices or thought I’d influenced them made no damn sense.
Point is, Kevin leaving Charlotte had been bad for my business and worse for my personal life, and I did not much care for his wife showing up here for reasons unknown.
While Charlotte continued her moseying, her head unhurriedly turning this way and that, I eyeballed her, catching glimpses of her perfect profile while simmering in my unease.
“I’ve never been in here,” she said, her voice faraway, distracted. “It’s nicer than I thought it would be.”
I considered her words for a tick. The statements sounded benign, yet something about them made the skin at the back of my neck hot, which set my teeth on edge. Since Charlotte had returned to town a few years back—even before her husband had skipped out—she’d pointedly treated me like a leper from biblical times. Things were finally back on track with The Pony, and her presence here might derail my recent progress.
Making it to the bar, she stopped in front of a stool. Her pale green eyes were cool, surveying me like an afterthought. “May I order a drink yet?”
I studied her. Charlotte looked different than how she typically presented herself around town. She still had on that dainty gold cross around her neck, but gone were the pretty yet shapeless floral-print, button-up shirts and long, flowing skirts. Today, she’d put on dark makeup, taken time to fix her long hair into sleek waves, and the black tank top she wore highlighted her shoulders, arms, neck, and torso, making her generous tits look fantastic. Pushup bra, a good one.
“No,” I said, flat and final.
“You’re not open?”
“Not for you, no.” Not for Charlotte and not for any of her kind.
Her face morphed into an expression of intense irritation and I smirked to cover an involuntary spike in temper. I didn’t know Charlotte well—I didn’t want to know Charlotte at all—but this was the version of her I knew best, the wordless, judgmental glare I encountered if we happened to cross paths at the grocery or hardware store. No amount of carefully applied makeup or fantastic tank-top twins could soften it.
This was my club. We hadn’t accidentally stumbled across each other today. She’d come to me, sought me out, and she was still looking at me like I was trash? Faced with this familiar version of Charlotte in my territory, I tore my eyes from hers and scratched the heat climbing up my neck.
Our paths hadn’t crossed in over a year. Perhaps she was here to fulfill her quota of self-righteous indignation. How heavy is that halo, angel?
One day I would ask. But not today.
Crouching behind the bar, I resumed stocking the whiskey. If I waited, she’d reveal her intentions. Then she’d leave. No need for me to pause work, especially when there was so much work to do.
“Do you have a rule against serving female customers?” she asked, and I knew without looking up that she’d leaned over the bar to scowl down at me.
“No. Mostly just you.”
“Mostly just me,” she parroted, then huffed a laugh; it also sounded irritated. “Okay, fine. Then may I have an application?”
My movements stilled and I stared at the bottle of whiskey in my hand, the one I hadn’t yet set on the shelf.
May I have an application?
“Pardon me?” I looked up, and sure enough, Charlotte’s long honey-colored hair was dangling over me from above, nearly touching my shoulder.
“I said, may I have an application? Please.”
I had to blink before I could think. And I couldn’t think while I was on my haunches, so I stood. She leaned back, sitting on the stool, watching me impassively like she expected me to jump and fulfill her request, like she’d asked for a driver’s license application from the DMV and not an employment application from my club. The same place of business she and all the other small-minded folks condemned and hated.
Which was likely why I asked the stupid question, “What do you want an application for?”
Angling her chin, Charlotte Mitchell lifted one eyebrow, looking down her nose at me even though she was the one sitting, and said matter-of-factly with a smidge of southern tartness, “For a job, of course.”
“Where?”
“Here.”
I scratched my neck again, my eyes drifting to the right. This had to be a joke. Perhaps Beau is somewhere, hiding with a camera?
She snapped her fingers in front of my face. “Hey. Earth to Hank Weller. It’s not a difficult request to fulfill. Either you have applications, or you don’t.”
“But . . .” I shook my head, unable to recall a moment in my life I’d been as confused. This is a joke, this has to be—
“Hank Weller, let me spell it out for you: I want you”—she pointed at me, using her loud, slow voice, the one I’d heard her employ with her children on the rare occasions they behaved like feral animals in public—“to give me”—she pointed to herself—“a job application”—now she mimed a piece of paper—“for The Pink Pony”—she gestured to my club—“so I can fill it out.” She topped off her little show by pretending to write with an invisible pen.
“For what job?” What the heck did she think she was going to do? I needed a bartender, a bouncer, and now, as of this week, a bookkeeper. As far as I knew, she had no experience with any of—
“A stripper.”
I choked. Before I could fully process this information, she tossed her thumb over her shoulder, indicating toward the way she came in, and said, “I saw the sign from the road, so I know you’re hiring. Now . . .” Charlotte put her hand between us, palm up, and demanded in a voice that brooked no argument, “Hand it over. Please.”
“You cannot be serious.” An application? Dancers didn’t fill out applications. Clearly, she had no idea how this worked. Like most clubs, none of my dancers were employees. They were independent contractors. Yes, they auditioned; yes, they completed payment forms and signed a work services agreement. But there was no application, no interview.
“I am serious. And I came prepared.”
I counted to ten and searched my club for a camera again. Beau did not emerge from some hidden spot and declare this a prank. My eyes returned to Charlotte, flicked over her. What the hell?
Under my perusal she straightened her back, her breasts pushing higher and forward in a move that looked purposeful. “I’m in really good shape, exercising is my only hobby, and I know how to dance.”
“You know how to dance . . .” I searched for Beau again. Nothing about this interaction made a lick of sense. Perhaps I was dreaming? It’s a possibility.
“I do.” Her chin lifted. “I’ve been taking classes and my instructor says I’m quite good. She even wrote me a reference.” Charlotte turned and began digging in the little purse she brought.
“No—no. I don’t need a reference.” Debating whether or not to pinch myself, I ultimately decided against it. If this were a dream, I wanted to see where it would go. I hoped Oscar the Grouch didn’t show up and chase me around with that peanut butter sandwich again.
Ignoring my last statement, she placed the folded-up piece of paper on the bar and smoothed it out with her fingertips. “Here’s the letter of recommendation. You can see here, I have excellent endurance and I can even play the trumpet while I’m on the pole—”
“Did you hit your head?” I made a face, leaning my hands against the bar top and scanning her forehead for an injury. Playing the trumpet while swinging on a pole? In what universe would that ever be sexy?
Her expression flattened.
“Blink twice if you’re in danger.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“Or is this a dissociative fugue? Which personality am I talking to? Let Charlotte come out for a minute.”
“Hank,” she seethed through clenched teeth. “Why are you giving me a hard time? Do you need more strippers or not?”
If this were a dream, she’d already have her top off. Thus, I decided I couldn’t possibly be asleep. “I need more dancers, yes. But I do not need, nor do I want, you—or your emotional support trumpet—in my club.”
She flinched. “Why not?”
Perhaps she was serious about dancing, but she couldn’t possibly be serious about asking me why I’d never allow her in here, and I wasn’t spelling it out for her. In fact, we were done talking. She’d taken up enough of my time. I turned away without another word, lifted the hatch, and left the bar. Walking past where she sat, I crossed toward the back. She could show herself out.
But then she called after me, “I need the money.”
Her startling words and her imploring tone brought me up short. She needs money? That couldn’t be right. Her ex-husband came from money, lots of it. The only thing Kevin had ever done right in his life was being born a Buckley. My father had been friends with the high society patriarch from North Carolina. I’d gone to boarding school with Kevin’s older brother and the dude was as rich as he was insufferable. And he was staggeringly insufferable.
I glanced over my shoulder.
She hopped off the stool, her eyes wide with panicked pleading. That’s when I comprehended the rest of her outfit, skimpy cutoff jean shorts paired with three-inch spiked heels. Her long, firm, pale legs went on and on, up to narrow hips and a narrower waist. The woman was tall and strong and had an exceptional body: perfect athletic proportions paired with a natural D-cup. I frowned.
Well, now, hold on. Wait a minute.
Trumpet or not, she’d be a sight to behold on the stage. I didn’t have anyone on the roster near as tall as her with her kind of muscular shape. April was tall, long and lean, and platinum blond. I scratched my chin. If Charlotte could dance like she said, then—
NOPE! No. Absolutely not. Have you lost your mind?
I gave my head a rough shake. No way in hell was I bringing on Charlotte Mitchell. Looking like she did, and given her angelic reputation, I had no doubt she’d bring in new business. At first. It would be a coup for the club and all my dancers would benefit; new business was good for everyone.
But then what?
I could see her up on the stage, but dancers made most of their income from lap dances at tables and giving private dances in the champagne room. She wasn’t a Carli or a Tina or even a Hannah. She was smart, but she wasn’t shrewd or calculating enough to dance in my club. If she had been, her weak-minded husband never would’ve left. He would’ve been too afraid.
In this business, you were either the giver or the taker, and all my dancers were takers. I made sure of it.
Not to mention, folks would try to run me out of town. Again.
There’d be backlash for certain. Loads of it. And only recently had I finally been able to go to Daisy’s Nuthouse for a cup of coffee and a snack without having to worry about dingles on my donut. Living my best life did not include dingly donuts.
I sighed. “Charlotte—”
“I need the money,” she repeated, stalking closer and twisting her fingers. “And I’m not asking for special treatment. I’ll audition, like anyone else. Treat me like I’m anyone else.”
Well. That would certainly be a novelty for her, she who received differential martyrdom care wherever she went and expected nothing but the best from people. She’d get none of that here. She’d be chewed up and spit out. Successful dancers had hard limits, firm boundaries; they knew their worth and demanded the customers pay them their due. Most women weren’t raised that way and—as far as I knew—Charlotte was exactly like most women.
But I couldn’t say that. Her hackles would rise, and I’d already given her too much of my time and way too much of my attention.
Instead, I said, “If you’re doing this for money, then this ain’t a good fit. You wouldn’t make much to start out, not for six months, at least. New dancers get the shitty shifts, afternoons during the week and mornings on the weekend, making yourself available to fill in for other dancers when they need to call out.”
She bit her lip, chewing over my words before saying, “That’s fine.”
I lifted an incredulous eyebrow. “Oh really? You can dance in the afternoons? What about your teaching job?”
“School is out for summer.”
“It’s August. What happens when school is back in session?”
“Then I’ll . . . figure it out.”
“Not good enough.”
“I’ll—”
“No.”
“Hank—”
“No,” I said firmly, my patience at an end. “The answer is no. You’re not worth the trouble.”
It’s possible that if she’d caught me on a different day, I would’ve had more tolerance, I might’ve been gentler and calmer. But I was tired of entitled morons dictating to me how to run my business. If I gave an inch, she’d probably demand that I add a dedicated meditation room to the club. And a chapel. And a sauna. And a tiki bar.
Besides, who the hell did she think she was? If she wanted charity, she’d come to the wrong place. Some of us lived in reality. This was my club. Mine. And even though it was often more trouble than it was worth, I had my people to think about: sixteen professional dancers, three bouncers, a bartender—all of whom relied on me and this club to put food on their tables. Unlike her, I never took or gave handouts.
Charlotte rocked backward, her eyes flashing and her hands coming to her hips. “What exactly is your problem with me?”
“You’re still here,” I gritted out, my temper ballooning. But given her past dirty looks, what her ex-husband had done to my business, and all the spit I’d been served in my food, was I surprised she’d pissed me off? No. No I was not.
Huffing, Charlotte’s mouth formed a grim, angry smile. “Fine. Then I guess I’ll leave.”
Finally.
“You do that.”
I turned and continued toward the back without waiting for the sound of her departure, determined to forget about her intrusion the moment she was gone. Down a bartender, bouncer, and a bookkeeper, the last thing my club needed—the absolute last thing—was renewed townie scrutiny courtesy of saintly Charlotte Mitchell.
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