Page 3 of A Little Naughty

“Nikki.” Her voice is soft with a hint of an accent I don’t recognize. “What’s yours?”

“Jemima.” My voice is tired from singing all night.

“Like the syrup?”

“No.”

I get that a lot. When I got mad at my mom for giving me a stupid syrup name, she smacked the back of my head and said it was my grandma’s name, and it had been around way before some corporation stole it.

She said it means beauty or peace or something like that. I just let it go and accepted my fate.

“Think I can do that?”

With a shrug, she passes me the small rubber ball and the handful of warm jacks. “You can try.”

“Oh, it’s going to be like that, is it?” I tease her, and she lifts her chin, nodding her head likeyes, it’s going to be like that.

I toss the silver jacks carelessly across the table, then I chew my lip at my mistake. Her technique is more controlled, keeping them in a tight circle. I’ll have to do better next time. At least the first round is ones. I only have to pick up one jack at a time as I let the ball bounce.

Imitating her practiced moves, I quickly repeat the process. Up next is twos. I do it all again, five bounces. Then threes, fours… The game grows more difficult as the numbers go higher.

It’s like my life as the years rolled slowly past.

Mom dies, and I’m left alone.Bounce. The building manager takes pity on me and gets me a job answering phones at a hair salon.Bounce. I teach myself to sew, which leads me to repairing costumes.Bounce. Costumes lead to drag shows.Bounce. Drag shows lead to drag queens, who teach me how to work a crowd.Bounce. I find a new place to live and a job that pays tips.Bounce.

I’m getting better, I’m finding a way to live, and I’m proud of my ability to survive…

But it’s always the same. My stomach is always tight, and the chance of losing everything always lurks at the door.

I’ve made it to sevens. I’m going to heaven when a sharp male voice interrupts us.

“Time to go,” he snaps, and Nikki’s amber eyes widen.

She’s been so confident up to now. I don’t expect her to cower, but playtime is over. I glance up at the guy standing over us, but she doesn’t respond to him like he’s her dad. She doesn’t belong to him.

He’s probably in his forties, interesting-looking in a dried-out cowboy kind of way. He’s wearing dark-blue denim Wranglers with a crease down the front, and his black tee is so tight, I can see the lines of muscle in his torso. A leather jacket is on his shoulders, and a cowboy hat is pulled low over his glittering black eyes.

“What’s your name?” His voice is like sandpaper.

He’s a smoker, no doubt, and I think about the right thing to do. I’m still in my beaded, champagne dress, my long, curly blonde hair hanging loose down my back. I still have on my fake eyelashes and stage makeup from last night’s show where I impersonate America’s sweetheart.

Taylor Swift, if you’ve been living under a rock. I impersonate Taylor Swift at Trixie’s Vixens.

You’d think here in Branson there’d be a lot of money in that, wouldn’t you? I did, too.

Well, there’s not.

Half the old drunks don’t know who I’m supposed to be, and the other half think she’s annoying or overexposed. Or both.

Still, I make three hundred bucks a night plus tips, and every now and then I’ll find a fan to sing along with me. Those are the good nights.

Pressing my lips together, I rise to my full five-foot-eleven inches. “Taylor.”

I say it like,Duh.

I know he probably wants to know my real name, but I’ve learned to be careful with things like real names and addresses on this side of town.

“That so?” Sliding his hands in the front of his jeans, he squares off in his alligator boots.

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