Page 2 of Triple Play

Her name’s Veronica, but she fucking swoops in on other girls’ regulars. Thus the Vulture. Management won’t do anything, of course—they believe an occasional girl-on-girl fight is good for business. Well, I’m about to be very good for business.

Before I storm over there, I do a quick inventory. I’d been about to go home. It’s hard not to feel frazzled at the end of a shift.

So I pop in a Listerine strip, touch up my lip gloss, run a hand though my hair. Even straightened and coated in product, it’s always about five seconds from reverting back to being curly-slash-frizzy.

It doesn’t help that this place gets humid: ownership resists running the A/C. Supposedly, they don’t want us to get cold in our outfits—as if working a pole doesn’t build a sweat. More like they don’t want to pay for good infrastructure. Still, it’s hard to grind up on a guy in a chilly room, so I get it.

My outfit is another casualty of the humidity. It’s a favorite—a wine-red lingerie set with a complicated set of straps that offsets my dark hair and eyes. Too nice for a Tuesday. Or was, until John showed up.

Deeming myself ready, I march toward the door. Say what you will about stripper heels—they’re great for working up a good head of steam. Tonight I’m wearing high patent ankle boots with broken-in soles that are just on the edge of going dead. Fortunately, Pleasers last longer than pointe shoes ever did.

When I get to the door, there John is, leaning on a chair security normally uses, thick forearms across the chair’s metal crossbar. He’s also chatting with Veronica like old friends.

“Hey, John.” No matter what I do, I can’t avoid my accent slipping out. Jahn, in full Boston.

Veronica’s still talking like I didn’t say anything. “Hey, John,” I say, more forcefully, “it is so good to see you.” It’s possible I aim that more at her than him.

John’s reddish-brown eyebrows shoot up, but he’s smiling. “Hey, Melody,” he calls. A name I should be used to after six years. Melody isn’t my real name any more than his is John, but it’s getting to be like the glitter I’m wearing: harder and harder to take off at the end of the night.

Impossibly, Veronica is still talking. John’s eyes meet mine over her shoulder as if to ask, Can you believe she’s trying this right in front of you?

I smother my laugh in my hand. Until she keeps talking. I’m about to tap her on the shoulder to tell her to go see the bartender—or possibly to go to hell—when John draws himself up. I don’t know what expression I’m wearing, but it must approach thunderous.

“Great talking to you,” he says to her, cheerfully loud. He hovers his hands around Veronica like he doesn’t want to make contact, and mimes scooting her to the side.

I can’t help it. I laugh. Veronica spins around. She’s tall, made taller by sky-high heels, and blonde. Unlike me, I bet her nose has never been called distinctive. “You all partying?” she asks.

I shake my head. “Party of two, sorry.”

“That’s a lot of lumberjack all for yourself,” she presses. I should let it go. She’s just trying to get paid. Hell, we’re all just trying to get paid. I’ve worked here for too long to get in petty fights about whose client is whose.

Except what comes out is, “Back off.” Could be worse. I could have said what I wanted to: He’s mine.

From behind her, John laughs. “Have a good night,” he says to her. It’s a dismissal. And her shoulder almost—almost—brushes mine as she huffs off.

“She a friend of yours?” John asks when she’s out of earshot.

“Nope.”

He laughs again and gives me a brief hug in greeting. Then I register what he’s wearing. Normally, he’d be in plaid if it was cold or a T-shirt if it was warm—and anything above fifty degrees is warm to a New Englander.

Tonight he’s wearing a collared shirt that’s seen an iron recently, even if its buttons are taxed trying to contain the burly expanse of his chest. A few strands of hair curl up in the vee of his collar beneath the groomed square of his beard. He doesn’t have his customary hat jammed on his head. Even his boots—he’s worn boots every time he’s come in here, no matter the weather—are buffed.

Uh-oh.

Guys only come in here looking like this for one reason: they want a chance to say goodbye. Sometimes it’s because they’ve found religion and decided to set aside their supposedly sinful ways. More often, it’s because they’re dating someone and want to “break up” with their favorite dancer.

Usually, men like that are back the next month, drowning their sorrows in beer and titties. Turns out, dating women who aren’t paid to laugh at your jokes is more effort than many guys want to put in. I’ve seen a lot of that over six years: mostly, how guys who vow never to come back here on a Monday are the first ones through the door on Friday.

Not John, though. He seems like a guy who’d make good on a promise.

“You’re all dressed up,” I say, finally. It’s not quite a question.

“You look great too.” Which isn’t quite an answer.

I do a customary twirl, crossing my heels and rotating slowly. “This ol’ thing?”

His eyes sweep up from the floor and eventually land on mine. I’m used to being looked at, usually with the mix of horniness and pity that guys aim at dancers. Not with this kind of warmth. “You’d look good in anything,” he says.

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