Page 3 of Triple Play

“How about in a private room?” I wink.

And get his grin. “Thought you’d never ask.”

With most customers, I’d work up to suggesting it. You start with offering to have a server bring them a drink, then if they want a dance, and then switch to a room. Otherwise, guys sometimes get affronted when dancers want money for their time.

John, though, is easy. The first time he came in here, it was with a flock of guys all his age who spent more time jawing at each other than paying attention to the girls. He spent the entire night watching me and batting away his buddies who were razzing him. The second time he arrived alone. When I went over to say hi, he dropped a wad of bills on a table and said, I’d like to get to know you better.

Now, his agreeing to a private room could mean anything—it might mean a dance or a drink. Sometimes he just wants to sit and talk about his job frustrations. Apparently, he’s been up for some big promotion and stuff keeps blocking it.

Or he’s here to apologize that he can’t take care of you anymore and you need to find another well-paid regular. I tell myself it’s fine. I’ve been taking care of myself since I was nineteen. I don’t need anyone else to do it.

Before we go, John plucks something off the folding chair. Flowers. Not just any flowers: a spray of irises and calla lilies, bound up in a soft purple ribbon.

Years ago, I fantasized about being handed a bouquet like that after a hard night of dancing. I’d be a principal dancer—obviously—at one of the world’s premier ballet companies. I’d glide across stage to swells of polite applause, then adoring fans would toss roses.

Mostly now I get hollered at and what gets tossed are bills.

Well, you can’t pay your rent in flowers. And those are I have a girlfriend and can’t come around anymore flowers. He’s here to have a conversation.

I take the bouquet, cradling it. “Thank you. These are beautiful.” They are. Elegant, thoughtful, expensive. “Any particular occasion?”

“I was in the neighborhood.” What he says most nights—lately, he’s been coming in two or three times a week, not that I’m complaining too hard. Guys who bathe and don’t argue and follow the rules are rare.

Ones who send me money for nails and hair are even rarer.

Ones who I actually like are the rarest of all.

Liking someone doesn’t pay the rent. Still, I offer my arm.

John gives me another grin, then slides his arm through mine, escorting us through the club—past the seating area, the stage, the ATMs for customers who run out of cash—and up the hallway to a room at the end.

“Our room’s open?” John waves to the unlit light bulb above the doorway that indicates the room is vacant.

“Looks like.” Our. I won’t think about that. So I flip the switch, lighting the bulb. That triggers security’s attention to activate the room’s surveillance cameras. Usually, it’s so they can be on hand to intercede if a customer gets out of line.

With John, they mostly give me a joking hard time about how much he’s here. He’s in love with you.

Well, I do love his big ol’…wallet.

But he’s clearly leaving. Guess they’ll have to find something else to tease me about.

Inside, the private room is like all the others lining this hallway. Our. A word I won’t get stuck on as I survey the U-shaped padded bench, the low tables dotting the floor. Lights flash overhead. It’s dim, dark, warm: sexy, or at least as sexy as any place can be with Lysol wipes stashed in strategic locations.

An intercom sits along one wall. “You want a drink?” I ask. “Or another girl in here?” Even if John never asks for that.

John smiles. “You and a beer sounds like a perfect night.”

I order one of those and a club soda for myself. A minute later, a waitress shows up with his beer in a plastic cup and my soda with the can still sealed. She’s looking over my shoulder to where John’s sitting on the bench seat, his arms spread wide, as if she might invite herself in.

“You want company?” she asks.

I shake my head, take the drinks, and maturely shut the door in her face. When I turn back to John, he’s grinning. His beard is trimmed more neatly than it was last week, revealing the plush curve of his lips.

I hand him his beer, then sit tucked close to his side. He always smells the same: like fresh grass, like summer is clinging to his hair.

“Did you go to the barber?” The question slips out, but fortunately I stop before I add because of me.

John rubs a hand over his face. “Nah, I did it in the—” He cuts himself off. “We sometimes have a guy who visits my, uh, workplace and cuts hair.”

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