Page 27 of Copper

“We thought he would be the one you married.”

“It should have been him. All along…it should have been him,” I admit. “Why are you curious? He nosing around when I’m not here?”

“Nah,” Peter says, waving his hand. “He only comes when you’re here, and don’t act like I don’t know there’s more than dancing going on in that VIP room with him. It’s why I asked if you were together. If anything, I was kind of hoping he’d be around more.”

Interesting.

“Why?” I ask, tilting my head. Peter runs a tight ship but I’m surprised he wants the fuzz breathing down his neck.

Peter winks. “Come on, Lucy. You think I don’t know drugs are coming through here?”

“If you know, why don’t you stop it?”

“Murphy Beckett. Enough said. Not sure if a guy like me has the clout to stop him from doing something he really wants to do.”

My dander goes up, and I set the burger down on its wrapper, suddenly not hungry. “Has he been threatening you?” Peter looks at me a moment, blinks, and then looks at the floor. “Never mind. I’ll take that as a yes.”

“I wouldn’t say threatening.” He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “He came in here yesterday and wanted to talk to Sheri. Said she was doing him a favor and to make sure she got access to a lot of VIP clients. Wanted her on the schedule more.”

“Sounds like Sheri may be in on the drug smuggling. Is she being threatened, though?” I ask.

He shrugs and leans back until his chair squeaks. “Fuck if I know, but I value my dick and like it attached to my body. I also don’t want any of my girls hurt. This place ain’t much, but it’s mine. Think you can talk to Sheri to see if he’s working her over or has something on her?”

“Why don’t you ask her?”

“Do people tell their boss what’s going on as much as their coworkers? Besides, she doesn’t know you’re my cousin. I haven’t told anyone. Did you?”

“Come on, Peter,” I say, wadding up the cheeseburger wrapper with what’s left of the meal and tossing it into the bag. “You know I don’t claim to even know you half the time.”

“She’s more likely to talk to you.”

“Fine, dickhead.”

“There’s the girl I used to play Scooby Doo with,” he chuckles, putting his hands behind his head and kicking his feet on his desk. “I just want a clean operation here. I mean…as clean as a strip club can be. I don’t need the feds busting me for some drug bullshit. I certainly don’t need trafficking through here. I thought you could talk to Sheri and then see if that boyfriend of yours could come around more often. It may keep the girls and Murphy in line. It won’t hurt to have it known there’s a uniform here.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” I say, wiping my greasy hands on my cutoff shorts. It doesn’t matter if there’s grease on my hands. The dark denim is old and stained now anyway. I eye the brown bag I just discarded and think about covering my lap so Peter won’t know how stained my pants are. I need to just throw these things away and buy something new, but dollar signs dance in front of my eyes.

“Sure, Lucy. I’ll believe that when he doesn’t come around with a lovesick look anymore.”

***

I set my stuff on my vanity backstage and look around the dressing area. Nobody ever messes with me back here. I don’t talk to anyone, though. That’s always been who I am. I always kept to myself at work when I had a job in high school. I didn’t want to be involved in work drama, even back then.

But maybe I should start talking to people. Asking around. Be friendly. I should get to the bottom of what Murphy has going around here once and for all.

I smile a cheesy smile at my reflection in the mirror and then slouch in my seat. My blush brush rolls across the wooden vanity and falls to the floor. I don’t pick it up. Who am I kidding? I’ve been a quiet mouse with the other girls since I started here. I get in, get my makeup and heels on, dance, and go the fuck home. They won’t buy a fake smile and a kind word from me. Not after months of radio silence.

It’s still worth a try.

Two women I work with come in the back door and let it bang loudly against the wall. They scurry in with their own bags of food and large gas station drinks that I’m pretty sure aren’t soda if the smell of vodka wafting out of them most days is any clue.

Some of us need a little help getting through this job. I don’t judge.

“Hello,” I say, and they look at each other slowly and then back to me. Yep. They definitely think I’m the antisocial freak of the club.

“Um, hi.”

“Janice, right?” I ask the friendlier one. Her hair is sprayed so high that it reminds me of eighties hair. Dark eyeliner lines her eyes, and I wonder what she looks like without a fortress of makeup and regular hair.

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