Page 18 of Boyfriend of the Hour
Nothing would be better than going home with good news for once. My siblings already all thought I was an idiot and a loser. If I at least had a job, maybe they’d cancel the plans and let me keep Nonna’s house instead of renting it out.
“Kyle runs a bunch of other sorts of private clubs around the city,” Rochelle said. “I serve drinks there during weeknights when it’s slow at Diamonds.”
“What do you mean, private clubs?” I wondered. “Like men’s clubs?”
She started painting her other hand. “No, more underground. Apartments or basement, maybe. Sometimes a boat or maybe a warehouse. Anyplace rich men can drink and gamble.”
I recoiled a bit. “Why don’t they just go to Atlantic City?”
Rochelle gave me a look. The one that told me not to be so damn naive. “They don’t want all that noise. Just some pretty girls while they play their little games. It’s all very old-school.”
“You mean likeGoodfellas?”
Growing up in Belmont, I’d heard plenty about those sorts. Nonna still recounted the days when she and my grandfatherhad to tithe to the churchandthe local bosses when they were first getting started. Matthew had loads of stories from his days breaking up gambling and trafficking rings as a prosecutor in Brooklyn. Even Michael, my brother-in-law, was briefly involved with the Albanian mob when he was younger.
At least shaking it at a strip joint was legal. Even if my boobs were too small.
Rochelle, however, just snorted. “This ain’tThe Sopranos. It’s just a bunch of old guys wanting to get away from their wives for the night, play some games, and look at girls without crappy music pounding in their brains. Easiest money I’ve ever made, I’m telling you.”
I frowned. “So, it’s topless?”
“Sometimes,” Rochelle admitted.
I just stared at her.
“Okay, most of the time. But it’s look, don’t touch. Not unless you want. You could give a lap dance or two, but always your choice. Mostly, you just serve drinks and flirt.”
I hugged my arms around my chest, considering. It wasn’t that I was shy. As a dancer, I’d spent most of my life on display. Once, I’d done a production where we wore nothing but thongs, white body paint, and pasties. A body was just a body. I’d never felt the urge to hide mine.
But I’d never performed explicitly to be looked at…that way.
I could see the appeal. Granted, I’d never given anofficiallap dance, but grinding on some dude in the club wasn’t that different, and I was damn good at that, bad knee or not.
“And Carmine still doesn’t care?” I prodded, wondering again about Rochelle’s long-time boyfriend. “About you showing the goods to other men?”
“Well, considering he’s the doorman at Diamonds, no. If anything, we’rebothmaking more money now that he helps Kylefind locations. Plus, other men can look, but he’s the only one I go home with. He knows that. I makesurehe knows that.”
I tipped my head, considering. Honestly, I had just as many dudes drooling over me at Opal. One less piece of clothing was the main difference, and Rochelle’s gig sounded a lot more lucrative than being a two-bit bartender. Maybe I should get real about my actual skill sets and put them to use.
Time, after all, was running out.
“Well, I always wanted to doGypsy.” I shrugged. Something felt wrong about it, but I couldn’t say what. “I’ll think about it.”
“Just let me know.”
“All right, babe,” I said. “One more for the road.”
Before Chelle could stop me, I poured another shot and tipped it down my throat, relishing the burn, then the tingling in my head and eventual relaxation that would make bearing my family’s disapproval that much easier.
“Good luck with the move. And with Lea,” Chelle called as I grabbed my purse and headed out.
Outside,a cold wind was blowing through Belmont. The remnants of last week’s mostly melted snow flurries made icy puddles around the curbs. It was the dregs of winter—the weeks after the merriment of the holidays had worn off, and now people were just buttoned up against frigid breezes and somber skies.
The streets around Belmont were relatively empty for a Friday evening. As I approached the little brown house on Hughes Avenue, the familiar scents of tomato sauce and car exhaust cut through the deserted park across the street. Next to our house, Victor Manuel’s voice crooned through Mrs.Hernandez’s kitchen window while clashing Pavarotti wails floated from one of the nearby Italian restaurants on 187th.
It wasn’t anything fancy, and maybe just a shadow of the community and warmth Belmont exuded during warmer months. But it was still home.
For one more night, anyway.
