Page 10 of Of Desire And Deception

“Yes,” I managed, with only a slight waver in my voice. I could envision the bouncer hauling drunk, belligerent men from their chairs and tossing them out the door onto their asses.

“He’s over at the bar.” The man pointed a thick finger over his right shoulder, and I looked to the left, where a bar took up almost the entire side of the building.

“Thanks.” I nodded, and the man moved out of the way to let me pass. Deception wasn’t a seedy joint. The black booths and chairs looked like genuine leather, and the black stained wood tables gleamed spotless in the light. It gave a sort of sexy speakeasy feel, with the bartender wearing a patterned vest that showed off his toned arms. The bar top matched the tables, and the tall chairs sported black wood and leather. It made everything blend together in the dim lighting.

I skirted around the floor to where a fit yet muscular man with dark hair sat at the end of the bar. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up, exposing a tattoo of Christ draped in an Italian flag with the word Famiglia inked above. Well, that made his loyalties clear.

The blonde bartender tilted his chin up in greeting but sensed I wasn’t there as a patron because he continued polishing a glass before putting it away. I tried to reassure myself that I was doing the right thing, but I somehow doubted my father had intended impersonating a stripper to be one of the things I put my mind to.

Then again, after all the classes I’d taken, I wasn’t just impersonating a stripper. I was going to become one. My ass muscles still screamed at me from last night's session, but that wouldn’t stop me now.

“Franco?” I stopped next to the man I presumed to be the manager.

“Who’s askin’?” The man turned in his chair and lifted a brow as he assessed me. “We don’t need a dishwasher. Get lost.”

Well, that wasn’t how things were supposed to go. Drawing my shoulders back, I met his gaze. “I’m here to audition as a dancer. I talked to you on the phone earlier in the week.”

“Ah, Willow or something?” He waved a hand like my name didn’t matter.

“Wynn,” I corrected him with my undercover pseudonym. “Wynn Barret.”

“Let’s see your ID,” Franco said, as he held out a hand.

“Sure.” I fished around in my purse until I pulled out a fake ID that would pass any inspection, handed it over, and watched him squint at the words in the low light.

“Well, it looks like you’re legal, at least,” he concluded, returning the card. I stepped to the side as he slid out of his chair and stood. The man had to be at least six feet tall, and I probably wouldn’t want to meet him in a back alley, given the way he held himself like a boxer. “Follow me. I’ll show you to the dressing rooms. I assume you brought clothes in that bag.”

“Yeah.” I hurried to keep up with his long gait as he pushed through a door at the far side of the bar. The dim lights of the club gave way to harsh fluorescent bulbs illuminating a grey-tiled hallway lined with unlabeled black doors. The lighter paint on the walls looked nice enough for what I’d expected. Unlike my chipped apartment walls, these were smooth and unblemished.

Franco knocked on the second door to the right. “It’s me, girls. Get decent.”

Muffled giggles answered, and the manager shook his head, chuckling as he opened the door. Inside, several women looked to be readying themselves for the evening, most in various forms of lingerie.

“This here’s Wynn,” Franco explained, hooking his thumb toward me. “She’s doing an audition for tonight. You girls take care of her, yeah?”

“Sure, Franco,” a doll-like blonde replied, her blue eyes wide and her overly white smile covering much of her face. “Come on in, Wynn.”

Franco gave me a gentle push, then closed the door on his way out. That left me facing four women who all eyed me; some curiously, others cautiously. I offered a little wave. “Hi.”

Oh, real original, Remi.

“Hey, girl.” The greeting came from a brunette wearing a purple sequined bra and thong, matching stripper shoes on her feet. She walked over to me without a wobble in her step, looking down at me from above, her hazel eyes popping with her purple makeup. With the shoes, she might have been taller than Franco. Her palm landed softly on my shoulder. “There’s an empty spot here you can use to get ready.”

“Thanks.” Dropping my bag at the vanity she led me to, I pulled my costume and shoes from my bag. I carefully lined up the makeup I’d chosen, along with a curling iron and a can of hairspray that would withstand hurricane-force winds.

“I’m Poppy,” she offered, plopping into the seat next to me.

“Wynn.” I nodded as I carefully arranged my things and started applying my makeup. I kept it simple for stage makeup, just enough on my eyes to make them pop before affixing false lashes. I painted my lips a girly pink and swiped blush across my cheeks. “Is there a dressing room?”

Every eye landed on me, and the little blonde giggled again. “Oh, honey, this is the dressing room. Trust me; modesty won’t help you in this line of work. Get comfortable with nudity fast.”

“I’m not uncomfortable,” I protested, but they weren’t buying it. “This is just new for me.”

“Don’t worry, we’ve all been there,” Poppy said reassuringly. She picked up the tiny shorts to my costume and glanced at the boots. “What music are you auditioning to?”

“Do Ur Damn Thing by Redneck Social Club,” I answered automatically. I’d spent a week listening to every raunchy country song I could find online and figured out a routine to match my chosen song.

The blonde grabbed her phone, and the song blasted through the dressing room. “Oh, I like it. I’m Bubbles, by the way.”

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