I also don’t want anyone telling me what I can and can’t do. Especially PJ, the annoying man who makes my toes curl when I think about sitting on his lap again. I hate being confused. I hate feeling like at any minute, I might explode.
Tick, tick, tick . . .
“I think I’m drunk,” I mutter, holding up the now-empty wineglass in my hand to show Ariel. “I believe that was glass number five. Or was it eight? I lost count after three. Math is hard.”
Ariel laughs, cupping her hands around her mouth and shouting to the group in my front yard, still staring at us anxiously.
“IT’S OKAY, FOLKS. SHE’S JUST WHITE-GIRL WASTED!”
Everyone’s hands with various alcoholic beverages go up in the air and they all let out a loud chorus of shouts, screams, and whistles.
My phone chimes again, and Ariel snatches it out of my head.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. What the hell is his problem?” Ariel mutters, staring down at the text message stream from PJ that I haven’t even bothered to answer.
Tiffany walks up to us, switching out my empty wineglass for a full one as Ariel turns the screen toward her.
“What is your boss’s problem? I’m trying really hard to get Cindy to ride his disco stick, but he’s being ridiculous,” Ariel informs her.
Tiffany lets out a sigh as I take a huge sip of my wine to stop myself from doing what everyone expects and letting out a blood-curdling scream.
“He’s a good guy, I swear,” Tiffany tells us after she finishes looking at the text messages. “He’s just really protective of all of us. Did you ever notice he never calls us strippers?”
I start to open my mouth and argue, but quickly clamp it closed as I think back through the handful of conversations we’ve had and the hundreds of text messages we’ve exchanged in the last week. She’s right. He’s never used the word strippers, it’s always dancers.
“His mom got pregnant with him right out of high school. It’s your typical story: teen mom, deadbeat dad who ran for the hills, and shitty parents who kicked her out. The only work she could get was stripping. And back then, pickings were slim in this town. It was one seedy place after another, with one mean, shitty boss after another,” Tiffany explains. “But she did it, she put up with the bullshit and getting fired when she had to take off work because she didn’t have anyone to watch PJ, because it’s the only way she knew how to pay the bills and put food on the table. When PJ became an adult, he decided he didn’t want any woman going through something like that again.”
I really want to hate Tiffany right now for making me see something good and kind in PJ when all I really want to do is concentrate on how annoying he is.
“So, he opened Charming’s, and he only hires single mothers. We still get paid even if we have to miss work because of our kids, as long as we don’t abuse the privilege. And part of our pay includes a stipend for child-care costs and education if we choose to go to college and do something else with our lives. He never wants us to feel like we’re doing something dirty or something we should be ashamed of just because of the shitty hand life dealt us,” Tiffany finishes.
“Well, it’s not giving money to African orphans, but it’ll do,” Ariel sighs.
Right when I’ve decided I’m the biggest jerk in the world and start to take my phone back from Ariel to text an apology to PJ, the squeal of tires sounds from the street and we all turn to watch a black truck peel into my driveway.
A very angry-looking PJ flies out of the front seat, slams the door, and starts marching right toward me, shouting as he goes.
“I thought I told you you were NOT to invite my dancers over for any more asinine lessons!”
Tick, tick, tick . . .
“I have given you COUNTLESS other ideas for opening up your own business and you’re still stuck on this one, absurd thing!”
Tick, tick, tick . . .
“Oh my goodness. He looks really angry,” Belle whispers, coming up to stand next to us.
I try to focus on how good he looks in a pair of tattered jeans and a formfitting, long-sleeved white Henley with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows—as well as all the wonderful, glowing things Tiffany just said about him, answering all my questions about why he’s so adamant about this—but it’s impossible. Instead of PJ stalking across the yard toward me, his face suddenly morphs into Vincent’s and instead of PJ’s voice telling me what I can’t do, I hear Brian’s.
Shoving my glass of wine at Ariel, which splashes all over our hands as she quickly grabs it, I move a few feet down the sidewalk, meeting PJ halfway.