I frowned.
“We are dancing, Mony. That’s why we’re here.” I shook my head, confused.
“No, I mean really dancing,” she said, her voice low so that the few girls wandering in couldn’t hear. “Dancing to get paid.”
I shook my head again, puzzled.
“Mony, what are you talking about? This is dancing,” I said, trying to be straightforward. “We’re students at the Sheffield Dance School.”
Mony rolled her eyes a little.
“Janie, you’re so naïve. I mean dancing as in stripping. You know, taking off your clothes for money. It pays well and guess what? We’re semi-professionals already, so you can get top dollar for your work.”
I stood back, stumped. Yes, the stage is my forte. I can stretch, bend, do the splits, and I was exceptionally limber from a lifetime of practice because I’d started classes at age five. But was what Monica saying true? Could we be highly paid strippers because of our professional background?
Sure, I’ve heard of girls putting themselves through school by stripping at night, but it’s a hard life to live. Jennifer Beals in Flashdance makes it look easy, but in reality, the girls are up at five a.m., trying to study before class. Then they dart to practice, before hitting the books again, and then show up at the club around midnight to shake their moneymakers. The movie makes it look saucy and adventurous, but I’ve seen it close-up and it’s no easy feat. It was exhausting, not to mention mentally draining.
I was about to shake my head regretfully, but then Jimbo’s leering face flashed before me again. I shook my head with dismay at the memory. That asshole wanted me to stop by his office tonight and I knew what he really meant. Without my rent, he’d be in my personal space again, brushing up against me and using his leverage as manager to force me to my knees.
“I haven’t considered dancing, no, not really, but is that what you’ve been doing?” I asked carefully, keeping my voice low while glancing about furtively. Good, no one was paying any attention. “Does it pay well?” I asked in a hushed tone.
Monica just laughed, tossing back her wild black curls.
“Honey, it’s the best job I’ve ever had and believe me, when it starts to rain, you’re going to love it,” she said saucily. “Come on, come out tonight and I’ll take you where I’ve been performing. You only work a couple nights a week, and that leaves you free for rehearsals during the day. Besides,” she said with a shrug, “who can dance better than us? Sheffield represent!” she said with a cheeky grin and fist pump.
I had to laugh despite my misgivings. Trust my roomie to make something sketchy and desperate seem fun. Besides I didn’t really have a choice and it wouldn’t hurt to try … would it?
2
Janie
Dubiously, I looked up at the sign above the building because it wasn’t exactly what I’d expected. Instead of a picture of a blonde giving a sultry look, or maybe a brunette with a come-hither stare, there were just neon lights tracing out the shape of a donkey chewing its cud. Even more, I could swear there were braying noises being piped out to the sidewalk, as a perfect accompaniment to the donkey.
“Mony, are you sure?” I asked dubiously, cinching my trench tight around my waist. “This is the place? It doesn’t look very classy.”
“Oh yeah, absolutely, this is it,” she giggled, giving her wild black curls a shake, primping in anticipation. “Don’t worry about the donkey thing,” she added dismissively. “It’s just their mascot.”
I sighed again. My sixth sense was going off, the sirens blaring in my head, but I shook my head resolutely and followed my roomie in. Unfortunately, I was desperate to make some cash and therefore ignored the alarms.
But when the doors swung open, I almost spun on my heels and left right then and there because the place was the worst dive. It was dark inside, but that couldn’t hide the sawdust on the floors, the smell of cheap beer, and the fact that the floors were sticking to our feet as we tottered in on our ridiculously high stilettos.
“Mony, what the hell?” I whispered as we made our way past some of the bar patrons. They were country all the way, with sunburned necks, weathered faces and one guy in overalls chewing a piece of straw. It was almost comical, like we’d been plunked down in an episode of Howdy-Doody.
But Monica shot me a warning glance.
“I told you,” she hissed. “The clientele’s different but they’ve got deep pockets. Now come on!”
She had mentioned something about the guys not being your typical Wall Street crowd, but I’d figured it just meant they weren’t slick investment bankers wearing thousand dollar suits. I didn’t think we’d drop to the bottom of the spectrum and be dancing for Farmer Joe and the ranch hands.