“Mona, no.”
She turns back toward me and huffs, then narrows her eyes. “Come on. Be honest,” she insists. “It is exciting. I know it is, because I do it. It’s not like gross or anything. It’s just attention. It’s just compliments and money. You might like it!”
I look around the bar, trying to imagine walking around in just this bra and panty set I just bought. Oh my God, and these heels. Really? Is she serious?
“Come on… You’re gorgeous. It’ll be just like one of your porn fantasies, only in real life. As a matter of fact, pretend that is what it is! Act out one of your favorites, you know what I mean? Make it your own!”
I roll my eyes at her, though I have to admit instantly I am thinking of a video montage of my favorite scenes. I mean, she does have a point. This is kind of like a stage, away from my real life, kind of anonymous. Fake name and everything?
“And then what? Ty is going to try to hire me? Lock me up in the back or something?”
“I don’t think he has any chains in the back,” she mutters.
“Wait, what? I was just kidding about that.”
“Oh, I was just kidding too! You don’t have to worry about Ty. I won’t be gone all night. I’ll be back before closing time! Maybe even just a couple of hours!”
Chewing on the inside of my cheek, I try to tell myself that there are a million reasons this is a bad idea. My father. Shame and humiliation. A total lack of experience. The general sense of grossness.
Then again, porn is all about self-expression, right? Liberated fetish? Letting your freak flag fly? It really is just running around my underwear… I mean, I was running around in a bathing suit earlier today, and that is pretty much the same thing. What’s the big difference?
She stares at me, her eyes wide, until she finally nods. “You’re going to do it,” she smiles knowingly. “You’re totally going to do it. You’re the best, Libby! I mean… Tammy!”
I point at her as another customer comes up, just to make my point. “You’re coming back for me,” I insist.
She holds her hands up innocently. “You bet I am,” she smiles, and that is the last time I see her for almost two weeks.
Chapter 7
Will
The best thing that I can say about this place is that it is dark. Even though the lights in the corner pulse like crazy, I can barely make out anybody else’s face. That means they can barely make out mine. So I hope the chances of being recognized here are practically zero.
There are some places soldiers are not supposed to go. Famously there’s a shopping center that is completely off-limits—and yet doesn’t go out of business. We’re supposed to show a certain sort of decorum. This bar is not technically one of those places on the list, but it probably should be.
Maybe at one point it was reputable or at least clean. There are framed pictures screwed into the walls. Vintage photos of farm plots and fishing contests. Ladies in Victorian dress on wide summer porches. That is the sort of thing I wouldn’t mind taking a closer look at.
But now it’s just a dive bar with modernized lights and televisions. Cass must have come here at some point and had a decent time, and now he’s trying to loop me in. I appreciate that. It’s not his fault I’m in a sour mood. I just have a lot on my mind. Plans. The future. Our enlistment is drawing to the date where we have to sign up for another tour or take new postings.
We need a plan. And he’s been skittish, avoiding my eye and avoiding the topic every time I bring it up. Maybe he has something in mind. Something I won’t like.
But we aren’t going to figure that out today, I tell myself. So what’s the harm? Here we are—might as well try to make the best of it.
Cass suggested beers and burgers. That sounds like a great idea. I’d like to get fed and get out. I was looking for a way to wind down, and this hillbilly roadhouse isn’t it.
The lights go down suddenly, and the voice of that sketchy-looking bouncer comes out over the sound system. He says a show is about to start.
Cass refuses to meet my eye.
“Hey… what’s going on here?” I ask as steaming baskets of fried food are dropped in the middle of the table.
To be honest, those fried pickles look amazing. The scent of hot oil coats the inside of my nose. I realize how hungry I am.
“Cass? Are you listening to me?”
But he isn’t listening. He’s looking at the girls circling our table who are dressed in… practically nothing. One is in a nightgown sort of thing, and the other in a close-fitting bodysuit with sparkles around her cleavage.
“Cass? What is this? Are these strippers?”