I’m five-five and all muscle. There’s nothing walrus-like about me. Diva is harsh. She’s also an incredible dancer so I take the insults. It feels almost like a hazing. Like if I can take the bitchiness I get to be part of the cool crowd. What I really need to know is what kind of money is attached to this job. If it’s enough to get me out of the hole I managed to dig myself, I can deal with Diva for as long as it takes.
Before I leave I’m set up with a schedule. For the rest of the week I rehearse daily from three to five and then I’m on stage for the first and second sets only, from eight until nine and then nine-thirty to ten-thirty. The third and fourth sets are eleven to twelve and twelve-thirty to one-thirty. Apparently that’s when all the best tippers are here.
I won’t get to dance the late shifts until I prove myself, according to Diva. However, they are short a girl, so proving myself may not take all that long. Base wage isn’t great, but with tips I should be okay, better than my current two hundred a week stipend from Bancroft, at any rate. It’s a start, and that’s what I need.
“How long do you think it will take for me to get on the third set?” I ask.
Diva shrugs. “Depends on how long it takes before you stop screwing up the routines.”
I should be happy as I get on the subway and head home—back to my temporary accommodations. But it’s just that—temporary, like everything seems to be in my life right now.
I have another audition coming up, though. Maybe my luck has finally changed. Maybe I’ll be on to even better things sooner rather than later.
Chapter 14: Dancing Shoes
RUBY
Being employed is very good for one’s ego, even if the employment is of a questionable nature. I’m choosing to look at it as a fringe role in a fringe-type production in order to make myself feel reasonably okay about the whole thing. I have a job. That’s the most important part.
The potentially scandalous nature of the employment is secondary to the actual income I’m about to generate. And it won’t be provided by Bancroft. It means when he comes back I won’t be reliant on him for money. That brings me one step closer to self-sufficiency. I’d really like to see whether all this flirting will turn into something else, but not when it feels like I’m being bought or kept.
That’s exactly what it’s felt like with my father; he paid for my education and my life, but it came with an expiration date and huge side of shame. It’s also how my mother seemed to exist for a long time. He bought her complacency in their marriage until she decided it wasn’t worth the price anymore. Moving to Alaska was an extreme measure, but I understand it better now that I’m getting out from under his bricks of money, and I never want to end up in that kind of situation ever again.
When Bancroft calls later I’m all smiles. Until I realize I’m going to have to fudge my job title. Theater is one thing, burlesque isn’t quite on par with what’s acceptable employment in my world, and if it gets back to my father it won’t be good. I also don’t want Bancroft to know. He went batshit when he thought I was showing cleavage to one of Armstrong’s friends. He’d probably have a coronary if he saw what I was going to wear on a daily basis at work. I don’t need to deal with that at the moment.
“You’re in a good mood,” he observes.
I’m lying on his bed with Francesca, who’s playing in my hair. My feet are killing me, but I don’t care. I have a job.
“I’m gainfully employed.”
“That’s fantastic, Ruby. You had an audition? Or was it a job interview? Either way we should celebrate. I’ll order some champagne and you can open a bottle on your end.”
“We’re not having champagne. It’s not that kind of job.”
“It’s a job, that’s all that matters. Go get yourself a drink.”
“You’re a little bossy aren’t you?” I don’t argue, though, I wouldn’t mind a drink, and sometimes it’s important to celebrate, even if it’s the little things. I pour myself a glass while he orders room service. I’m halfway through glass number one by the time his bottle arrives. Bancroft insists I top my glass up, so I do.
“So tell me about this job of yours,” he says, as I make my way back to his bedroom, where I’ve left Francesca.
If I’d gotten a role in an actual play it wouldn’t be an issue. But this is not quite the same. “It’s like . . . dinner theater.” They serve food there, so it counts. Sort of.
“That’s good isn’t it?”
“It’s a start and a paycheck.”
“Both good things.”
“Exactly. How about you? How’re things in London?” I settle back on his bed.
“Running smoothly now. I’m looking forward to coming home. It’ll be nice to sleep in my own bed again.”
“I bet. It’s a nice bed. You must miss it.”
“I do. Especially right now.”
“Why right now?”
“Because you’re in it.”
I prop the phone up against a pillow and rest my chin on my fist. I’m trying not to take that the way I want to. I lower my voice to a sultry whisper. “Are you jealous?”
He gives me the evil eye. “Maybe a little.”
“Just a little?” I stretch my arms and legs out, starfishing on top of the comforter. “Look at how much room I have.” I make a big production of rolling back and forth across the king-size bed. “It’s so firm,” I groan and roll to one side, then roll back the other way until I’m in front of the screen again on my stomach. “And it’s so big,” I draw out the word big and flutter my lashes, biting my lip through a grin.
Bancroft’s tongue peeks out and then disappears. “You know, I’m going to be home soon and I’ll be able to get you back for all this tormenting.”
“You think I’m tormenting you?”
“Are you trying to tell me you’re not, with the way you’re moaning, rolling around on my bed, dressed the way you are.” He gestures to me from his side of the screen.
I push up on my arms. My tank gapes at the chest as I sit back on my heels. It’s one of those ones with the built-in bra. I run a hand over my camisole. “What’s wrong with the way I’m dressed?”
“Are you fucking shitting me with that question, Ruby?”
“I’m ready for bed.”
“I can see your nipples.”
I cup my breasts. “It’s cold. The air-conditioning is always on full blast in here.”
“Are you even wearing a bra?” Bancroft’s arm unfurls, the hand tucked behind his head is suddenly on the move, down his chest and then out of sight.
I lean in, as if it’s going to change my view. “What’re you doing?”
“Aren’t you going to answer my question?”
His bicep is flexing. What the hell is he doing?
“Ruby?”
I shift my gaze up. “Huh?”
“My question? Are you going to answer it or not?”
I’m too busy trying to figure out where his hand has gone to pay attention to questions. “Um . . . what was it again?”
“You’re not wearing a bra, are you?”
“No.” His bicep keeps flexing, it’s mesmerizing.
“What about panties?”