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Dad. You can't do that this time,"
Josalee said, her eyebrows furrowed. "You have to
promise."
    Kimie snorted. "Is this about your gay
roommate? The one you're in love with?"
    Josalee's eyes widened, then she squeezed them
shut. She kept them closed the entire time she talked.
    * * * * *
    Ingrid stared at the strip club owner, her
lipstick painted mouth gaping.
    "Most of the
girls here pull in five-hundred a
night — the dancers, I mean.
My bartenders only pull in about $300," he went on. "Don't look so
shocked. I'm telling you because you're a pretty girl and you're
probably in a jam since you're here." He smiled at her, flashing
his nasty teeth.
    She fought the urge to crinkle her nose, and
instead stared at his receding hairline. "Look," she began, then
paused, a hand on her hip. "I never got your name."
    "Prez." He smoothed his hair over his head.
"And before you turn me down, hear me out. The girls here pick
whenever they want to work. There are two stages, so you'll never
have a slow night. Guys come here to see the girls dance, not to
watch them serve drinks." His neck seemed to retreat further into
his torso as he talked, and his head bobbed up and down. Ingrid
pressed her lips together. "How about this?" he continued. "You
dance tonight and see how you do. If you hate it, I'll put you on
as a bartender. I'd hate to do that to you, though. You'd look a
lot prettier with a lollipop in your mouth. Hell, I think I'll call
you Candy."
    Her jaw dropped.
    Prez shrugged. "I'll be at the door to the
dressing room." He left the office.
    She wrapped her
arms around herself. The sludgy grind of an electric guitar slammed
into the walls of the club — a
welcome change to the rap. She thought of the bills piling up on
the kitchen table, then tried to see herself shaking her ass in her
underwear. She bit down on the inside of her lip, her white teeth
drawing blood.
    Five-hundred bucks , a little
voice insisted. That's half
your rent right there . She squeezed her
eyes shut for a moment.
    Then she followed Prez to the dressing
room.

Chapter 11
    "Hey, are you working tonight?" Victor asked
Ingrid. He leaned against the door frame of the master bathroom and
watched as she applied a coat of mascara to her lashes.
    She glanced at him, then returned her attention
to the mirror. "Yeah, why?" She teased her lashes with the brush,
building up the volume.
    "This bar's really got you dressing up, huh?"
He studied her tight jeans, heels, and her black, silky tank
top.
    "What are you trying to say?" she snapped,
whipping her head around to face him.
    "Oh, now I have your attention?" He
pushed off the door frame and stomped out of their
bedroom.
    She rolled her eyes and returned to her makeup
routine. Her hands shook as she unscrewed the cap of her liquid
eyeliner, remembering a night years ago when they walked out of a
movie theater, hand in hand. The movie had been about a guy's
bachelor party, and she jokingly asked Victor what he would do for
his.
    "I'd never go to
Vegas and fuck a bunch of strippers, if that's what you're getting
at," he'd said, squeezing her hand. He scrunched up his nose. "I
like good girls. Clean girls. Teachers ."
    She blinked back
tears at the memory and capped the eyeliner. It's only temporary ,
she reminded herself. She tossed the liquid eyeliner into her
makeup bag and pounded down the stairs, brushing past Victor. She'd
have to finish her makeup at the club. She slammed the front door
behind her.
    * * * * *
    Ingrid crawled into bed, her ears ringing with
the music from the club and her knees sore and bruised from
practicing on the second stage. She smiled, thinking of the piles
of ones and twenties in her purse. Prez hadn't been completely
truthful; on a weeknight, she could only hope to make $200, but on
a Thursday, Friday, or Saturday, she might see almost $600. As they
practiced simple pole tricks, Bambi recommended she come in every
night. "You'll get better at pole tricks that way," the dark haired
girl said