“Bianca, what the fuck are you doing here?” Carter’s little friend doesn’t belong anywhere near this place.
“What are you doing here?” she sasses back.
“Working.”
“You work here?”
“None of your fucking business. Now why are you here?” Why do I even care? She’s Carter’s friend. She’s close to his age, so more than legal. Not my responsibility.
She gestures toward the stage. “I want to try out.”
“Welcome, Bianca.” Ravage slides next to me, oozing sleaze. Of course he remembers her name. “Girls line up in there.” He points to the dressing room. “Did you give Lexi all your info? DJ will announce you one by one.”
Suddenly Rav’s a professional.
Bianca ignores him and fixes her inquisitive eyes on me. As if I’ll dash her dreams of stripper-stardom with one word.
I shrug. “You don’t need my permission.”
She turns but I tap her shoulder, stopping her. “Does Carter know you’re here?”
She jerks away from me. “Carter’s busy.”
That doesn’t answer my question. But it’s not my problem, so I shrug and let her go.
Ravage rubs his hands together like a pervy little bridge troll. “Line up. Get a number. Take your turn on the pole, darlin’,” he encourages.
She flashes a quick smile. “Thanks, Ravage.”
“She remembers my name,” Rav says.
“You’re hard to forget. And not for good reasons.”
“You gonna tell Charlotte?” Rav asks, lifting his chin toward the dressing room.
“I’m sure it’ll come up at some point.”
Rav’s predictions about amateur night come true. A girl gets stuck in her see-through dress thirty seconds into her first song and runs off the stage crying.
A fight breaks out in the dressing room between one of our regular dancers and one of the amateurs.
I need to get things up and running at the funeral home so I have a good excuse to never come here again. The thought makes me snort with laughter.
“What’s so funny?” Rav asks.
“Nothing.”