Total pages in book: 28
Estimated words: 26772 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 134(@200wpm)___ 107(@250wpm)___ 89(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 26772 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 134(@200wpm)___ 107(@250wpm)___ 89(@300wpm)
“Well, when in Rome…” I say on an eye roll, looking around as the disco ball twirls loosely above us and the black painted drop ceiling tiles threaten to crash down onto the sticky two top I grabbed against the wall when I came in.
“Strip clubs aren’t trashy. Don’t judge, Lula. There but by the grace of God go you, young lady.”
“I agree. Not all strip clubs are trashy.” I huff, rolling my head back and around, listening to the pop pop pop of my vertebrae and watching my mother cringe.
She’s known Larry all of two weeks, and yet here we are at his premier gentleman’s entertainment center, The King’s Palace, to celebrate their nuptials.
Well, it’s no palace, and there’s not a king in sight.
Trash would be offended by the comparison.
“I hate that sound.” Mom reaches for her rum and coke sitting on a drenched square napkin next to her now empty shot of Amaretto.
I turn my attention back to my phone. The post has surged 50K and little hearts and notifications are lighting up my screen, turning this unfortunate evening into less of the total loss I thought it would be.
“Do not ruin this for me, young lady. Larry is everything I ever wanted. Everything…” She pauses as the DJ announces the impending arrival of Crystal Showers taking the stage to the tune of that milkshake song I don’t really understand. “Everything your father was not.”
I clench my teeth and shoot her a hard glare.
“Don’t talk about Dad,” I snap and she’s already giving me her best non-apology wave as I bite into my lip and count to ten.
The scent of cannabis drifting off two sparkly thong clad females with admittedly nice racks passing by makes my eyes tear.
It always smells like skunk spray to me and to each their own, but with all the magical scientific advancements in the world, couldn’t they create some version of pot that doesn’t smell like skunk ass?
They shoot me a side eye and whisper as my anxiety bubbles to the surface and I offer a tight smile.
Neither one of them is perfect. Something tells me this place isn’t top of the stripper list of desirable workplaces. Still, they could each fit their entire lower body into a single leg of my jeans. I tug the neckline of my white peasant-style blouse up and try to disappear against the black wall behind me.
The thump of the bass and the sight of Crystal looking insanely bored while she dry humps the silver pole on stage is making this all feel like someone slipped me some peyote in my Shirley Temple.
What’s making it worse is, although my mother has always had an affinity for the Peg Bundy look, she was never into clubs or drinking and swore me off stripping as a career path from as far back as I can remember.
The first I heard of my now new stepfather, Larry, was a phone call two weeks ago from another of his fine establishments on the less, less desirable side of Highland Heights, called the Teaser Club. She called to inform me she’d met the one and went on for twenty minutes about his Hummer, his Harley, his pinky ring and his string of businesses. Including the car wash where my mother was re-stocking the vending machines when their love story for the ages began.
Fifteen days later, one secret trip to Vegas and boom, I have a new stepfather.
Yay.
Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had a secret fantasy of having my own love story someday since I was a little girl. I’ve just never been good at flirting or dating and there’s always this little birdy in my ear with my mother’s voice saying, you’ve got such a pretty face, and my eyes, if you’d just lose the weight…
Ugg.
But, way back, I remember happy Sundays in the park with them holding hands, kissing and watching me play in the sandbox or climb trees. I would sing into sticks like microphones while they would clap and I would bow.
Mom was stunning back then, and still is. Problem with that, is she knows it, and she always wanted more.
Her dream of getting out of Highland Heights and hobnobbing with the country club crowd, sipping mimosas on Sunday mornings and playing tennis and polo, was not aligned with being the wife of a scrapyard owner. Third generation scrapyard owner to boot. A family dynasty.
“I just want us to be a family,” she hisses, her ice-blue eyes flicking to the back hallway where I’m assuming Larry’s office is. When I came in, Mom was standing at the bar, laughing over the crowd with a couple of the cannabis-perfumed ladies that walked by a minute ago, but, sans Larry.
“Well,” I start on a shrug, using a sardonically cheerful tone, “I don’t think there’s any way around that.”