“Good,” I say.

She looks me over and nods. “Good. Because that’s been a problem in the past.”

I feel my eyes widen. “Seriously?”

“Some of the girls figure out they get bigger tips if they flash the guys a little tit, but we’re not that kind of club.”

“Good,” I say again, relieved.

She nods and moves to a closet on the back wall. “Also, there’s no touching. They can slip tips into your costume, but if anyone gets inappropriate, Marcus and Devin will be on them like white on rice.”

“Marcus and Devin?”

“Our bouncers. That’s why you share your tips with them. They’ve got your back at all times. At the end of your shift be sure to ask one of them to escort you to your car or the bus stop or whatever.”

I nod.

She reaches into the closet and pulls out a hanger with a white flapper-dress-looking thing, beads dangling in long strands all over it. “Try this.”

I look around for a dressing room when she makes no motion to leave, or even turn around. “Here?”

She nods. “You need help?”

“Um . . . no. I can get it.” I turn my back and pull my T-shirt over my head, then start to slip the dress on.

“No bra,” Nora says from behind me. “Your job is to titillate. That works better when there’s a little tit involved. We never show them, but a little jiggle is a good thing.”

I unhook my bra and slide it off my shoulders, then slip the dress on. It’s super tight, and the neckline drops in a sharp V all the way to my belly button. The hem barely covers my ass.

“Drop your skirt.”

Until this moment I would have defined my favorite little black skirt as short, but it hangs a full four inches below the hem of this costume. I shimmy it down my legs and step out of it.

“Turn around,” Nora says.

I turn slowly, afraid to move too fast for fear of either my boobs or my ass falling out of this dress.

“Lift your arms.”

I only get them halfway up before my left boob springs free from the low neckline. I cringe and quickly tuck it back in, folding my arms over my chest.

“Oh, no, girlie,” she says with a shake of her head. “You are way too much for that costume.” She moves back to the closet and pulls open a drawer. “See if you can find something in here.”

I step up to her side, my arms still tight over my chest, and peer in. There are a lot of feathers and sequins, and every shade of nylon, satin, and microfiber you can imagine. It all looks super tacky. I dig to the bottom and see something black. I pull it up and unfold it. It’s a tiny satin halter vest with a tuxedo collar and three brass buttons up the front. “This is kind of cute.”

“Try it on,” Nora tells me.

I move back to the sofa and pull the dress off over my head, then slip the halter on, adjust the collar, and button the front. The top button is just below my boobs, and the bottom one is just above my belly button, so my belly ring shows in the V at the bottom of the vest. It’s super tight, so it enhances my cleavage, but I feel fairly secure in it, like the girls aren’t going anywhere.

“Cute thong,” Nora tells me, and I remember I’m not wearing my skirt. I look down to see which underwear I put on this morning. My strappy red thong—super comfortable microfiber. Functional and sexy. I never dreamed at the time I slipped it on that I’d be standing in it in Benny’s dressing room. But when life throws you curves . . .

Nora hands a pair of black satin shorts over my shoulder. “When you put these on, let the straps of your thong peak over the top. The guys’ll think that’s sexy as hell.”

I pull the shorts on and zip the one-inch zipper. They sit so low on my hips that letting the straps of my thong show isn’t going to be a problem. My butt is totally hanging out the back, just like the blond girl I saw dancing on the stage earlier.

“Oh, girlie. That is so hot,” Nora croons, a grin on her face and dollar signs dancing in her eyes. “All that black really makes your red hair and green eyes pop. They’re going to be creaming their shorts the minute you set foot on that stage.”

“Great.” I’m shivering from nerves even though it’s got to be a hundred degrees in there.

“You need accessories.” She pulls open a different closet, in which I see racks of wigs and hats, and boxes of boas and costume jewelry. She pulls a black bowler hat with a red satin band off the rack. “This is perfect,” she says, plunking it onto my head. “Simple and classic.”

“If you say so,” I say, straightening it on my head.

She pulls the next closet open and there are shelves of shoes. “What size are you?”

“Um . . . six, usually.”

“Hmm . . .” she says, looking over the selection. “Not sure what we’ve got that small.”

I look over the rack and don’t see anything with less than a five-inch heal. I pick a red shoe up and turn it in my hand, and suddenly I’m wondering about my health insurance. Have my parents cut that off too? Does Ben carry workman’s comp? Because one thing I know for certain is that I’m going to break every bone in my ankles falling off these things if I try to dance in them.

Nora pushes a few pairs of platforms aside and unearths a pair of black pleather lace-up thigh boots with spiky heals. “These,” she says, thrusting them at me. “They’re a seven, but they’ll be totally hot with that costume. You can cram a little toilet paper in the toe if you have to.”

She pulls open a drawer and hands me a red garter belt and black nylons. “Put these on under your shorts, then we’ll get those boots strapped on.” She prods me toward the sofa in the middle of the dressing room, and I slip my shorts off, hook the garter belt around me, and smooth on the nylons. She helps me clip them onto the garters, and when I slide my shorts back on, she shoves me into the sofa. I pull the boots on and they actually feel okay even without any toilet paper in the toe. It takes about a day to get them all laced up, but when I finally stand, I’m surprised at how secure my ankles feel in them. Maybe I won’t actually break anything after all.

“Take a look,” she says with an eyebrow wiggle and a grin, flipping the closet door closed so I’m reflected in the full-length mirror.

And, holy shit. I am totally sex incarnate.

“Last but not least,” she says, dragging me to a makeup table. “Your face.”

I sit at the vanity for the next ten minutes while she slathers layers of foundation and eyeliner and blush all over me. And then we’re ready.

Adrenaline floods my bloodstream and causes my heart to race at a coronary-inducing pace. I’m really doing this. I’m going to go out on stage and dance, wearing this. Honestly, the adrenaline is mostly from nerves, but partly from anticipation too. This could be super hot. I get to live out every woman’s fantasy of being the bad girl, for just a little while.

I wipe my sweaty palms on my shorts and blow out a breath.

“No backing out now, girlie. Let’s go,” Nora says, prodding me toward a door in the back of the room that I didn’t even notice before. It leads to a long, narrow hallway lit with flickering fluorescent tubes. We pass a door on the right, and the farther up the hall we move, the more the wall to my right vibrates with the pound of the heavy bass of the music on the other side of it.

“I’ve got Stephanie on the center stage and Izzy on the right, which leaves the left for you,” she says, stopping and laying her hand on a doorknob. “Remember, this is no different than selling anything else. If you want to score big tips, you need to move around the stage—show them what they’re buying. Move toward the edge of the stage for your tips often enough that you look approachable. Some of them will be a little intimidated by you, so smile and make a lot of eye contact. Most of them will want to put the money on you, which is fine, but as soon as that tip’s in your shorts or your top, move away. If you linger too long, they might get the wrong idea and try for more.”

Ohmygod. What was I thinking? All my adrenaline-charged blood rushes out of my head and I feel dizzy as I think about horny guys trying to cop a feel.

“I’m not sure I can do this,” I tell her, trying not to hyperventilate, but I’m shaking so hard my teeth chatter, and I almost bite the tip off my tongue.

She opens the door and prods me through. “If you know how to dance, you can do this.”

Hot, humid air slaps me in the face, and my whole body feels suddenly moist. The thin white curtain in front of me actually shakes with the pounding rhythm of the music. But my heart’s pounding even harder.

There are two other girls, I tell myself, who are going to be way better at this than me. Everyone will be watching them. It will be fine.

It will be fine.

Breathe.

I glance back at Nora, who nods at me and closes the door between us. Tentatively, I lift a hand and slip my fingers through the part in the curtain. The place is packed—much busier than when Jonathan and I came in an hour ago. Every table in the pit is full. There’s a crowd packed around both of the other stages and along the rail over the pit at bar level. There has to be at least a couple hundred people here.

I force my fingers to unclench, and take a breath to calm the shaking, then step through the curtain onto the stage. The other two are lit. I’m in the dark. So far so good. I reach up and slide my hat down over my eyes. I close them and sink into the music. My hips start to sway and the rest of my body follows as I lose myself in it. I can do this. Just concentrate on the music. That’s the key. I’m just dancing, like at any of Jonathan’s shows.