“The boys were busy, it was packed,” Smithie replied.
“Jet can take care of herself.”
Eddie moved his body in a way that was openly threatening, even though I stil held his hand. Smithie pul ed himself up.
“He had her in his lap with his hand down her shirt,” Eddie said.
Smithie’s eyes got hard.
No one messed with his girls. It was strictly look but don’t touch at Smithie’s.
He turned to me. “No shit?”
I nodded.
“Goddamit, Jet. If you were at a pole, we could fuckin’
control it. You’re no good on the floor. You gotta take a pole, for my fuckin’ peace of mind if nothin’ else.”
“The other girls get it too.”
“Not nearly as much as you. You got that girl next door shit goin’ on. Fuck!”
“I’m not taking a pole, Smithie.”
“Tomorrow, you’re onstage,” Smithie said.
Eddie realized what we were talking about and his body tensed. You could see it; you could almost feel it and the open threat to Smithie turned hostile.
“She’s not going onstage.”
Smithie looked from Eddie to me, then back to Eddie.
He sighed and shook his head.
“You’re a pain in my fuckin’ ass,” Smithie said to me.
“Am I fired?” I asked, fear that I final y pushed him too far tearing at my gut.
“No you’re not fuckin’ fired. We have a brawl twice a year. We were due.” Smithie said while he moved behind me and yanked the ties of my apron, pul ing it away. Then he came back around and pointed at me. “But keep your fuckin’ boyfriend outta here.”
“He’s not my boyfriend!” I yel ed at Smithie’s back.
It was kind of a stupid thing to say because I was stil holding Eddie’s hand and it might have been that’s what it looked like.
Eddie turned his hand around, his fingers curled around mine and he tugged me forward.
“Where’s your car?” he asked.
“I caught a ride with JoJo,” I told him.
Immediately, he changed directions.
“Where are we going?” I pul ed at his hand, either to get mine out of his or to get him to stop, either one would work for me.
I didn’t succeed and Eddie kept walking.
“I have to go to the station and then I’m taking you home.”
Oh no, I couldn’t let him take me home.
“Eddie I can get a ride with—”
He jerked me to a halt and gave me a look that shut my mouth. Then he started walking again, pul ing me along behind him.
He walked me to a shiny, red, Dodge Ram. It even had those fancy lights on the top. He opened the passenger side door for me and I tried to get into the high seat graceful y considering my short skirt and slut shoes. I managed it, but just barely.
“Why don’t you take me home first?” I asked him when he got in the car.
“Because, I missed my opportunity to talk to you this afternoon. So, even though it’s nearly two o’clock in the fucking morning, I have you al to myself for the first time and you’re gonna answer a few questions.” I buckled my seat belt (safety first) and then crossed my arms on my chest. I didn’t have time to talk to Eddie (not to mention, I didn’t want to talk to Eddie). I needed sleep. I didn’t have a ful day off until Sunday, that was— I was too tired to count them but it was too many days away not to sleep.
I tried to talk him out of it.
“I don’t understand why you’re so curious about me. I’m just a quiet, normal person. I know you don’t want me bringing a bad influence into Indy’s store but…” He’d started the truck while I was speaking. At my comment, he turned to me, forearm on the steering wheel.
“This doesn’t have anything to do with Indy. And, I hate to break this to you, but you’re anything but normal.” My head gave a little jerk and I glared at him. “Yes I am!
I’m your normal, average, everyday girl.” He shook his head.
“Your normal, average, everyday girl does not work in a strip club. She does not get bizarrely serenaded by her father in a bookstore. She does not transform into a new girl every time she does something to her hair or makeup.
And she does not guard every scrap of personal information about her life like it’s a State secret.”
“I do not guard every scrap of personal information!” I snapped.
“Tel me something personal then,” he returned.
I tried to find something interesting about myself. I was too tired and freaked out and anyway, there wasn’t much interesting about me. So I threw out the first thing that came to mind.
“My favorite color is green,” I told him.
He turned away from me, put the truck into gear and said, “Doesn’t count.”
“Why not?”
He pul ed out onto Colorado Boulevard.
“Your favorite color is not a piece of personal information.”
“Yes it is.”
“Okay, then, your favorite color is a boring piece of personal information that doesn’t tel me a thing about you.” I gave up and looked out the window. It seemed a good way to go.