“No worries.” She starts to go, but I can’t help myself.
“Hey… What’s your name?”
Her head tilts, and blue eyes meet mine. “Larissa. But everyone calls me Lara. You?”
“Mark.” I put a hand in my pocket. “I’m just Mark.”
She nods and a smile curls her lips. “Nice to meet you, just Mark.”
At that, she takes off toward the food table, and I try to go. Everything in me says don’t let my thoughts wander about this girl, follow the rules, turn around and get out of here… but my eyes linger on her slender back, slipping down to her cute little ass. Larissa.
“Hey!” The sharp, male growl grabs my attention. “New guy. Get out here and help unload these trucks.”
Snapping out of it, I hustle to the door feeling lighter than I have in weeks.
2
“When it’s dark, look for stars.”
Lara
Tanya finishes in a split.
Center stage, arms raised in a V, breasts completely bare.
Cheers and catcalls explode at us from the predominately male audience, and we’re all frozen on our marks as the lights go out. The curtain falls, sending the odor of musty velvet swirling around us, and all arms drop.
The applause continues in front of the heavy fabric, but behind it is the swift click of stilettoes on hardwoods, the whisper of tights brushing thighs, fishnets and feathers. I exit stage right and catch the small hand waiting for me in the wings as I pass.
The glare of the spotlight dazzled my vision, but I’ve done this so many times, I could find my way blind. We navigate the maze of boxes and discarded scenery to my dressing room, surrounded by the odor of talc, cigarette smoke, cheap perfume, and sweat. Rosin crackles beneath my feet with every step, and we pass dancers speaking in low voices about what worked and what didn’t and whose fault it was.
“These fucking pasties are for shit. Mine almost fell off twice,” Vanessa growls, slamming the red-sequined tassels on a box.
“Just paint them on.” Bea holds her hair up, inspecting her full breasts with bright-red tips. “You can’t even tell the difference.”
“I can tell,” Vanessa says. “No tassels.”
“Piercing?”
We keep moving.
The dark passage turns into a dimly lit hall lined with tiny dressing rooms where many of us live. Secretly, of course, since this old theater isn’t zoned for residents. I lift the handle on our tiny door, and we push inside, both speaking at once.
“Oh, Lara!” Molly’s voice is breathless. “Tanya was like a feather, floating and drifting—”
“Help me get this thing off,” I interrupt, easing into the chair and trying to hold my shoulders still as I unfasten the enormous feathered wings. “They must weigh fifty pounds.”
She hurries over, her small fingers searching my back for the remaining hooks.
“She was more like a pipe cleaner the way she bent over backwards,” she continues as she lifts the enormous mélange of cut glass and feathers from my back. “She’s so flexible. I wish I could move that way.”
“Great.” I rub my neck, rolling my head side to side. “You aspire to be a stripper.”
“Exotic dancer!”
I straighten and peel off my fake eyelashes as Molly pulls my dark brown hair behind my shoulders and down my back.
“You can do better.”
“At least you can sing,” she says. “Your voice is the best of all of them.”
My chest tightens at the idea of my dream. “Nobody cares about that. They just want our bodies.”
I glance up at her bright blue eyes. Her blonde hair is streaked with auburn highlights, and every day she grows more beautiful, her breasts rounder, her hips more narrow. It makes my head hurt. I have to get us out of here before she’s pulled into this world.
“I’ll go back to the library tomorrow.”
“I don’t know why you’re so determined to find a new job.” She turns to my mirror and places the feathers on her shoulders. “I love it here. Everyone’s so nice, and the girls are so pretty. Some of them make a lot of money!”
“It’s pretty average for burlesque.”
In my dressing mirror, I watch as she blows kisses, wondering for the thousandth time if I made a mistake begging Rosa to let Molly stay that night I found her starving in the alley.
For a year, we’ve shared my bed, shared my food, and she’s worn my old clothes. She’s never cost the show a penny. Still, she’s catching up with me in size, and with a body like hers, Gavin’s going to notice soon.
A gentle knock interrupts our conversation. “Lara?”
My heart jumps, and I’m out of the chair and crossing to unlock the door for Roland. Our show is unique for its original music, composed and directed by the most talented man in the Crescent City… Standing right here in front of me.
“Hey,” I say breathlessly, trying to sound mature.
Roland is a little taller than me with sexy brown eyes and glossy dark hair he tucks behind his ears. He smokes too much, but his white smile still dazzles. He leans against the doorjamb, taking the cigarette from between his lips, and his elegant hands distract me.
I remember a time when I had the most enormous crush on him, imagining him sliding those long fingers along my neck, making my pulse tick higher with every touch… playing my body like he plays the piano…
And then he told me he’s gay.
And I grew up and learned not fall in love here.
“Some rich guy wants to meet you.” He smooths my hair around my head, licks his finger and scrubs mascara off my cheek. “He asked specifically for the young brunette who kept her clothes on.”
“He must’ve had binoculars to see me. I was all the way in the back—covered in feathers.”
“I want you to give him a chance.”
I inspect the tiny pink-feathered cups covering my small breasts. A pink silk corset is drawn tight around my waist, and my legs are covered in pink fishnets that stop mid-thigh. My sky-high pink stilettoes put me almost at his eye-level. Even without the nudity, this get-up is still pretty sexy.
“I don’t know.” My nose wrinkles. “Those guys in the audience make my skin crawl.”
Molly pulls my arm. “But a rich guy… Maybe he’ll buy you expensive gifts or take you to New York. You could be a rap star!”
Air snorts through my nose. “I don’t rap.”
“One rapping stripper is quite enough.” Roland gives her a wink. “This one would most likely take you to Paris. He’s French. Freddie Lovel.”
“What’s a Frenchman doing in New Orleans?” I pull out a makeup remover wipe and remove my blue-red lipstick.
“He works in shipping—coffee, souvenirs. Parisians love Louisiana merch.”
“I couldn’t be less interested.”
He steps back and returns the cigarette to his lips. “Still, guys like him can be good for your career. Turn on the charm, keep him coming back for more.”
My throat tightens. “Are you saying I should… do whatever he wants?”