Anything for You
Page 15
That wasn’t going to happen. Everyone could see it except Mom.
And while Connor had known his father was cheating, he sure hadn’t pictured Gail the Tail as his stepmother. Pete had married her nine days ago, the day after his divorce was final.
He grabbed his motorcycle helmet and went out. Yeah, yeah, he owned a motorcycle. The gas mileage couldn’t be beat. Colleen called him a cliché, but so what? It was fun. He had a small pickup truck for winter.
Where he was headed, he wasn’t quite sure. The area didn’t offer too many places for anonymity, and that was exactly what Connor wanted. A place to sit in the dark, have a beer and not think.
He thought about calling someone to join him—one of his high school pals, maybe. Levi Cooper was on leave from Afghanistan, and Big Frankie Pepitone was always up for a beer. Then he opted against it. Solitude was the order of the night. He was Irish—brooding was the song of his people. Colleen would kick him into a good mood tomorrow, as he’d been kicking her for the past few months.
His Honda purred its way up the Hill and along the lake. Penn Yan wasn’t far; maybe something would be open there. The wind was clean and cold, and his thoughts focused on driving.
The dark miles blurred past, the quiet engine of the bike soothing.
Up ahead was a cement building that every male in a fifty-mile radius visited at least once in a lifetime: Skylar’s VIP Lounge.
A strip club, in other words.
Perfect. Beer and boobs.
Connor went in. He’d been here for a bachelor party last year, and it was exactly what you’d expect. Crappy drinks, worse food, health department violations by the dozen and nearly naked women, a few of them even good-looking.
The place was mostly empty tonight, a few men sitting around the runway. The requisite pole was being humped by a very lithe and extremely overweight woman in a glittery Wonder Woman outfit, who kept flipping off the customers. It was Tuesday; Connor guessed the management saved the under-fifty strippers for the weekend.
Connor took a seat, ordered a Sam Adams (bottled, so as to avoid having to use a glass from the kitchen). The waitress brought it, and he took a pull. Wonder Woman looked familiar.
“I can’t believe you’re still stripping,” one of the guys down in front said. “A little long in the tooth, aren’t you?”
“Take a bite, Ernie. If your dentures are in, that is,” said the stripper. “And you,” she said to another guy. “Give me a tip or I’m kicking over your beer. You think my job is easy?”
Mrs. Adamson. That was it. Her son had been a year ahead of him in school.
Connor took another sip of his drink.
A baby sister. Savannah Joy.
He’d look after her. Poor kid, with those two morally bankrupt assholes as parents. Yeah. He and Colleen would make sure Savannah turned out okay.
A small part of him, though, couldn’t help feeling just a little more invisible.
At least he wasn’t eleven, hoping for a few crumbs of his father’s approval.
And a little sister...that might even be fun. He could teach her to play baseball and cook.
The beer was mellowing him. Colleen always laughed about what a lightweight he was.
“Let’s hear it for Athena, Goddess of the Hunt,” said the DJ. Connor frowned. She was supposed to be Wonder Woman, after all. Costume aside, he’d have to leave her a tip, and a good one. She’d made the best cookies, back in the day.
“When do the women start?” called one of the runway patrons.
“You people suck,” said the stripper, walking off the stage.
“Making her debut tonight, please welcome the beautiful Jezebel,” said the DJ. “Take It Off” by Kiss started up—not the most imaginative song. Connor reached for his wallet. Time to head off before his old catechism teacher showed up.
Then, onto the runway, wearing very high heels and a microscopic bikini, came Jessica Dunn.
Connor froze, his wallet halfway out of his back pocket.
She wobbled down the runway, then stopped.
She was shaking.
“Now we’re talking,” said Ernie. “Go ahead, sweetheart, start dancing.”
She tried. She took a few steps, looking like a little kid. A bob. A bend of her knees. Step to the left. Step to the right.
From behind her, Athena, Goddess of The Hunt, called out, “Try a hair toss, hon!”
Jess tried. It wasn’t hot. It looked like she wrenched her neck. Another knee bob.
“Grab the pole. It’ll help,” said Athena.
“Yeah, sweetheart, just wrap yourself around the pole. We don’t need a lot,” said Ernie.
Connor closed his mouth. He was fairly sure Jess hadn’t seen him, because she was looking straight ahead, as if staring down the angel of death. She had on a ton of eye makeup and red, red lipstick, and Connor had the sudden flash that as exposed as she was, she was trying to hide herself.
“Relax!” called Athena. “You got this!”
She really didn’t. She held on to the pole with both hands, like she was strangling it, and shuffled her feet, her ankle wobbling in the heels.
All that perfect skin, those long legs, the gorgeous body, her breasts barely covered by the tiny scraps of fabric.
Connor suddenly wished he had a blanket.
One of the men held up a bill. “Bend over, doll. Do you do lap dances, by the way?”
Connor was on his feet before he realized he was moving, but Jess had already turned, bolting down the runway and behind the curtain.
“Nice. You scared her to death, assholes,” Mrs. Adamson called with a hearty double-fisted salute.
“Last call,” said the bartender.
Connor jumped lightly onto the runway and followed Jess. No one stopped him, so he went behind the curtain.
There was a little hallway that led to the bar on one end, a small room (closet, more like it) on the other. Mrs. Adamson was talking to someone in the bar and barely flicked an eyelid at Connor.
The dressing room door was slightly ajar. Con opened it a little more.
There she was, face in her hands.
“So rhythm isn’t really your thing,” Connor said, leaning in the doorway, and she jumped out of her chair like he’d tazed her.
“Shit.” She grabbed her jeans and flannel shirt. “What are you doing here?” she asked, pulling on her clothes. She dashed her arm across her eyes.
“I’m a scout for Dancing with the Stars. Sorry, we’ve had to rule you out.” He smiled.
Her eyes flickered, then she shrugged, her face neutral. “I needed some extra money.”
“Really? It’s not your dream to be a stripper?”
“Shut up.” She might’ve been thinking about smiling. He was almost sure of it.
“So, Jess,” Mrs. Adamson said, thundering down the hall. “You’re fired. Sorry, kid. Stripping’s not for everyone.”
“You were quite good, though, Mrs. Adamson,” Connor said. He handed her a twenty.
“Oh, Connor O’Rourke! Look at you, all grown up! Thanks, sweetheart.” She pinched his cheek and took the cash. “We’re closing. Off you go, kids.” She strutted back down the hall, the floor trembling under her weight.
Jessica tied her hair into a ponytail with a smooth, quick movement. “So you go to strip clubs a lot?” she said.
And while Connor had known his father was cheating, he sure hadn’t pictured Gail the Tail as his stepmother. Pete had married her nine days ago, the day after his divorce was final.
He grabbed his motorcycle helmet and went out. Yeah, yeah, he owned a motorcycle. The gas mileage couldn’t be beat. Colleen called him a cliché, but so what? It was fun. He had a small pickup truck for winter.
Where he was headed, he wasn’t quite sure. The area didn’t offer too many places for anonymity, and that was exactly what Connor wanted. A place to sit in the dark, have a beer and not think.
He thought about calling someone to join him—one of his high school pals, maybe. Levi Cooper was on leave from Afghanistan, and Big Frankie Pepitone was always up for a beer. Then he opted against it. Solitude was the order of the night. He was Irish—brooding was the song of his people. Colleen would kick him into a good mood tomorrow, as he’d been kicking her for the past few months.
His Honda purred its way up the Hill and along the lake. Penn Yan wasn’t far; maybe something would be open there. The wind was clean and cold, and his thoughts focused on driving.
The dark miles blurred past, the quiet engine of the bike soothing.
Up ahead was a cement building that every male in a fifty-mile radius visited at least once in a lifetime: Skylar’s VIP Lounge.
A strip club, in other words.
Perfect. Beer and boobs.
Connor went in. He’d been here for a bachelor party last year, and it was exactly what you’d expect. Crappy drinks, worse food, health department violations by the dozen and nearly naked women, a few of them even good-looking.
The place was mostly empty tonight, a few men sitting around the runway. The requisite pole was being humped by a very lithe and extremely overweight woman in a glittery Wonder Woman outfit, who kept flipping off the customers. It was Tuesday; Connor guessed the management saved the under-fifty strippers for the weekend.
Connor took a seat, ordered a Sam Adams (bottled, so as to avoid having to use a glass from the kitchen). The waitress brought it, and he took a pull. Wonder Woman looked familiar.
“I can’t believe you’re still stripping,” one of the guys down in front said. “A little long in the tooth, aren’t you?”
“Take a bite, Ernie. If your dentures are in, that is,” said the stripper. “And you,” she said to another guy. “Give me a tip or I’m kicking over your beer. You think my job is easy?”
Mrs. Adamson. That was it. Her son had been a year ahead of him in school.
Connor took another sip of his drink.
A baby sister. Savannah Joy.
He’d look after her. Poor kid, with those two morally bankrupt assholes as parents. Yeah. He and Colleen would make sure Savannah turned out okay.
A small part of him, though, couldn’t help feeling just a little more invisible.
At least he wasn’t eleven, hoping for a few crumbs of his father’s approval.
And a little sister...that might even be fun. He could teach her to play baseball and cook.
The beer was mellowing him. Colleen always laughed about what a lightweight he was.
“Let’s hear it for Athena, Goddess of the Hunt,” said the DJ. Connor frowned. She was supposed to be Wonder Woman, after all. Costume aside, he’d have to leave her a tip, and a good one. She’d made the best cookies, back in the day.
“When do the women start?” called one of the runway patrons.
“You people suck,” said the stripper, walking off the stage.
“Making her debut tonight, please welcome the beautiful Jezebel,” said the DJ. “Take It Off” by Kiss started up—not the most imaginative song. Connor reached for his wallet. Time to head off before his old catechism teacher showed up.
Then, onto the runway, wearing very high heels and a microscopic bikini, came Jessica Dunn.
Connor froze, his wallet halfway out of his back pocket.
She wobbled down the runway, then stopped.
She was shaking.
“Now we’re talking,” said Ernie. “Go ahead, sweetheart, start dancing.”
She tried. She took a few steps, looking like a little kid. A bob. A bend of her knees. Step to the left. Step to the right.
From behind her, Athena, Goddess of The Hunt, called out, “Try a hair toss, hon!”
Jess tried. It wasn’t hot. It looked like she wrenched her neck. Another knee bob.
“Grab the pole. It’ll help,” said Athena.
“Yeah, sweetheart, just wrap yourself around the pole. We don’t need a lot,” said Ernie.
Connor closed his mouth. He was fairly sure Jess hadn’t seen him, because she was looking straight ahead, as if staring down the angel of death. She had on a ton of eye makeup and red, red lipstick, and Connor had the sudden flash that as exposed as she was, she was trying to hide herself.
“Relax!” called Athena. “You got this!”
She really didn’t. She held on to the pole with both hands, like she was strangling it, and shuffled her feet, her ankle wobbling in the heels.
All that perfect skin, those long legs, the gorgeous body, her breasts barely covered by the tiny scraps of fabric.
Connor suddenly wished he had a blanket.
One of the men held up a bill. “Bend over, doll. Do you do lap dances, by the way?”
Connor was on his feet before he realized he was moving, but Jess had already turned, bolting down the runway and behind the curtain.
“Nice. You scared her to death, assholes,” Mrs. Adamson called with a hearty double-fisted salute.
“Last call,” said the bartender.
Connor jumped lightly onto the runway and followed Jess. No one stopped him, so he went behind the curtain.
There was a little hallway that led to the bar on one end, a small room (closet, more like it) on the other. Mrs. Adamson was talking to someone in the bar and barely flicked an eyelid at Connor.
The dressing room door was slightly ajar. Con opened it a little more.
There she was, face in her hands.
“So rhythm isn’t really your thing,” Connor said, leaning in the doorway, and she jumped out of her chair like he’d tazed her.
“Shit.” She grabbed her jeans and flannel shirt. “What are you doing here?” she asked, pulling on her clothes. She dashed her arm across her eyes.
“I’m a scout for Dancing with the Stars. Sorry, we’ve had to rule you out.” He smiled.
Her eyes flickered, then she shrugged, her face neutral. “I needed some extra money.”
“Really? It’s not your dream to be a stripper?”
“Shut up.” She might’ve been thinking about smiling. He was almost sure of it.
“So, Jess,” Mrs. Adamson said, thundering down the hall. “You’re fired. Sorry, kid. Stripping’s not for everyone.”
“You were quite good, though, Mrs. Adamson,” Connor said. He handed her a twenty.
“Oh, Connor O’Rourke! Look at you, all grown up! Thanks, sweetheart.” She pinched his cheek and took the cash. “We’re closing. Off you go, kids.” She strutted back down the hall, the floor trembling under her weight.
Jessica tied her hair into a ponytail with a smooth, quick movement. “So you go to strip clubs a lot?” she said.
