Why do you want me to hide it?” Vera asked, instantly drawn in by the astoundingly beautiful sparkling jewel.
Darla scooped her stuff back into her Kate Spade. “Just as a favor. Lord, you’re a lifesaver. I—” Her sister turned and for the first time noticed what Vera was wearing. Her eyes widened and a fleeting grin passed over her lips. “Dang, sis. Great corset. Man, that’ll have ‘em whackin’ off in the aisles.”
Darla always did have a way with words.
“Thanks, I think,” Vera said wryly. Another thing about Darla: she might be an unholy mess, but she was an honest and genuine unholy mess—and never, ever judged Vera. About anything. “It is pretty spectacular, isn’t it? I had it made to match my bride costume. What do you think? I designed it myself.”
Seeing the fake wedding dress hanging from the mirror, a lightbulb went off behind eyes that looked so much like Vera’s own. “Oh, it’s fabulous,” Darla exclaimed. “Hey! The ring’ll blend right in! Go ahead, put it on,” she urged.
She didn’t have to ask twice. Vera slid the flashy ring onto her finger. “Wow. A perfect fit. It is so incredibly beautiful.” And Darla was right. It went great with the bride outfit.
Again Vera’s eyes were dazzled by the kaleidoscope of colors swirling in its center—green and blue and violet. Like one of those pinwheel whirly things used to hypnotize people in bad movies.
She shook her head to clear it of the weird feeling. “Seriously, what’s the deal with the ring?”
A noise sounded out in the hall. Her sister darted a panicked glance at the door, then gave her a smile she knew darn well was forced. “No deal,” Darla said. “Just hide it for me, okay?”
“Okay, but—”
“And whatever you do, do not talk to Thomas.”
As in Thomas Smythe? Darla’s ex-boyfriend? Before Vera could ask anything more, Darla pulled her into a quick, hard hug, then grabbed her Kate Spade and vanished out the door as quickly as she’d arrived.
Okay, that couldn’t be good. Something was up.
Darla was never like that—all twitchy and in a rush. Darla never rushed anywhere. Or panicked over anything. Possibly because of the drugs she used far more than she should, but no doubt also because she had learned long ago that money could solve anything and everything. Even a messed-up life.
Tell her about it. Vera only wished she’d had the chance to learn that particular lesson.
Speaking of which, she’d better get her butt moving. If she missed her cue to go onstage, Lecherous Lou would pitch a fit. And have one more excuse to hit on her and expect capitulation. Gak. As if.
Luckily, because of her close association with the wealthy St. Giles family, Lecherous Lou—along with everyone else at the Diamond Lounge—was under the mistaken impression that Vera was loaded, too, and didn’t need this job. That she just played at exotic dancing as a lark, to piss off conservative parents or whatever. Thank God for small favors. She knew other girls at the club didn’t have that kind of leverage against Lecherous Lou to resist his overtures. Or other, shadier propositions. She’d heard about the “private gentlemen’s parties” he ran off the books. It was really good money, and she’d been sorely tempted a time or two, but in the end, the thought of what else she’d be expected to do—according to those who did—made her just plain queasy. She shuddered with revulsion.
She might really, really need this job…and she might not have had sex in so long she’d probably forgotten how to do it…but she would never, ever, ever—
No. Way.
Hell, she wouldn’t even do lap dances.
Brushing off the sordid feeling, she carefully shook out the satin skirt of her faux wedding dress and wrapped it around her waist, fastening it over the sexy white, beribboned corset she was wearing. Then she slid on the matching satin bolero-style jacket that made her look oh, so prim and proper, just like a blushing bride. Gathering the yards and yards of see-through veil—the punters particularly liked when she teased them with that—she attached the gossamer cloud to a glittering rhinestone tiara that held it in place on her head.
There.
She checked herself in the mirror. Not bad. The dress was actually gorgeous. In it, she felt like Cinderella stepping from the pumpkin coach. Every man’s fantasy bride come to life.
For a split second, a wave of wistfulness sifted through her at the sight of her own reflection. Too bad it was all just an illusion.
She sighed. Oh, well. Maybe someday it would happen for real.
Sure. Like right after Las Vegas got three feet of snow in July.
Face it, Prince Charming was never going to sweep her off her feet and marry her. Who was she kidding? She knew when she got into this gig that no man she’d ever want to marry would look twice at her in that way again. Not after he found out where she came from, and on top of that, what she did for a living. It didn’t matter that she’d graduated high school at the top of her class and could have gotten a full ride to any college—even Stanford. Wouldas and couldas didn’t matter to men. Only perceptions. She knew that. Look what had happened to her own mother, a woman as smart and loving as any who’d ever lived, bless her.
She knew it would kill Mama, absolutely eviscerate her, if she were alive to see what Vera was doing.
But what choice did she have?
A mere high school graduate could not find an honest, decent job that paid enough to keep Joe in that pricey retirement home. And she’d be damned if she let the best man she’d ever met waste away his last years parked at some damn trailer park day care because she couldn’t afford to pay for a proper assisted-living facility. No sirree. Never. Not as long as Vera had breath in her body. And boobs and an ass that could attract fifty-dollar bills. Heck, even the occasional hundred.
So. Off she went to the stage. And truth be told, she didn’t even mind that much. Honestly. She liked her body. She’d been born with generous curves, and it did not bother her a bit to use them to her advantage. She’d never been shy. And if looking at her nude body could bring a few moments of pleasure to some lonely businessman jonesing for his far-off wife or girlfriend, well, hallelujah. Maybe she’d saved their marriage. Because men could look all they wanted, but they could not touch. That was a firm and fast rule. Both for the club and her personally.
“Two minutes!” Jerry, the bored UNLV senior and part-time stagehand, called from the hallway.
Pursing her bright red lips, she blew a good-luck kiss to the framed photo of Joe and Mama that sat at her spot on the dressing-room vanity, then hurried out and up the stairs toward the black-curtained wings of the stage. Tawni was just coming off.
“How’s the house tonight?” Vera whispered.
Smiling broadly, Tawni shook a thick bundle of green bills in her fist. “Hot, baby, hot. Some real high rollers tonight. And, oh, those rumors were true. There’s one singularly fine-lookin’ man out there. You go get ‘em, girl. Knock their little you-know-whats off.”
Vera giggled. “You are so bad.”
Tawni
