“Aren’t there parts missing?” The black latex Cat Woman costume—complete with whip—was minus several strategic bits. The outfit left pretty much nothing to the imagination.
But then again, Vera reminded herself, that was the whole idea here, wasn’t it?
Tawni grinned. “Only the important parts.”
“Too hot to handle, girl!”
“Just the reaction I’m going for.” Tawni wiggled her hips in imitation of what she’d be doing onstage in a few minutes. “Rumor is there’s a real hottie out there tonight.”
Vera grinned. “Loaded, too, I hope? Because I could seriously use a few good tips tonight.”
“You and me both.” Tawni crooked her fingers playfully. “Come to mama, baby. Let’s see you boys flash those twenty-dollar bills.”
“Twenties? Damn. That outfit’s gonna bring out the fifties.”
“What I like to hear, girlfriend,” Tawni said. “Those poor slobs don’t stand a chance.” She gave the mirror a final check, winked and strutted out of the dressing room.
Ho-kay, then. Great news for Tawni. Bad news for Vera. If the punters tossed all their cash at the Kinky Cat Woman during the first set, there’d be nothing left for Vera’s Naughty Bride half an hour later. No, not good. Joe’s retirement home payment was due in a few days, and after her vintage Camry finally broke down last week she was still three hundred bucks short, let alone her own expenses for the month.
Unbidden, her eyes suddenly swam at the thought of her once-burly stepfather lying in his antiseptic white room. He’d been so full of life, had so many friends, before. Now…she was his only visitor, and he hadn’t even recognized her two nights ago.
She blew out a breath, fanning her misty eyes. Don’t go all weepy on me, Mancuso. Spoil your makeup and forget about those big tips. Buck up, girl!
Besides, tears wouldn’t help—they never did.
And if she got really desperate, she could always borrow the money from Darla, her sister. Well, half sister. Except Darla had taken off, and who knew when she’d be back. Maybe Tawni could help out if worse came to worst. If her friend hadn’t already spent all her money on some outrageous new costume by that time. The woman went through expensive stage outfits like Vera went through romance novels.
Not that Vera should be complaining about the costumes. In fact, she was very grateful for them. Tawni was one of the big reasons the punters kept coming back night after night—and telling their friends back home in Des Moines about the great club they’d found in Vegas on their last business trip. Diamond Lounge: Women in the rough, perfect and polished. Yeah, that’s what it actually said on the playbill out front. Seriously. With a sigh, Vera rolled her eyes. Lecherous Lou’s idea, of course. Who else? Now there was a loser. Why couldn’t he get Alzheimer’s and forget all about Vera and his relentless campaign to get her to sleep with him?
Anyway, Tawni was one of the rough girls. Supposedly, according to Lecherous Lou. And Vera was polished. She snorted. Ha. Tawnisha Adams had graduated from UCLA magna cum laude and was one of the smoothest operators she knew. Vera was the only trailer trash around here, living the life her mother had lived before her. Mentally kicking and silently screaming.
Ah, well. It was what it was.
She leaned forward toward the big lighted mirror that covered an entire wall of the dressing room and critically examined her already generous eye makeup. Maybe a bit more mascara.
There was a fine line between virgin and whore. In her act, she was supposed to be a blushing, innocent bride who revealed her inner bad girl on her wedding night. Right. Like a real virgin would ever know those moves she did onstage. Hell, she barely did. But whatever. The punters loved it. Which kept Lecherous Lou from firing her even though she steadfastly refused to “do the dirty” with him, as he disgustingly referred to it. That’s all that really mattered. Keeping her job.
At least until her Prince Charming came to sweep her away from all of this. Maybe tonight would be the night.
Uh-huh.
She sighed. More mascara it was.
“Vera!”
Her sister burst through the dressing-room door and skidded to a halt against the vanity counter, scattering bottles of nail polish and hair products willy-nilly.
Darla’s expression was wild. “Thank God you’re here!”
“Whoa!” Vera jumped up and steadied her. “Sis, what’s wrong? Where have you been all week? You have to stop disappearing like that. Tell me what’s going on!”
“Trust me, you don’t want to know,” Darla said, yanking open her purse.
Darla’d done one of her runners two weeks ago. Which in itself wasn’t unusual. Her ditzy sister took off for parts unknown all the time, at the drop of a hat. But she always came back happier and even more relaxed than she normally was, never looking like hell warmed over. Or agitated.
Like this.
“Darla, you look something the cat dragged in,” Vera said, genuine worry starting to hum through her. “Seriously, are you all right?” She’d never seen her chronically anesthetized and laid-back half sister so upset. Well, not since their poor excuse for a father had tried to throw Vera out of Darla’s penthouse apartment for being a, quote, “money-grubbing gold-digging daughter of a streetwalker.” But that was a whole different story.
“Yes. No! Oh, I don’t know,” Darla wailed. “Where the hell is it?” Stuff spilled all over the dressing table as she clawed desperately through her designer purse. A new Kate Spade, Vera noted. The real deal. Not like the knockoff Vera was carrying today, sitting on the counter next to Darla’s purse. What a difference.
She caught a lipstick that went flying. “Sis, you’re talking crazy. Where’s what?”
“I gotta get out of town for a while, Vera. And I need you to do something for me—Yes! Here it is!”
Triumphantly, her sister held up a ring. A big sparkly one. Jeez Louise, was that a diamond? Nah, had to be fake. Even rich-as-Ivanka-Trump Darla St. Giles wouldn’t have a rock that huge.
Darla thrust the ring at her. “Can you hide this for me back at our place somewhere?”
Despite their father’s objections, Vera shared Darla’s penthouse apartment, for which—at Darla’s insistence—she paid a ridiculously small amount of rent. Amazingly generous, and a true godsend. Without it Vera’d be living in some lowrent dive in the burbs, an hour from work. Or on a sidewalk grate.
Half sisters, Vera was a product of their playboy father Maximillian St. Giles’s legendary philandering. It pleased Darla—whom he basically ignored in favor of her older brother—Henry—to no end to throw their father’s many faults and mistakes in his face. Sharing a penthouse with his by-blow ranked right up there. Why should Vera feel guilty about that? The man had treated them both like crap. And it was fun having a sister, even if Darla was a bit out of control at times. Okay, most of the time. They even looked alike. Superficially, at least. Darla meant a lot to her. She’d do
