Page 7 of A Billionaire Gentleman

“New girl?” The massive man straightened and flicked his cigarette to the ground before grinding it out with his heel. His voice was softer than I would’ve imagined.

“Yes,” I said, holding out my ID. “Sofi Stafford.”

He studied it for a moment before handing it back to me. I hoped that meant he was always careful about who he let inside. “I’m Bruce. The other guy on this door is Paulo. You’ll want to have your ID for both of us for a couple days. We’re usually pretty good with names and faces, but we like to be sure. If you have any drastic changes to your person, we’ll want to see your ID again.”

It took me a minute to realize that “drastic changes” probably referred more to plastic surgery than it did to a new haircut or dye job. The dancers here didn’t strip all the way down, but from what I’d seen last night, a boob job wouldn’t exactly be useless here.

At least that was one thing I didn’t need to worry about. I wouldn’t have any problems filling out the costumes. I’d always been what my mom had called “top-heavy,” but after getting pregnant, I’d filled out even more. Mead used to say that if I’d gotten a tummy tuck after Dallas had been born, my figure would’ve been perfect. Fortunately, I’d seen women of all sizes and shapes on stage yesterday, so I doubted anyone would mind the few stretch marks low on my belly.

“The door takes you into a short hallway,” Bruce said. “First door on the left is Sanders’s office. Second and third doors are the bathrooms. First door on the right is the dressing room and backstage. Second is the main floor.”

“Thank you.” I smiled and hoped he couldn’t see how nervous I was. He seemed like a nice enough guy, but my confidence in my ability to judge characters had been pretty decimated by how wrong I’d been about Mead. It’d be better if I didn’t show any weakness.

He held the door for me, and I stepped into the club. I was fifteen minutes earlier than what Sanders had told me, not wanting to risk being late on my first day. He’d given me a schedule of what to expect tonight, and I ran through the mental list one more time. I’d only be on stage for a handful of sets tonight, and always in the background, part of a chorus, so if I made any mistakes, they’d be more easily covered.

The simplest of the routines, I didn’t even need practice. That would come tomorrow. The biggest thing I needed to learn tonight, Sanders had said, was dealing with costumes and costume changes.

Women’s voices came from behind the door Bruce had said led to the dressing room and backstage. I willed myself to calm before opening the door and stepping inside. Talk dropped off as all eyes turned toward me. If I suddenly found myself naked, I could chalk this up as one of my worst nightmares and go home.

“Hi.” I gave a feeble wave.

A few of the women nodded in acknowledgment before turning back to whatever they’d been doing when I’d first walked in. Others looked me over the same way a head cheerleader looked at a new girl. Well, not all head cheerleaders, but all the ones at my high school had been that way.

A few smiled, including one tall, athletically thin woman who looked like she was probably close to ten years older than me. Strawberry blonde waves, bright green eyes, and the sort of grace that came only from a true dancer, I had no doubt she was the star.

“Hi,” she said. “I’m Pasha Gumenick.”

“Sofi Strafford.”

“Let’s get you to your costumes.”

Breathing a sigh of relief, I followed her. I was anxious about wearing so little, but I’d push through it. The one thing I couldn’t just grit my teeth and get through was figuring out how to put on some of the outfits I’d seen last night.

“Each one of us has a section,” Pasha explained. “Anytime you get a new costume, it’ll be in your section. You’re starting in the background of a couple of the group numbers with the less elaborate costumes.”

She said “less elaborate,” but I thought “less material” was probably more accurate. Three of them were literally the skimpiest of the costumes I’d seen last night. The fourth wasn’t much better. Technically, they all covered the essentials, but not by much. Then there were the heels.

At five feet nine inches in flats, I wasn’t a short woman, but these would put me over six feet by a couple inches. Fortunately, I had confidence in my ability to move in heels. At least enough to do the simple steps I’d be doing tonight. After that, I’d have to see.

The only positive thing I could say about these costumes was that none of them had the tall, feathered headpieces that the others did. Two had two gold circlets with shiny jewels, but those wouldn’t affect my balance or how I held my head. They’d probably be the easiest things I had to put on.

“The group numbers you’re in have a couple other routines between them, so you won’t have to rush to change,” Pasha continued. “Piece of advice, though. Don’t linger. As soon as a number is done, come here and change in a specific order. After a while, it’ll be as much muscle memory as the routines themselves. If you take your time, it’ll be harder to move faster.”

I managed a tentative smile. “Makes sense. Thank you.”

“I have a while before I’m on. Why don’t you try these on, and we’ll see how well they fit.” She reached for one of the costumes. “Sanders is usually pretty good at sizing up dancers and hiring ones who’ll fit what we have available.”

How about that, I thought wryly. I’d gotten this job because the dancer whose place I’d taken was around the same build as me. Hardly a surprise once I thought about it. I mean, this wasn’t exactly the sort of job that’d be impressed by my two years at the University of Nevada Las Vegas.

Not that my less-than-extensive college career would’ve impressed anyone.

“We leave our costumes here every night, and there’s someone who’ll dry-clean them. If there’s any alterations that need done, just write a note and pin it to the costume. If a costume gets stained or ripped, the replacement or repair comes out of our paycheck, unless a customer is responsible for the damage. That doesn’t happen often, though. Between Sanders and security, we rarely have problems.

I nodded, remembering Sanders telling me the same things. It was nice to hear it from one of the dancers, though. It meant that my gut instinct about the manager was probably right. I could trust him. Well, I could trust him when it came to the job, anyway.

“Are you going to change?” Pasha asked.

I looked around for a changing room or a screen before suddenly realizing that other women were getting in and out of costumes right where they stood, chatting as if they did this every day. Which they did. Heat flooded my face, and I hated that Pasha could see that I definitely wasn’t as cool about all of this as I was trying to seem.

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