Page 32 of The End of Summer

“Don’t be. Remember – the girls are all going to be wasted, for one thing. And none of them have ever poled before. So you’ll look like a rock star even if you’re only doing basic moves. Trust me.”

I take a breath, putting her on speaker and backing the Fiesta out of its parking spot. “I guess.”

“Seriously. You’re a great dancer – especially for someone who just learned. I wouldn’t feed you a line of bullshit. And, Arrow really likes you. She told me so herself.”

“Really?”This, I find hard to believe.

“Scout’s honor,” Cherry insists. “Oh! You know what used to help me get over the jitters?”

“What’s that?” I ask.

“Edibles. I’ve got some in my locker. Feel free to help yourself. The code is 6-9-6-9.”

Classy,I think.

I’m the daughter of the chief of police. I grew up on those tired old “this is your brain on drugs” commercials – and not from the television; my father used to just play them for me randomly on his phone as a supplement to whatever life lesson he was trying to offer. Legalor not, I willnotbe indulging in random edibles from Cherry’s locker. “Thanks,” I say, hoping to sound polite and not judgey.

“Yup. Don’t even give it a second thought.” She pauses. “I’ve got to go. One of the nurses just came in for something.”

“Feel better,” I say.

I go for a drive to Last Encounter Beach in Eastport in an effort to create space from Arrow and just breathe. I need to calm down.

The beach helps. It always does. Me and the briny salt air have our own special deal: when things get rough, or if I’m stressed out about something, I put my toes in the sand and look out at the tidal flats and remember that the world is way bigger than just my miniscule problems.

By the time I get back to the studio for tow lot, I’ve gone home to change into a more “appropriate” outfit (and no, Brady’s car was not there, not that I checked or anything) and I’ve put on sweats and a t-shirt because I’m not trying to go out in public wearing only a bra. Arrow’s gone when I get back, leaving me to run tow lot pickups on my own, which is fine, since being busy is helping me get the butterflies in my stomach to calm the hell down. I take a break between tow lot and preparing for the night to run up to Cumberland Farms for gas station PB&J, which sounds disgusting but is the best two-dollar meal-on-the-go this town has to offer. When I return, Saffron’s there, and I lament my life to her.

“I’m just worried I’ll look ridiculous,” I explain.

“Listen Chica, you’re gorgeous. You could just stand there and it would be fine. But –” she lowers her voice, “Do you have any idea what kind of entertainment this crew is bringing in tonight?”

I shake my head.

“Oh my God, I’msoexcited. The bride is a huge Red Sox fan, so the Skeeve is sending over a whole baseball team of strippers!”

“What? Won’t it get, like,crowdedin here? And what exactly is aSkeeve?”

“Oh.” Saffron giggles. “Steve the Skeeve. He’s like Cape Cod’s resident pimp.”

I bust out laughing. “There are no pimps on Cape Cod! This is the world’s most Norman Rockwell place to live. I love how you’re making it sound like Vegas.”

“Well, he’s definitely not a guy you’d find in a Rockwell painting, that’s for sure.”

“What exactly does he do?” I wonder aloud.

“He’s the procurer. Arrow pays him a flat rate per guy per night. It’s part of the bill for the ladies who come here. And his job is to find a dancer who will match what the girls want: so, like, tonight, the bride-to-be wants a baseball team, and it’s up to the Skeeve to deliver that.”

“That sounds… about right for someone who goes by the nameSkeeve,” I surmise. “Do you think it’s legal?”

Saffron shrugs. “No clue.”

Well. This is a bit much for me to process at the present moment. I do think that Brady might want to look into this if he’s working for some suspect operation.

Perhaps I shouldgive him a heads up.

Yes,I decide. And not because it gives me a reason to knock on his door. I’ll do it because it’s the right thing to do. Theneighborlything.

After all, I am nothing if not a gracious neighbor.

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