Page 220 of Boss of the Year
Okay, so I tended to make dumb jokes when I was nervous. And yes, I was nervous. You would be nervous too if you had convinced yourself that the only way to achieve a better life was to have silicone balloons shoved under your nipples for a bargain deal of fourteen grand plus interest.
Did I have fourteen grand?
Helllllll no.
But they had financing options, so said my cousin. I had a cute face. I’d cross that bridge when I got to it. Right now I was just trying things on.
“Dr. Hunt is a genius,” Candy said when she turned back with a device that looked like a bag clip. “You were really lucky to get this appointment—usually, his wait list is eighteen months. Extend your index finger, please.”
I rolled my eyes. Could she be more of a cliché, the nurse half in love with the doctor? He probably looked like a Ken doll, with his skin pulled tight like Saran wrap over his bones and giant white veneers that looked like light bulbs instead of real teeth. I bet he had plugs, too. Honest-to-God doll hair.
No, thank you.
But I’d take his services if he was the best, and according to my cousin, he was. Was it my life’s dream to have my tits done? Not particularly. Prima ballerinas and Broadway soloists weren’t exactly known for having bowling balls floating off their chests. That was more the specialty of Eighth Avenue. And maybe lowly bartenders.
But what was a girl to do in my situation? All my life, I’d been good at exactly two things: dancing and flirting. Thanks to a ruined knee, the former was no longer an option. And since I had no other skills and no education, I had to maximize the latter.
Men loved a pair of good-sized cans on the lady mixing their high balls, right?
God, I hoped so.
“I wasn’tplanningto do something like this, but things happen,” I said after Candy was done taking my blood oxygen.
When she didn’t answer, I just kept talking.
“Most dancers don’t want to have big boobs, but exotic ones do, right? My cousin Rochelle makes more than a granda nightworking at Diamonds, that club in Hell’s Kitchen. Do you know it?”
Candy shook her head. Of course, she didn’t know it. Why would a nice girl like her know the strip clubs of New York?
“Are you an exotic dancer too?” she wondered, almost like she couldn’t help herself.
I grinned. I knew I’d catch her interest somehow. I didn’t have the sense in my head God gave me, according to Nonna and all five of my siblings, but I was the best in a family of charmers.La civetta, as my grandparents used to call me. Officially, that translated to “owl,” but in Italy, it also meant a flirt.
“Nah,” I said. “But since it’s looking more and more like serving drinks is all I have going for me, I figured I might as well get the best tips I can. Nice girl like me should be able to find a sugar daddy in at least a week or two, am I right?”
Again, Candy didn’t answer as she entered some other things into the computer.
Man, this crowd was dead.
I tried not to pout. I was just trying to be nice—make a little conversation. It made me feel awkward when people didn’t talk back, and usually, I was very good at getting people to talk back.
Candy stood up from the computer and offered me another tight smile. “Dr. Hunt will be right with you.”
The door closed behind her. Kicking my legs back and forth, I started scrolling through my phone when it buzzed with a callfrom my oldest sister. I rolled my eyes. As the de facto mother hen of the six Zola kids, Lea was nothing if not persistent. She would press redial for hours until I picked up.
Vaguely, I wondered if I should tell her where I was just to hear her squawk.
“Hey, I can’t really talk now?—”
“Where are you?” Lea demanded. “You were supposed to be at the house an hour ago. Kate and I got the dining room boxed up, and we have the truck here to bring everything to the storage center, but only for the next few hours.”
I smacked a hand to my forehead as my stomach turned with guilt. “Shit. I forgot. I’m sorry.”
“Youforgot?” Lea’s voice ricocheted through my phone’s tinny speakers and off the exam room’s hard, disinfected surfaces. “Joni, what the hell? Nonna needs to get all of her things out of the house this weekend, and then we have to clean and get everything ready for the new renters on Monday. We literally cannot do this without everyone pitching in. Even Matthew came down from Boston to help.”
I winced, as if just hearing the schedule physically hurt.
And maybe it did. At least the reasons for it certainly stung a whole lot.
