Page 27 of Grinch Girl

“Try them on,” Jim called. “What else are we gonna do?” Oh, fine. Reality TV viewers generally liked any sort of wardrobe change or shopping montage.

In the dressing room, I took off my comfy leggings and tugged the tight leather up over my hips. They were crazy-snug on my butt, but I supposed that was how they were supposed to fit. Not that I could tell, because there was no mirror in the dressing room.

“Come out, Jane,” Jim said. “Let’s get a shot of you in them, and then we can head to the pub for a drink.” I wondered if he actually wanted a beer or if he just wanted to spy on Nicole and Tripp. Sighing, I left the dressing room. Luckily, I could always cut this out later if I looked terrible.

But I didn’t even make it to the mirror. The camera guy kept filming but hissed at me, “Your phone is blowing up! Mine too. They’re both ringing over and over.”

That didn’t sound good. I reversed direction from the mirror and grabbed my phone from my coat. I had six missed calls from Sean and four from a number with a 312 area code. Chicago?

Before I could listen to any of the voicemails, the phone rang again with the Chicago number. “Hello?”

“J-Bird!” It was Nate’s laughing voice in my ear, but I could barely hear him because of the pounding music in the background.

“Your intrepid friend-neighbor-cameraman has been quite intent on reaching you,” Nate said. “So we’ve both been calling you nonstop. He believes we might have a bit of a problem here.”

In the background, the song transitioned from “Pour Some Sugar on Me” by Def Leppard to “Girls, Girls, Girls” by Mötley Crüe.

“Where are you guys?”

Chapter Nine

Idrove waytoo fast on the back country roads, but in my defense it was difficult to concentrate with Carol’s voice on speakerphone and the camera filming me from the back seat.

“How did I not know that Diane owned The Satin Lady?” I exclaimed, taking a rough turn on County Road B. Gravel crunched loudly under my tires. On the outskirts of town, The Satin Lady was the only strip club in a fifty-mile radius and thus a rite of passage and traditional mecca for every teenage boy and stag party in this part of the state. “Did you know?”

“Of course I did.” Carol sounded offended. “Greta and I lent her the money to buy it twenty years ago!”

I was so shocked I dropped the phone in my lap. Carol heard me sputtering. “The real world isn’t all picturesque Christmas Villages, Jane.”

“I know that,” I snapped, righting the phone on my left thigh. I lived in the real world every damn day.

“Then stop acting all appalled,” she said. “Diane runs a good place, a tight ship. It’s not seedy, and it’s not sad. She pays the women extraordinarily well, and she takes care of them. It’s a legitimate local business, just like all the others.”

I took another wild turn, causing the cameraman behind me to lurch and the camera lens to thunk against the window. “I’m not being judgy about the business, Carol. But what is she thinking to bring Nate there on their date for the web series?” We couldn’t run around filming naked women! I imagined our cameramen getting arrested, the video equipment impounded. That would put a swift end to our little series.

We pulled into the half-full parking lot. It was eight p.m. or so on a Saturday night—would the crowd grow as the night got later? Or maybe this business had been impacted by the town’s loss of revenue as much as all the others. Carol kept talking as I sprung out of the car. “I imagine she was thinking about your email earlier today. Wasn’t that you encouraging scandalous behavior and anything that might bring more eyes upon our little show?”

Guilty. My steps slowed as my brain started working again. Shock and adrenaline had propelled me here, but now Carol’s words really sunk in.

Maybe this wasn’t totally insane.

“Man, this is so awesome,” our cameraman muttered giddily, still following us.

Sean met us at the door, his camera down and eyes wild. “Jane, thank God. I had no idea what to do.”

Behind him, the interior of The Satin Lady greeted us in all her glory. At least a dozen women in G-strings and thongs walked the premises, some with cocktail trays, some in tiny costumes. On long, low sofas, several men in flannel were being treated to lap dances, twenty-dollar bills clasped between their fingers. On a catwalk connected to the stage, a dancer writhed to Metallica while upside down on a pole, held up only by the strength of her thighs. I took a moment to appreciate her athleticism.

In full panic, Sean kept babbling. “This can’t be legal to film! I’ve only recorded a little bit of the room and Nate and Diane’s faces when they walked in. And a confessional with Nate, which was basically just him laughing so hard he cried.”

Conflicted, I put my hands on my leather-clad hips and surveyed the wild scene. This would be reality TV gold, but the legality question was a sticking point. We couldn’t broadcastfootage of naked women without their express permission, and we certainly couldn’t record any of the customers either.

“J-Bird!” Nate bounced up, eyes electric and face dusted with pink glitter. Either the stuff was in the air or it had been rubbed on him by a pair of breasts. “Is Jim here too? I didn’t know that tonight was to be a double date. How lovely!”

“Don’t start,” I warned. Jim hadn’t come with me. I encouraged him to go to the pub instead, hoping to film some drama. Diane joined our growing group. I narrowed my eyes at her and crossed my arms over my chest.

“To the bar, friend!” Our cameraman pulled a very willing Nate away to grab libations.

Diane pushed back her shoulders. “Am I in for a morality lecture, Jane? How tiresome.”

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