Strip. Delta Dupree

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      “It’s filling up fast,” Galaxeé said.

      “Are all the dancers in?” Rio asked.

      From upstairs, she’d heard the chatter. Bryce Sullivan’s sexy bass laughter had filtered up the stairs when she’d peeked out of the office.

      Earlier, she’d spent little time on the phone with him; she’d offered him the job and asked him to dance tonight, he accepted and she ended the conversation within thirty seconds.

      “Yep. Bryce, too.” Galaxeé smoothed her slinky, wine-colored dress with both hands, showing a great deal of cleavage as always.

      “You’ve got wrinkled ankles,” Rio said.

      “Shit. I hate wearing these things. They never fit, and stockings cost a shitload of money.” Wiggling, she fought with the hosiery. “Are you coming out to watch the show to see what effect Bryce has on the crowd?”

      “Hadn’t planned on it.”

      “Liar.” Her partner knew her all too well. “What’re you wearing?”

      “Exactly what I have on.” Spreading her arms, Rio looked down at herself. Today she’d dressed in a cream-colored silk blouse with navy jacket matching a knee-length skirt, business attire for interviewing applicants.

      “Wear something sexy.”

      “Why? This is just fine.”

      “Too conservative for evening wear at a strip club. Dressed like an administrative officer, you make us look old and crusty.” Galaxeé fished through the hanging outfits they both kept at the club for special occasions.

      “Here,” she said, dragging out a shimmering sheath designed for a sex machine. “Put this on and wear those strappy, fuck-me-silly kicks. Show some leg. You have good ones, unlike my toothpicks—the reason why these damn hose always bag. Flaunt them for the boys. They like seeing your Tina Turners and the chickies hate you for having them.”

      She’d selected the titillating, red clinger. The tailor-made, backless, thin-strapped dress fit an expensive call girl. Rio had worn it once. That night she’d danced onstage with Dallas. The bump-grind-and-rub sent the crowd into a wild frenzy. Then, Miss Fields barked her way into his life.

      “Not tonight. Nope.” Dallas’s mind was draped around someone else. Rio had nothing else but fantasies and unproductive dreams.

      “Put the damn thing on and come on out. Take those stupid hose off, too. You don’t need them. Luanne’s holding our seats at the bar. Oh,” Galaxeé said halfheartedly, “and Frankie’s got her big behind propped up next to our chairs.”

      Frankie Perino, a twenty-nine-year-old Italian beauty with sparkling brown eyes and lazy, blond curls tumbling over her shoulders, had become their friend four months ago. “Don’t use that tone. She’s a very nice person.”

      “Was.”

      “I understand your feelings, Galaxeé. If she’d known you and Randy were an item, she would’ve apologized then and there. Besides, look how much time she’s given us. She set up our computer, taught us the basics, designed a website that’s—”

      “Incomplete.”

      Rio sighed. “Some people have regular eight-to-five jobs. She puts in more hours than most. Remember, she’s not charging us.”

      Frankie had offered to build their site. Jobless at the time, she seemed to be looking for a friendly face when she’d ventured inside Killer Bods. She enjoyed the show and struck up a conversation with Rio and Galaxeé. A regular now, Rio had added Frankie’s name to the short list of patrons who never paid the cover charge.

      Galaxeé dismissed her with a wave of both hands. “Whatever. Get dressed.” She went out the door, slamming it shut behind her.

      Well, why not? When had she jumped clean last? And if Dallas beckoned her onstage again, so be it. Let Shannon whine puppy-dog tears. Who owned this club?

      Ya home wrecker.

      Rio locked the door. She stripped out of her clothes and poured herself into the dress, sucking it in. She’d never get it zipped again if she gained one more pound of fat.

      Dieting and exercise, she chanted. She’d had little time or inclination for either until recently, when she’d earned a waistline bulge and her clothes seemed to have taken on a sloppy appearance.

      “Metabolism slowdown. We’ll need detailing,” Galaxeé had said. “We’re getting old and our bodies are going straight to hell, south for the final countdown.”

      No way. Not yet.

      “Except, my new boobies will always hang tough.”

      “If they don’t burst beforehand.”

      The ballet bar Rio used helped if she took the time to stretch and practice. Years ago, СКАЧАТЬ