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Her cell phone rang. Without checking the caller ID, she answered. “Hello?”
“Bridget?” A familiar male voice rumbled through her phone, startling her so she almost dropped it.
“Adam?” Her voice came out squeakier than she liked, so she forced herself to take some deep breaths.
“Hey, Bridge, how are you doing?”
Ugh, he called her Bridge just like her brothers did. Her nervousness dissipated. “Fine, keeping busy. Calling to check on me?”
“Um…”
Adam at a loss for words? He was so busted. “Colin or Dane?”
“Colin or Dane what?” He tried a valiant comeback, but failed.
“Was it Colin or Dane who called you and sicced you on me?”
He sighed. “Colin.”
“Ah-ha!” Knowing she’d guessed right didn’t make her feel any better.
“Come on, Bridge, they’re concerned, rightfully so, that they don’t hear from you as much as they’d like.”
“First of all, if they heard from me as much as they’d like, I’d be calling down the stairs telling my mother what I wanted for breakfast every morning. Second, I’m an adult and don’t need to check in with Mommy and Daddy all the time. How often do you call your parents?”
Adam didn’t say anything. Bridget smacked her forehead in mortification. To quote her mother, who usually never had a harsh word for anyone, Adam’s parents were dreadful. Bridget had plenty of worse words for them. “Look, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”
“No, I’m sorry, Bridget. You are a grown woman and don’t need someone who’s not even family butting into your business.”
“Adam, you know I consider you—”
“Like a brother?” His tone was sharper than usual.
“Oh, no. Two are plenty. But more like…” She couldn’t think of a nice way to say she’d wanted to rip off his clothing and lick him all over ever since she was a teenager. “Like a friend,” she finished lamely.
“A friend.” He paused. “Well, as a friend, I’d like to encourage you to call home more often. You have a great family, believe me. They want to know how you’re doing.”
“You’re right. But I need to prove I can do well here in Chicago since they were so dead set against it. I went to the local junior college and worked all kinds of goofy jobs to save my money for design school, and I’m finally doing what I want.”
“I know you are, and I’m proud of you.” His soft, silky voice sent shivers down her spine. He ruined the effect by asking, “How are you doing for money?”
“Fine.” Sugar’s voluminous bras caught her eye. There was her money right there. Funny, how everybody made money off two bags of saline. The surgeon, Sugar, Bridget, the strip club. Sugar’s breasts were positively a cottage industry.
“You sure? City living is pretty pricey compared to Wisconsin.”
“I’m fine, really. I even have a part-time job.”
“Sounds good. Selling underwear again, like in that discount store?”
She latched on to that with relief. “Yes, I am selling underwear. To a very upscale customer base.” She’d recently learned those buzzwords in her fashion-marketing class.
“Excellent. I know you must be busy, but if we could—”
Her call waiting blotted out his words. She checked and saw Sugar’s number. “Adam, I have to go. One of my customers is on the other line.”
“Customers? Why do they have your cell number?”
Uh…“’Bye, talk to you later!” She clicked over to Sugar. “Hi, how are you?”
“Hi, Bridget,” she shouted over a crowd of female voices in the background. “I got called into work early and can’t come for those bras. We’ll have to reschedule.”
“Oh. Okay.” Not okay. Bridget needed that money. Bad. Her electric bill was due the next day, and as it was she was going to need to walk her payment into the currency exchange to keep her lights on and her sewing machine humming. “Wait! I’ll drop them off for you.”
“But, Bridget, I’m already at Frisky’s. I don’t want to make you come here.”
“No big deal.” She made her voice cheerful. “Just tell me where to go.”
“Are you sure?” Sugar sounded skeptical. “This is a nice club in comparison to some other dives around here, but still…”
“Absolutely.” Bridget was already packing Sugar’s lingerie into her wheeled suitcase, along with some sample bras, thongs and corsets. She threw her sketchpad, colored pencils and some business cards on top. “It’s a good opportunity for me to do some market research, talk about what you ladies need, learn what’s in style right now.”
Sugar laughed. “Bare skin is always in style, but if you don’t mind coming, I’ll introduce you to the girls. They’re always bitching about not being able to find new outfits.” The dancer gave her directions to the strip club. Bridget checked her bus map. It was only a short ride away.
“I should be there in an hour or so.”
“Sounds good.” There was a muffled shout in the background. “Gotta go, I’m next.”
“Knock ’em dead.” Bridget hung up and zipped the suitcase, almost giddy at her daring. The theme song from the Mary Tyler Moore Show popped into her head. She picked up a lime-green bra and flung it over her head, just like Mary’s striped knit cap.
A little bit of Chicago business smarts and some Wisconsin stubbornness and she might make it after all.
2
BRIDGET HAD FOUND Frisky’s. It wasn’t hard, considering the ten-foot-tall, hot-pink neon kitten sign overhead. The kitten smirked at her in the twilight, its tail switching back and forth hypnotically. Come have a good time, leave your money behind.
Hopefully she was here to get some money. But where to find Sugar? She walked to the building’s edge, peered around the corner and didn’t see another entrance. There was probably a stage door for the dancers to use, but she didn’t want to go poking around in a dark alley behind a strip club.
That left the main entrance. Bridget stepped into line behind some guys in expensive suits and overcoats. She ignored their curious stares, hoping the rising blush on her cheeks would be mistaken for reflected neon light.
The line moved quickly, and she found herself face-to-face with the club bouncer. He stared down at her, arms crossed over a fifty-inch chest. “Who ya here with?” he yelled over the pounding bass beat spilling out of the club door. The guys around her shrugged.
“I’m here by myself. I’m supposed to meet someone,” she yelled back.
The bouncer looked even more forbidding. “Are you a new dancer? You wanna audition for the club?” He gestured to her suitcase.
She shook her head. “No, no, I’m not a dancer.” Her self-esteem was bad enough without getting laughed off the stage.
“No single women allowed.” He pointed at the sidewalk.
“Look, I’m not here for the show,” she shouted. “I have something for Sugar.”
“I got your sugar right here, baby,” a man in line behind her called. Bridget gave him her meanest look. He just laughed and elbowed his friend.
She took a deep breath and turned to the bouncer. “Sugar, your brand-new Frisky’s Kitten—” she pointed to the entrance “—is expecting me.”
The guys behind her perked up. “Hey, you got a new Frisky’s Kitten? Is she hot?”
“Tall, tanned and thirty-six G.” Bridget figured Sugar wouldn’t mind a little free buzz. A collective yelp rose from the line. “And if she doesn’t get her special delivery, she might not go on for her second set!”
“Let her in, man! Thirty-six G!”
“Fine.” The bouncer jerked his head at his coworker to take over and tugged her into the club.
“Thank you!” she yelled over the pounding rock music.
“What?” He cupped his ear.
She gave him an exaggerated smile, figuring at least her white teeth would show in the black-lit club. He gave her his original grouchy look. After seeing the most beautiful girls in Chicago naked every night, her charms must fall flat.
And it was amazing that these girls didn’t fall flat considering what they were managing in four-inch heels. There was a main-stage runway where one dazzling redhead did what could only be called a Little Bo-Peep show. She wore a tiny ruffled skirt and matching bonnet and not much else. Her toy sheep sat on the stage’s edge as she did things with a shepherdess’s crook that would make Mother Goose molt.
The club’s corners held smaller stages where dancers held court, and several girls gyrated above men in private lap dances.
Her blush roared back. She could handle nudity, but the mock-sex made her all twitchy and embarrassed. She hurried behind the bouncer, eager to find Sugar.
Her escort took her through a hallway, past the kitchen and rapped on a door marked Private.
A towering brunette dressed in a mock-tattered leopard-print slip opened the door. A dozen girls in various states of nudity rushed around behind her. Bridget gave the Amazon a weak smile. “Sugar’s expecting me.”
Her client pushed through the mass of tanned flesh, wearing a bright white bikini and matching superhigh heels. “Bridget!” She gave the bouncer a sultry wink. “Thanks, you’re such a sweetie pie for making sure my personal designer made it here okay.”
Sweetie Pie melted into a puddle. Bridget expected him to scrape his foot on the floor and say, “Aw, shucks.” She must not have hid her amusement because he straightened in a hurry and glared at her. “Next time, go to the back door!” He puffed out his chest and headed to the front.
Bridget followed her client into the dressing, or rather the undressing, room. “Sorry, Sugar. But why won’t they let women in? Surely you get some female customers here.”
Sugar leaned into the lightbulb-surrounded vanity mirror and fluffed her blond extensions. “No, I’m sorry, Bridget. I should have told you to come around to the stage door. The bouncers have strict rules not to let unaccompanied women into the club.”
“So the patrons don’t bother me?” Bridget rolled her suitcase next to the vanity bench and peered over Sugar’s shoulder. In comparison to the dancer’s buffed perfection, Bridget looked like a schlump. Her wavy, light brown hair had frizzed in the March humidity, and her summer-sun highlights had faded after a winter of city living. Her complexion was pasty and she had big rings under her eyes from staying awake late to finish her sewing projects.
“Um, so you don’t bother the patrons. Not that you would, of course. Security’s had problems with prostitutes hanging around, trying to pick up customers. Bad for business.”
“Of course,” Bridget said faintly, looking down at her suitcase. No wonder the guy had been suspicious. Who takes a suitcase to a strip club?
“Not that you look like a prostitute, or anything like that.” Sugar patted her hand comfortingly.
That could be a compliment or an accidental put-down. Not skanky enough to be mistaken for a junkie hooker, or not pretty enough for a call girl? Bridget snapped out of her pity party. Whatever. Some women were meant to dazzle and some women were meant to supply expensive lingerie for them.
She unzipped the suitcase and lifted out the silver spandex and ivory lace garments. “I brought your bras.”
“Wonderful.” She took a cursory look at the silver one but ran her fingers over the ivory lace. “And this is my everyday bra?”
“Complete with gel-filled straps and special cup construction.” Bridget was currently wearing a matching one in black lace. The matching thong and garter belt took a bit of getting used to, but she liked not having panty lines under the midcalf black skirt she was wearing. The getup hadn’t boosted her confidence yet, but maybe it was a case of “fake it till you make it.”
The leopard-print Amazon turned from where she was gluing on her false eyelashes. “So now you have your own personal lingerie designer? Well, la-di-dah!”
Sugar sneered. “Now that I’m a Frisky’s Kitten, I can’t afford to let these sag.” She grabbed her breasts and thrust them at the other dancer.
Bridget intervened hastily. “I’d be more than happy to design something for you, as well. I’m Bridget Weiss, by the way.”
“I’m Electra.” The Amazon put down her mascara wand and shook Bridget’s hand. Did she have a grip or what? If it weren’t for Electra’s feminine hands and lack of Adam’s apple, Bridget might suspect there was more equipment under that outfit than met the eye.
“You have a very striking look. Very sexy and powerful.” Bridget looked her up and down. Wide shoulders, black hair, thighs that could crack a walnut. Why not go with first impressions? “How about an Amazon costume? Kind of a gladiator outfit with gold over the breasts, gold cuffs and a fake sword.”
“Or a real one for the assholes around here.” Another girl sauntered over, wearing only a black leather thong and thigh-high black boots. She had a Goth look going, complete with inky hair, milk-pale skin, a pierced eyebrow and pierced…nipples? Bridget hadn’t seen that in person before.
“This is Jinx.” Sugar nodded. Next to Jinx, Sugar looked like a photo negative with her dark body and bleached hair. “She’s our resident brainiac—a graduate student, no less.”
“So what kind of costume would you design for me?” Jinx put her hands on her hips, daring Bridget to come up with something quick.
“Hmm.” Bridget circled her, thinking frantically. Something tough, something dominant. “Remember the kids’ comic book with the little devil in it? I’d update that for you with red boots, a pitchfork and headband with little sparkly horns. And for the main attraction, a red vinyl bustier with cutouts for your breasts. You could wear matching ruby nipple rings.”
Where am I coming up with this stuff? she wondered. For a girl who started in lingerie design by adding tiny satin bows to her ugly old-lady bras, she sure was branching out.
Jinx quirked an eyebrow. “Sounds cool. Draw a sketch, and I’ll take a look.”
“Great.” Bridget passed them both a business card and Sugar paid her the balance for the silver bra and the new ivory set. So it looked as if her electricity was good to go, and maybe she’d even splurge on some hamburger for her Hamburger Helper. Vegetarian Helper just didn’t have much protein.
“Girls, you’re up. Now!” a raspy voice bellowed across the room. A fierce old broad waved her clipboard.
“Marge is the house manager,” Sugar explained. “She’s been in the business for about ninety years and runs the show.” She trotted away, her heels clicking.
The dressing room emptied. Bridget looked around. Was she supposed to leave or stay? She grabbed a disinfectant wipe and swabbed the Naugahyde couch. Maybe she could work up designs for Electra and Jinx now and leave with some more arranged commissions. Taking Sugar’s advice, she’d get the cash up front. Money straight from the club customers to her, via the dancers’ garters.
“HELL OF A DAY, huh, Hale?” Tom, one of his coworkers, leaned against the cracked vinyl upholstery of the cab they were sharing.
“The markets really took a beating.” Several foreign countries had skipped their usual purchases of corn and wheat, raising supply and driving prices down. Fortunately, Adam had ducked the worst of it, but once he dropped Tom off, he’d go home and crash. Just like the markets.
“Thank God it’s Friday. Sure I can’t convince you to get a drink with me and some of the guys? We’re meeting at Frisky’s.”
“Frisky’s? I haven’t been there in years.” Strip clubs weren’t his style anymore. He worked too hard for his money to blow it on overpriced drinks and overpriced dancers.
Tom laughed. “Hale, you sound like an old man, and you’re fifteen years younger than me!” His laugh turned into a hacking cough. Adam decided not to point out that considering his coworker’s bad habits, he’d be lucky to make it to old age.
They pulled to a stop in front of Frisky’s, the pink kitten glowing in the dusk. A short line had formed. Adam hopped out of the cab to let Tom pass and saw a woman standing in line. He did a double take. Was that Bridget? Arguing with the bouncer at a strip club?
“Thanks for the ride, Hale. See you Monday.” Tom pushed past him.
Adam gaped at the entrance. The woman disappeared into the club with a bouncer, but not before the pink neon clearly illuminated her profile. If that wasn’t Bridget, it was her clone. He tossed some money at the cabbie. “Wait, I changed my mind.”
