When A Playboy Loves

|| 4.

Utianle

Amber Lee!

I hated that name but the men at the strip club liked it, they had chorused it over and over again as they slipped Naira notes through the tiny band of my G-string. It was a confirmation of what Boss herself said when she first suggested it - a fancy name for the stripping business.

They were not the only ones who thought the same of the name, the additional 2,000 people who just followed me on Instagram after watching the video must have liked it too.

With high hopes, I skipped to my business account, the one that had all the samples of my work.

768 followers!

That was what stared back at me, even with all the giveaways I previously advertised. I knew it had something to do with my lack of sexual content on the account but it didn't stop that feeling of sadness that gnawed at my throat. I was good at what I did, even Vincent had said it a thousand and one times, I just needed that big break, a chance at showing the fashion world what this Calabar lady had in store for them.

"What are you thinking of?" Faith nudged me with her elbow, drawing me out from my mind trip.

"I'm just," the fear of speaking my worries into existence caused the words to dry in my throat, "I'm just tired. What if we no come dey alright?"

"Don't say that, things will get better," her right hand reached for my left, squeezing it gently. "No condition is permanent."

That was the same thing she said last year and yet there were no improvements, except for the fact that I finally worked up the courage to quit my job. I didn't contradict her words, not because I believed them but because the optimistic part of me wanted to hang on to that tiny thread of hope.

"Do your legs still hurt?" Her question brought back the pain I had tried to forget, memories of the routines I still had to learn played over and over again in my head. Balling my hand into a fist, I drummed it gently against my thighs, shaking my head in response to her question.

"I can talk to Vincent for you, he will understand," she must have seen through the false smile on my face when my fist connected with my laps. "You have never missed a day, so he can forgive this."

"No, it's fine. I made an agreement with Bose," Bose was the woman who ran the strip club I was now working in. "I'll only come during the weekends."

"Fine. Don't get used to it," she murmured disapprovingly; she tugged on the neckline of her shift dress, another one of my creation, while her other hand rotated the steering wheel of her father's Range Rover as we turned into the street that housed my fashion school. "And my offer of a loan is still open."

"I followed you on IG," she resumed when I said nothing. "So, you have been hiding your twerking skills from me, abi?"

We both burst into laughter at that, after which, I went on a tirade of the bone twisting routines I had to do while sweating behind a mask and wig I used to protect my identity. I loved the power and freedom that came from the job but I had no intention of staying a day more once my needs were satisfied.

* * *

"Aunty Uti, welcome!" The security man at Vincent Fashion Hub greeted, pulling the single glass door open. I responded with the same enthusiasm, hiding the nervousness I felt for coming in late.

Making my way to the office cum workspace, I stopped in front of the glass doors. With my forehead pressed against the door, I got a glimpse of fellow interns bent over their phones, probably poring over designs Vincent sent them.