Big money would help pay the bills, but that wasn't all I was after. Agreeing to stay at the Oiled Olive was a step in the wrong direction. I'd promised Maren that I wouldn't keep working as a stripper.
"What's there to think about, Mav? It's a good deal. Just say yes."
Mr. Putnam made everything sound so simple—so black and white.
"Things have changed," I told Mr. Putnam. "I can't be Maverick for you anymore. I need to start being West."
There was a pause in our conversation.
People laughed. A bass line throbbed. I eyed the leather folio resting beside Mr. Putnam's glass, hoping my check was in there. But, the owner of the Oiled Olive didn't move to grab it. Instead, he looked at me with mild amusement.
"You went and got yourself a girl, didn't you?"
"No," I sputtered out through a laugh. The thought alone was ridiculous. I hadn't had a serious girlfriend since sophomore year at the Naval Academy. How long ago was that? Twelve years?
Some people might call that a dry spell or say I was relationship-phobic, but to me, relationships weren't something I entered into lightly. When I fell for someone, I fell hard. Last time I'd fallen in love, I'd face-planted onto concrete.
My old boss didn't seem convinced. Putnam wagged a chicken wing at me.
"Don't lie, Mav. I can see it in your eyes."
I couldn't help but shake my head and look away. This was too much, even for Putnam.
"You're sweet on a girl. And let me guess, she don't like you working at a strip club."
I didn't say anything, but only because Mr. Putnam wasn't entirely wrong. There was one person who didn't like me working at the strip club.
Well, one person whose opinion I cared about.
All of a sudden, the temperature in the club seemed to rise. I'd come here expecting a few jabs at my ego, not to think about the one person I was trying very hard not to think about.
"She's an uptown girl, ain't she?" Putnam said, cutting into my thoughts. "Classy and all that. One of them girls with perky tits and a tight ass."
I stared down at the veins of marble running across the table we were seated at, trying not to let my temper get the best of me.
"Too proper to be seen with a dancer." Mr. Putnam lifted his pinky in the air like he was drinking tea, then slurped a mouthful of whiskey. "Tell me, Mav. Does she make you fuck her with the lights off?"
A protective instinct I didn't know I possessed flared. I wasn't going to let Putnam—or anyone else—talk about Maren like that. She wasn't just the woman I saved from the pool at Ritual anymore. We were business partners, and more than that, I'd promised not to let her down.
My reaction was automatic. I leaned forward and grabbed the front of Putnam's shirt, pulling his greasy face closer to mine.
"You don't know what you're talking about," I gritted out in a voice I didn't recognize.
Mr. Putnam's security detail closed around us, but he waved them off. His dark, heavily lidded eyes locked on mine. "Go on, Mav. Don't be a coward. Say what you want to say."
I had so many things I wanted to tell this man, but somehow I managed to hold my tongue.
Putnam was trying to get a rise out of me. He wanted me to make a scene. Yell. Shout. Make threats. If I was arrested for starting a fight, my chances of getting a role in a Broadway show collapsed to zero. This was a calculated move on his part.
But what Mr. Putnam didn't know was that I'd played this game with my father a million times. This sweaty drunk wasn't half as frightening as my old man, and I wasn't going to let him get the best of me.
Not when my dreams were within reach.
My good sense slowly returned, and I let go of Mr. Putnam's shirt. As I stared into his beady eyes, I realized when Putnam asked if I was sweet on a girl, my thoughts immediately went to Maren.
Why? I wasn't sweet on her. Yes, we got along well, and I respected her as an industry professional, but that was it. Yet my brain kept lingering on her smile and how I always wanted to impress her.
I mentally slapped myself. I thought I'd worked this problem out.
"I don't have a girl," I told Putnam. "I've got an agent."
For a solid minute, Putnam chuckled to himself—fussing over the position of his shirt and his plate and his glass, moving each one like they were chess pieces. Meanwhile, I tapped my finger on the table, trying to look unaffected.
"So," my boss said at last, giving me a self-satisfied look. "You're sweet on your agent."
"No, I'm not," I replied through my teeth. Trying to convince him as much as myself.
He chuckled again, and the sound grated on my already fraying nerves. "Your agent is Maren Mitchell, right? The girl I saw you on all them reels with." Mr. Putnam picked up a leather document holder that had been sitting on the table and opened it up, revealing a sheet of paper with Maren's signature on it.
My stomach felt like I just hit 5G's in a jet. "She's the same redhead you brought up on stage a couple of weeks ago."
For someone who spent most of the day drinking whiskey, Mr. Putnam didn't miss a thing. I didn't humor him with an answer. When he realized I wasn't going to confirm the story, Mr. Putnam pointed at the ceiling above my head.
"You see that little black dome? And that one over there?" I glanced at the ceiling and recognized the security cameras for what they were. "I've got tapes on everything that goes down at my club. Like that unpleasant incident when you grabbed my shirt and," he added, taking a sip of whiskey, "that dance you had onstage with the agent."
The security tapes. Why had I not thought about the security tapes? Putnam wouldn't let me walk away from the Oiled Olive, not that easily. I'd been his shining star, and he was willing to do whatever it took to make me stay.
Mr. Putnam continued. "I bet all the gossip rags would love to get their hands on that footage. True love blossoming right on my stage." He let out a titter of girlish laughter before his grin fell flat. "Think of all the business it would bring to the club."
There wasn't enough air to breathe in the dark lounge. Maren was already worried about her reputation after the incident at Ritual, and I knew how embarrassed she was about our dance. I couldn't let footage of it leak. It would devastate her. Not to mention what it could do to my acting career.
"You wouldn't." The venom in my tone could've put holes in his cheap silk shirt.
"Oh, but I would."
My grip on the whiskey glass tightened. I hadn't known I was playing chess with the owner of a strip club, but Mr. Putnam had me in check. The worst part was he knew it.
"So here's what I think. I think you're gonna start working the VIP lounge."
Here was my choice—bend to his will, or have the security footage of our dance posted on Instagram.
I stared down at the marbled table, cursing Putnam inside my head. Despite how unhappy I was about this situation, the choice was an easy one. I knew what I had to do. I wasn't going to let Maren suffer any more social media embarrassment. She might've said our dance was great, but I knew she wouldn't want anyone to know she'd been onstage at the Oiled Olive.
This was my fault. I was the one who pulled her up for a dance.
"What'll it be, Mav?" Putnam asked. "A gig in the VIP lounge or social media infamy?"
I cast my gaze towards one of the servers wearing the Oiled Olive black bow tie and black spandex shorts. I'd always felt bad for Lucas when I was a stage dancer. At least I'd had a flight suit.
"Fine," I gritted out. "I'll do it."
Putnam clapped his hand on my shoulder, and I recoiled from his touch. "There's a good lad."
"But I'm not dancing," I said, feeling like I needed to be clear. "Just serving drinks."
I could spin that to Maren. If I was just a server, it wasn't breaking her no stripping rule.
Putnam took another bite of his buffalo wings, smirking. "No Mav. That's not how this works. If you're working up here, you're doin' it all. Private dances, lap dances, whatever they want."
"No. I'm not doing that."
"Okay, fine," Putnam agreed before removing my check from the leather folder and passing it to me. I folded it up and put it in my pocket. "Then I guess I've got some videos to upload to the internet."
I sucked in a deep breath. Putnam might not be a drunk bride, but he had me by the nuts. I'd rather deal with the guilt of lying to Maren than watch her go through another social media storm.
"I'll do it."
I couldn't believe I'd just negotiated a job back at the Oiled Olive. I went to leave when Mr. Putnam held up a hand, stalling me.
"Let me give you a piece of unsolicited advice. When things don't work out with the girl—because mark my words, they won't—you're gonna be so glad you've got this job."
I'd never wanted to prove anyone wrong more in my life. Well, except maybe my dad. I pushed out of the booth with a quick goodbye when Putnam called out my name.
"Not so fast, Mav. You start tonight. There's a uniform for you in the locker room."
My mouth fell open. He wanted me to start tonight?
"Go mingle." He clanked his sweating hi-ball glass down on the table. "You know the routine."
West can't seem to get out of this predicament. I wonder what Maren's going to think? 🤔
Is he going to tell her? Or is he going to keep this a secret?
👀👀👀👀👀
Next chapter, we switch back to Maren's POV, and we get to read about DeShauna's dinner party.
If you thought the gas pills and the super tampons gave you second-hand embarrassment, wait till the next chapter 🤣❤️
xx
AJ