Page 6 of Direct Action

I peeked around the room. No men leering. Sure, there were admiring glances, and sure, again, those glances lingered on asses and cleavage, but it wasn’t anything I didn’t put up with while working at the Plank or hadn’t been on the receiving end of while at a nightclub.

“Well? What’d you think?” Poppy asked.

“It was . . . cool,” I admitted. “Sexy but not . . .” I trailed off, not wanting to offend her.

“But not trashy,” she finished for me.

“Yeah, that.”

“I talked to the manager, Muriel. She said she’d hold off putting out feelers for a new girl. But she needs to know by tomorrow so the new girl can be trained before we’re down another server.”

Shit. That didn’t give me much time to think. I didn’t need to look around to know the Vault had more of a lounge atmosphere than a bar. It was classy, clean, and trendy with a touch of edgy elegance. The drive up into the mountains would be a pain in the ass. Not that it was far, but the windy roads in the early dawn would suck.

But the possibility of five hundred dollars per shift over the hundred and sixty a day I made at my second job was enticing. Especially after today’s meeting. Sitting next to my mom watching her take one hit after another was a special kind of hell. It was bad enough the man she adored was slipping away faster and faster, but the latest financial blow was going to be crippling.

“Everything will be fine,” my mom told me as we walked out of the nursing home, unable to hide the tremble in her voice.

Nothing was fine. Nothing would ever be fine again.

Which made my next statement asinine.

“I’ll let you know in the morning,” I told Poppy.

But I already knew what I needed to do. The truth was even if the Vault was a sleezy, take-all-your-clothes-off-and-dance-around-in-your-undies type place, I was going to say yes. Thankfully it wasn’t that.

“Cool. Are you gonna stay awhile? Obviously tonight’s a country theme. Next dance is in two hours.”

I wanted to sit in a bar for two more hours like I wanted a hole in the head. I’d already worked eight hours today, then sat with my mom listening to my father’s doctor explain his decline that necessitated him moving to a different (read: more expensive) wing of the home. That was after getting three hours of sleep last night—or this morning, as it were. And besides, I worked in a bar; I now avoided them like the plague when I wasn’t on the clock.

But still, I gave Poppy what she wanted. Not because I was a pushover—okay, maybe I was—but I loved seeing the beaming smile my friend was aiming my way. And if I was considering this, I should sit through another song and people watch the members.

“Yeah, I’ll stay.”

“Awesome. Normally I only work a three-hour shift. But since we’re down a server, we’re all working longer shifts to cover. Normally each server gets a four-table section. One song per shift. That’s to keep the entertainment fresh,” she explained.

Five hundred dollars for a three-hour shift, I reminded myself and ordered another diet with extra lemon. When Poppy brought back my drink, I handed her a twenty and waved off my change. Her eye roll was dramatic but her ‘you’re paying for your daddy’s care, sis. No tipping’ was heartfelt. She was right, of course. I was paying the lion’s share of my dad’s care, but I was still me, and Poppy was on her feet slinging drinks while I was sitting at a table. Therefore, my refusal to take my change wasn’t heartfelt—it was forceful.

She gave in. I smiled. Then, two hours later, I watched the women put on another show, this time to Jason Aldean’s “She’s Country.” Thirty seconds into the song I was tapping my strappy-wedge-heel-shod foot to the beat.

And yeah, the women swung their hips, spun, stomped their boots—it was sexy as hell but not trashy.

I could do this.

Once again, Poppy stopped by my table when the song was over. I stood to leave, pulled her into a hug, and whispered, “Tell your boss I’m in.”

Poppy pulled back but kept her arms around me. “Shit. Really?”

“Yeah. You were right. This place is cool.”

“I’m so freaking excited.” She beamed.

I couldn’t say I was excited, seeing as the reason I needed a second job wasn’t exciting—it was depressing. But I was excited to give up my crappy second job in favor of more money and maybe some sleep.

“Miss Baughman, are you ready to leave?” the doorman asked, and I now felt like an ass for not remembering his name.

“Yes.”

“I’ll have your car brought around.”