Iron Rods: 1 (Strip Club) (14 page)

“Nope. Neither would a stripper pole,” Dan said. “Just need
to anchor it securely to the floor and the beams in the ceiling. I could have
it done in a day.”

“Is it big enough to hold the stripper auditions?” Heather
asked.

Her brilliant roommate was on the ball and thinking two
steps ahead. Right now they needed a safe, clean spot to hold the auditions
before Iron Rods opened its doors.

Lyle smacked his knee with the flat of his palm. “You bet it
is. And you can use the building for as long as you need it. Ol’ Dan here is
the general contractor for the warehouse renovation too. He won’t be able to
start on the work there until he’s finished the work on Iron Rods. It couldn’t
be more perfect if I had planned for it.”

“Then I’ll get with Steele and Gangsta G. The sooner I start
working with them, the better.” And the sooner she held the auditions, the
better. Even if she had a crackerjack bunch of guys who knew how to dance, she
needed time to prepare choreography for them, as well.

Between the renovations, finding dancers, training staff and
the dozens of other things she had to do for Iron Rods grand opening, she would
have little idle time to think about Bennett or worry about the many reasons
why she shouldn’t see him again. She shivered. Now that she was finally at a
place in her life when she wouldn’t be traveling around the country and could
find someone special, why had she started seeing a man who could only cause
heartache? Perhaps the time had come to step back from temptation before things
went too far.

If smiling faces were an indicator of having held a
successful meeting, then the one Tatum had just completed with some of the Iron
Rods staff and Dan “The Man” Camden was not only successful, she had knocked it
out of the park. Luckily, the staff in attendance seemed as eager to reclaim
Iron Rods’ former glory as she did.

Only ninety-nine thousand things left to do, including
today’s practice session with Steele and Gangsta G.

A happy, glowing buzz radiated from her insides out and
continued its contented hum even an hour later as she pulled her old pickup
into the parking lot across from the East Side warehouse. When her POS truck
finally coughed its final breath several long seconds after she’d turned off
the engine, she opened the squeaky door. The Austin heat and humidity met her
as she unfolded her six-foot frame from the truck’s small cab, making her skin
instantly hot and her light clothes feel too heavy and warm.

She placed her flattened hand on her forehead, sheltering
her eyes from the bright sunlight. Her friend Nicko Guerra waited across the
street at the door to the warehouse, a large canvas tote bag and blue ice chest
at his side. Ever the professional, he had prepared himself for a long day of
working with Steele and Gangsta G, including his own wardrobe of a snug-fitting
muscle shirt and baggy cotton pants with an elastic waist.

Chuckling, Nicko pointed a hand toward her truck as she
crossed the road. “I can’t believe that old thing is running.”

“I can’t believe I’m still making payments on it.” She
adjusted her oversized carryall bag over her shoulder and tightened her hold on
the heavy boom box she’d remembered to bring. If there would be dancing, there
must be music.

“My theory is it will die on the side of the road within a
week of paying it off,” she lamented, stepping over the lip of the curb onto
the sidewalk. “I’m thinking of creating a truck death pool and selling squares
for ten bucks apiece. Winner gets fifty percent and I get the other for a down
payment on another dying vehicle. Why not keep the tradition of me driving
death traps going?”

“If you do, I’m in for ten squares.” He picked up his bag
and grabbed the cooler, then nodded at her portable stereo. “They make wireless
speakers now that can do the job of that antique. Just sync the speaker to the
Bluetooth from your phone, pull up your playlist, and just like that, you’ve
got tunes.”

She cocked her head and offered him a blank-faced stare.
“You see my crappy truck over there in that parking lot, right? What makes you
think I could possibly own a phone smart enough to have playlists, let alone
Bluetooth capabilities? Methinks the antique CD player my father gave me will
have to do. Unless you’ve got a wireless speaker and a smartphone we can use
today.”

“The next time I’m in Austin to help teach strippers how to
dance, I’ll be sure to bring them with me.” He winked.

They walked side by side into the empty warehouse after she
unlocked the double front doors. At five foot seven, with well-defined muscles
and a slim, athletic build, Nicko personified the professional dancer. She
towered over the smaller Hispanic man. The familiar feeling of being an Amazon
reared its uncomfortable head. No wonder she had never landed a dancing job.
Nicko, on the other hand, worked for a dance company out of Dallas, as well as
stripping on the side. Attractive, tidy and talented, her friend would
eventually make a great partner for some lucky guy.

In the middle of the wide hallway, behind a metal door with
a small window, they found the room Dan had transformed to use as their dance
studio. When she flicked on the fluorescent lights, she murmured in approval.
The original wood floors had been stripped, refinished and polished. One entire
wall held floor-to-ceiling mirrors. On opposite sides of the space, Dan had
installed stripper poles. She couldn’t have asked for a better practice place for
her dancers. If this typified Dan “The Man” Camden’s work, then the Iron Rods
transformation would be nothing short of art. Maybe even worthy of an article
in
Texas Monthly
magazine.

Now wouldn’t that be great publicity?

For the next few minutes, they admired Dan’s handiwork and
then set up their equipment. After stretching, they cranked the music on the
old boom box and walked through the routines she’d prepared for Steele and
Gangsta G. The steps in each choreographed dance were relatively simple, so the
strippers would be able to master their individual routines with a few days of
practice. Depending on the competition the two faced, they might actually make
the cut if they could nail their auditions.

Tatum caught her smiling reflection in the mirror as she and
Nick strutted forward, their shoulders shifting in an exaggerated up and down
motion to the beat of the song she’d chosen for Steele’s routine. Here in the
studio, dancing and sweating for the effort, she felt alive. This place, with
its dark wood floors and smell of wax polish, was her element. The awkward fish
had found her way back to the comfort of a familiar pond, doing what she did
best.

On the last resounding note of the song, they both ended
their tightly choreographed movements with their feet spread just beyond the
length of their shoulders and their right arms out and cocked in the pose of a
muscle man. A powerful finale for an electric routine charged with sexual
energy. As long as Steele could find and keep his rhythm, he’d kill with this
number.

The loud
clang
of the double front doors closing
sounded down the warehouse hall. Tatum peeked around the doorframe to the
renovated studio space, drawing the dancers’ attention to where they needed to
be. Steele, dressed in a black Austin City Limits music festival T-shirt and
sweatpants, led the way. His long, bulky legs easily ate up the space to the
studio. Gangsta G, his usual ball cap turned at an angle on the side of his
head and a flashy square diamond the size of a nickel in his left ear, nipped
at Steele’s heels. The oddball pair, one tall and oversized, most likely from
years of steroid use, the other shorter with gawky thin arms and legs, looked
like a Warner Brothers cartoon come to life.

“Glad you could make it, guys.” Tatum held the door wide,
inviting the less than dynamic duo into the studio. “Let me introduce you to my
friend, Nicko Guerra. He’s helping me teach the routines we created for each of
y’all. He’s also going to show y’all some techniques to help improve your pole
work.”

Gangsta G didn’t say a word, but thrust his hands into the
pockets of his sweats and nodded. Steele reacted on a wholly different plane.
He stiffened while his already grim face hardened and his lips flattened to a
harsh line. The hulking stripper grabbed hold of Tatum’s biceps and pulled her
to the side.

“I am not having some pansy show me how to dance,” Steele
growled, his voice low.

“Excuse me?” His statement set her teeth on edge. “Your
friend is gay. About as gay as pink marshmallows. Ain’t no way I’m allowing him
to teach me how to dance.”

“You said you want to make the audition cut. I’m here as a
favor to you, and Nicko is here from Dallas to help me teach you.” Tatum yanked
her arm from Steele’s grip and rubbed where his beefy fingers had pressed into
her flesh. “We went through college together. He’s a trained professional. He
knows what he’s doing.”

“I don’t care if he came from Timbuktu and has a wall full
of degrees in dance.” Disgust burned behind Steele’s brown eyes. “There’s no
way I’m going to be touched, groped, or in any way manhandled by some fairy.
That’s not the way I roll.”

Anger, raw and powerful, rushed through her blood. She
rapidly tapped her foot, avoiding the temptation of kicking the ignorant
Neanderthal so hard his butt hit his shoulders.

Prejudice. If there was one thing she couldn’t abide,
prejudice was at the top of her list. How many times had she witnessed her gay
friends and classmates deal with the cruelty associated with uneducated
remarks, slights or out and out discrimination? How many times had she suffered
something similar but less severe because of her unusual height?

“Listen here, you meathead,” she hissed, coming within a
foot of his overinflated body. Standing as tall as Steele, she looked him
square in the eye while jamming a finger into his solid wall of a chest. “If I
ever hear another thing like that pass through those thin lips of yours, I’m
not only going to have your ass tossed out of this practice, I’m going to make
sure you never set foot in Iron Rods again.”

Of course, she had no idea exactly how she’d kick Steele out
on his ass, but that didn’t stop her from making the threat. The dumb knuckle
dragger had her so mad, she was spitting tacks.

Tatum grabbed his chin and forced his head to turn toward
Nicko. “You see my friend over there? He happens to be one hell of a stripper
up in Dallas. His tips average somewhere between four hundred and six hundred.”

Steele glanced back at her, unimpressed. “A weekend?”

“No,” she ground out, her Southern accent thick as pecan pie
filling. “A fucking night. So if you want to step up your game and your cash
flow, you had better clean up your act and show my friend the respect he
deserves.”

“A night? You sure?” Skepticism threaded his flat voice.

“Yes. A night. Even Thursday nights. If you don’t believe
me, ask Nicko yourself.”

Steele scowled. Somewhere in his dense head the slow cogs of
his brain appeared to be turning. After a long moment, he nodded. “I guess I
can have him show me a thing or two.”

A thing or two. Oh, please. You need a dancing primer.

“That’s mighty big of you.” She blew out a puff of air,
causing her sweaty bangs to fly erratically over her heated forehead. “But so
help me Jesus, say one wrong word, just one, and you’re done. You might want to
clue homie over there in on the deal too. Are we crystal clear here?”

“Ya,” he grunted. “We’re clear.”

“Good.” She took him by his elbow and led him over to her
friend. “Nicko, Steele. Steele, Nicko.”

Nicko would have to have been both blind and deaf to
misunderstand the nature of the aside she’d had with Steele. Instead of holding
a grudge or being angry, Nicko stuck out his hand.

“You ready to do this?” Nicko asked.

Steele hesitated, but shook her friend’s hand. “You really
clear four hundred a night?”

“On a slow night. I usually take home closer to six.”

That piece of information didn’t slip unnoticed by Gangsta
G. The young dancer, who had been checking messages on his phone, whipped his
head around so quickly, it was a wonder he didn’t get whiplash.

“Are you serious?” Gangsta G’s eyes were as large as the big
Tito’s Vodka logo printed on his cap.

“As a heart attack. But not all the guys I dance with do as
well. The ladies shell out big bucks for guys who know how to dance as well as
shake their money maker, and I’m not talking about your backside.” Nicko
swiveled his hips then thrust his pelvis in one commanding movement. “Ladies
today know the difference between good strippers and bad strippers, good
routines and the lame stuff guys are trying to pull off on the fly. The women
in the clubs have been hit by the economy just like everyone else. They’re
there with a fistful of dollars, but generally only one fistful. They know they
have to make that money work for them. They can be choosy who they give their
cash to. So we, the dancers, have to always be at our best if we’re going to
make any kind of living. It’s a dog eat dog world out there.” Nicko smiled, his
teeth white against the dark caramel of his skin. “And I’m a very popular
Chihuahua with sharp fangs.”

Oh how she loved her friend. Smart, funny and abundantly
talented, he didn’t need her help in setting Steele and Gangsta G straight or
fending for himself. If the dopy duo had any sense at all, they’d kneel at
Nicko’s feet and beg him to teach them everything he could.

“Okay then, let’s get started.” Tatum gave each dancer a
handout outlining the choreography for his routine. “I know what I’ve written
probably doesn’t make much sense to you now, but by the time we’re done today,
it will. When you practice on your own, which you will, right?” She looked at
both the dancers and waited until they both reluctantly nodded. “Then you can
use this paper as a guide to help you remember all the steps. Any questions
before we get started?”

Gangsta G held up his scrawny arm, his cell phone clutched
in his hand. “How long we gonna be here today? I need to let my mom know so she
can pick me up when we’re done.”

Tatum stilled and felt a bead of sweat roll down her chest.
She didn’t know if she should laugh or cringe. She’d already checked his
driver’s license. He truly was nineteen years old and legal to dance in a strip
club, but the young man seemed almost too immature as well as too gangly to
strip in front of women.

“I don’t know how long we’ll be. It really depends on your ability
to learn the steps and then time to work in some finesse. Possibly all day,”
Tatum answered.

“I can take you home.”

To her surprise, Steele stepped up and made the offer. The
muscle-bound dancer seemed to be watching out for the young man, though why he
did so was anyone’s guess. Considering the young dancer apparently didn’t have
a car, lived at home with his mother and was working toward being a stripper,
she was glad to see someone watching out for him.

They broke off into two groups, and for the rest of the day
she and Nicko rotated between working with Steele and Gangsta G. While Nicko
focused on pole work and techniques for better stripping, Tatum concentrated on
the dance routines.

At least twice during the practice, she could have sworn she
saw Bennett’s face peeking through the window of the studio door, causing her
stomach to drop to the wood floor. But each time she glanced back,
double-checking her vision, he wasn’t there. Clearly her overtaxed mind and
undersexed body were running amok. Her wishful thinking was creating his
likeness in the oddest of places, as though he were some type of tempting
ghost.