Bare Necessities. Marie Donovan
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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