Bling Addiction by Kylie Adams Page B

up dollars and private dances. She was a steel-nerved, borderline psychotic, money-making machine. One night she caught a nipple piercing in her hair during a head flip. The jewelry ripped out, and blood poured from the wound. But Hellcat just let it gush, song after song, spreading the blood all over her body like a satanic ritualist while she went about the business of providing lap dances.
    Despite the firsthand evidence that she was indeed a warm-blooded creature, Pippa still felt certain that the woman had ice water running through her veins. Oh, yes. Hellcat was the coldest bitch ever. And if Pippa could survive her, then she could survive anything.
    But right now she had to survive the act of pretending that Tom was interesting. That would be one tough order, too. Because the guy was a big fat bore. Whenever in crisis, though, Pippa just channeled the voice of Vinnie inside her head.
    “Talk to your customer,” he’d advised on her first night. “Really talk to him. Ask about his job and fake it like you actually give a damn. Say his name a lot and give him compliments. The average guy would rather sit down and talk to a beautiful woman who puts him on a pedestal than get a quick and dirty dance. Think about it. He’s probably going home to an overweight wife who doesn’t give head, complains about everything, and thinks he’s a lazy sack of shit. Trust me. It’ll be the easiest money you’ve ever made.”
    And it was.
    “What kind of work are you in, Tom?” Pippa asked.
    “I sell cars.”
    “Oh, wow,” Pippa cooed convincingly. “I love cars.”
    “I sell BMWs,” Tom said proudly.
    “Really? That’s hot.” Oh God, she was beyond bored. Different loser guy, same stupid shit.
    He beamed.
    “I bet you know a lot about next year’s models. Will you buy me another drink and tell me all about them?” It was all she could do to sound like she cared even a little bit.
    “Sure.” Before he had a chance to signal the waitress, she was there with another round.
    And so it went. Tom drank single malt scotch and talked BMWs. Pippa drank water that was supposed to be vodka and hung on his every word. By the end of the charade, Cheetah charged Tom’s credit card for ten drinks and five private dances. Then Vinnie put the wasted salad dodger in a cab and sent him home.
    Reluctantly, Pippa slipped back into the locker room to freshen up. She hated being in this backstage hell swamped with bright fluorescent lighting. It reeked of sweat, drugstore perfume, and cigarettes.
    Girls in various stages of nakedness held court near their assigned changing areas. Each space looked like a landfill of makeup cases, costume racks, and caffeine-charged drinks.
    The moment Pippa stepped inside, she knew that something was very wrong. A conspiratorial silence boomed. Secret glances went back and forth among the girls. Bitchy giggles were shared. Nobody gave Pippa eye contact except Hellcat, who was staring daggers straight through her.
    Pippa approached her station, only to find that it was empty. “Where’s my stuff?” she demanded of no one in particular.
    “Vinnie moved it,” Hellcat announced. “He gave you Ashley’s spot.”
    Pippa was genuinely stunned. Everybody considered that station coveted real estate because it was positioned closest to the bathroom. In the demimonde of Cheetah stripper culture, it signified that you were the top girl, which Ashley was. Or had been. “She’s not coming back?”
    LaTonya, one of the few African-American dancers at Cheetah and intermittently a friendly presence to Pippa, slammed the door to her locker and started toward the exit, spilling out of a very naughty nurse’s uniform. “She can call in sick with that fake-ass cough all she wants. I heard the bitch is dancing at Scores.” And with that, LaTonya disappeared as the opening guitar licks of Mötley Crüe’s “Dr. Feelgood” growled from the sound system.
    Pippa rolled her eyes. She had nothing to do with Ashley