Hendrix: Caldwell Brothers (The Caldwell Brothers Book 1)

Bars mean tips. Tips mean immediate pay. If I show up Thursday night and work, I will have tips. If I do it well, if I make this work, I can pay my water bill on Friday and avoid disconnection.

I can do this. I will do this. What other choice do I have?

I went to five places and applied, and only Hooligans—that’s what the sign said it was called—would give me a chance. The place has been undergoing construction, so I am not sure if it is still named that or not. Honestly, I don’t care what I have to call it.

After the one slick looking guy in the suit agreed to let me work there just for Thursday night, I practically ran out of the building, afraid it was a joke, or they would change their minds.

Oh, goodness, don’t let this be a joke. I cannot afford for this to not pay off. It is only a temporary solution to my problems, but it is the one I can get myself through.

Once at home, I kneel in front of my entertainment stand and open the drawer where I keep my movies. Cable is a luxury, one I cannot afford, so I rotate movies.

Starting with Roadhouse, I begin my own version of training. Certainly, I can learn a few tips from Hollywood. Roadhouse is followed up with Cocktail as my marathon continues.

When the movie finishes, I am more than intimidated about what I am getting myself into. I rub my hand over my ass, tracing the letters blindly, and remind myself, girl power, today’s underwear quote. Silly, I know.

However, since I was a little girl and my mom bought me days of the week panties, I have had a small obsession with panties that have sayings. Call it undercover inspiration. Victoria does have her own secrets, after all.

Going back to my entertainment center, my fingers run over the movie cases. One by one, I pass them all by until my hand lands on the one. Coyote Ugly. Perfect!

The hours pass by as I replay the movie over and over, pausing and perfecting my own version of the dances

By the end of the night, I don’t know if I feel completely overwhelmed by my new job or like a sex kitten on steroids. This dancing on the bar is hot. Well, it’s hot when I can manage to dance and not fall.

Grace has never been a word used to describe me. I may have been voted most likely to fall off the graduation stage in my high school.

Bills are coming regardless of my physical well-being, though. I only have days to prepare, and this is not something I can mess up. Sleep can wait for when I’m dead.

*.*.*.*

Work comes far too early for my liking after trying to bring my inner barmaid to life. I make my way to the office I share with Toni and immediately start un-layering my clothes, getting close to the small space heater I have hidden under my desk.

Making my way to the coffee pot after I warm up some, I suppress a grunt as I try to get something warm inside me.

“Girl, what the hell is wrong with you? Why are you limping?”

“I’m sore. Who knew dancing around used so many muscles?” I woke up aching in places I didn’t know it was possible to ache in. Add my walk to work, to say my thighs are on fire would be an understatement.

She laughs loudly at me as she sits in the chair by my desk. “I gotta hear this. Why were you dancing?” She pauses, and then her eyes grow big. “No, no, no! Oh, no, you didn’t. Please tell me you aren’t stripping to pay for your car.”

My eyes must be as big as saucers. The thought never crossed my mind. After everything I have been through, I am far from being comfortable in my own skin. No way could I take my clothes off in front of strangers. I don’t even know if I can manage showing off my midriff like the movies showed. Plus, strippers are gorgeous. They have well-toned bodies, and more than that, they have grace. If I tried to dance on a pole, I would most certainly fall on my head.

“Heck no, I’m not stripping. I got a part time job at Hooligans. In fact, I need a favor. I’m supposed to bring friends on Thursday night—that’s what one of the guys said. Please, please, please come and hang out. I need this job, and I need the comfort of my friends.”

“Tabby and I’ll be there. You know we got you, girl.”

Whew. Bring some friends, check the box done. Now, to show up, work my butt off, make some tips, and land the job.

I rub my ass, reminding me that today’s panties say, ‘You got this. Now rock this.’

I got this.

I am going to rock this.

*.*.*.*

Thursday night comes all too quickly. I don’t know why people say they get butterflies in their bellies, like their nerves are light tickles. No, I have birds in my belly, heavy things pecking at my insides, begging to be free. I think for sure I am going to puke.

I enter Hooligans, ready to turn and bolt back out into the freezing Detroit evening. What have I gotten myself into? The place is packed—wall to wall people with a line out the door—and it’s just barely opening.

Knowing I have to do this, I make my way through the chaos and up to the bar. The sight in front of me should be in a movie. The three guys I met the other day all stand behind the bar, serving drinks.

The slick guy is wearing a nice pair of dress pants with his white button up shirt unbuttoned all the way down to his mid-stomach, exposing a chiseled chest and two clearly defined top abdominal muscles. The sleeves rolled up to the elbow show his forearms flexing with every move he makes. His hair is spiked and styled to perfection.

The quieter two stand off to either side of Mr. Slick. One has a black T-shirt on and jeans. His arms are clearly inked all the way down to his hands. My mind races with wonder at what each tattoo means. Seeing tattoos on his hands, my mind goes back to the night in the closet. I vaguely remember mystery man having tattoos on his hands. His dark hair is spiked, and his facial features are stern even in the darkness of the bar.

The younger of the three is the farthest away, wearing workout pants and a T-shirt that looks almost painted on, which is certainly not hiding his clearly cut abdominal muscles. They have all been drinking the water full of hotness—that much is obvious.

“Come on, sugar, bar’s packed. Get back here and get to work, sweet thing,” Slick commands with a wink at me.

Broody guy gives me a nod, while Sporty smiles and continues to serve drinks.

“I need to use the restroom. I’ll be right back,” I inform them, but it comes out barely above a whisper.

After making my way through the crowd, I use the restroom then look in the mirror and steel my resolve to get through tonight. Returning and timidly stepping behind the bar, I begin to remove the many layers of clothing I have on.

Once I store my stuff in the only open space I can find, I then turn to the guys to try to get some sort of instruction.

I am dressed in jeans, a black half shirt with only a bra on underneath, a black belt, my favorite black knee-high boots, and my hair is topped with a poof anyone from the Jersey shore would be proud of. My makeup is done up with a smoky eye and lips glossed for a perfected pout … well, that’s what the package promised.

Broody guy grunts at me in what I take to be disapproval before he starts pointing and talking, but the noise around me makes it hard to hear. His temperament makes it obvious he’s not one to repeat himself, either.

I hear Toni yell my name as she and Tabby have arrived like they promised. I give them a quick wave in acknowledgement as they settle in at the very end of the bar. It is too crowded to give them much time, and I don’t want to mess this up.

Broody guy continues talking, and I feel like I’m already falling behind.

Afraid I might miss something important, I pull out a tiny notepad and pen from my back pocket. I am trying to take notes as the bar gets louder with impatient people pounding on the countertop, wanting to be served.

“Name, sugar?” Slick questions me. “What’s your name?”

“Olivia, but my friends call me Livi.”

They told me to come at eight, and I made sure to show up early, yet it’s so packed I can’t keep up. This must be another cruel joke on me. Ha, ha, ha, Livi can’t make it.

I rub my butt to remind myself of my ‘I’m a rock star’ panties.

The first hour passes in a blur of mishaps. Then, at nine-thirty, the song shifts, and suddenly the women are screaming like we are teens at a boy band concert. I turn around to see Slick climb on the bar.

His dress pants are tailored to cut his butt, one I am sure I could bounce a quarter off. The white button-up shirt is tight on his arms, the material stretching to the max with every move he makes. His back is to the crowd as he pulls his shirt from his pants and unbuttons the last few buttons. Then, he moves to the music as he slides the shirt off his shoulders.

I am helpless to the show. Unable to move, unable to think, I watch as he points to Quiet and Sporty to join the fun.

Soon, it is like the Three Musketeers on the bar. No wonder the sign in the window said this is ladies’ night.

Sporty is next to start dancing and removing his clothes. I have to hand it to these guys, they sure know how to move. I read a magazine article once that said, if a man can dance, he is good in the bedroom, too. It’s all about the rhythm or something.

It is dark and hard for me to make out all the ink covering these guys as they each stand mostly naked on the bar, but not one of them is lacking in the looks department.

As they move together, but not quite in a routine, it hits me. Oh, my goodness, it’s just like in the movie! They may not have been showboating with bottle tossing, but they have found their niche dancing on the bar.

What have I gotten myself into?