When a struggling Broadway talent agent reluctantly agrees to represent a male stripper, she finds out there's more to her new client than oiled abs.
Season 1 of Strip in the City
***
Today might be the worst day of my life. I just lost my biggest c...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Big money would help pay the bills, but that wasn't all I was after. Agreeing to stay at the Oiled Olive was a step in the wrong direction. I'd promised Maren that I wouldn't keep working as a stripper.
"What's there to think about, Mav? It's a good deal. Just say yes."
Mr. Putnam made everything sound so simple—so black and white.
"Things have changed," I told Mr. Putnam. "I can't be Maverick for you anymore. I need to start being West."
There was a pause in our conversation.
People laughed. A bass line throbbed. I eyed the leather folio resting beside Mr. Putnam's glass, hoping my check was in there. But, the owner of the Oiled Olive didn't move to grab it. Instead, he looked at me with mild amusement.
"You went and got yourself a girl, didn't you?"
"No," I sputtered out through a laugh. The thought alone was ridiculous. I hadn't had a serious girlfriend since sophomore year at the Naval Academy. How long ago was that? Twelve years?
Some people might call that a dry spell or say I was relationship-phobic, but to me, relationships weren't something I entered into lightly. When I fell for someone, I fell hard. Last time I'd fallen in love, I'd face-planted onto concrete.
My old boss didn't seem convinced. Putnam wagged a chicken wing at me.
"Don't lie, Mav. I can see it in your eyes."
I couldn't help but shake my head and look away. This was too much, even for Putnam.
"You're sweet on a girl. And let me guess, she don't like you working at a strip club."
I didn't say anything, but only because Mr. Putnam wasn't entirely wrong. There was one person who didn't like me working at the strip club.
Well, one person whose opinion I cared about.
All of a sudden, the temperature in the club seemed to rise. I'd come here expecting a few jabs at my ego, not to think about the one person I was trying very hard not to think about.
"She's an uptown girl, ain't she?" Putnam said, cutting into my thoughts. "Classy and all that. One of them girls with perky tits and a tight ass."
I stared down at the veins of marble running across the table we were seated at, trying not to let my temper get the best of me.
"Too proper to be seen with a dancer." Mr. Putnam lifted his pinky in the air like he was drinking tea, then slurped a mouthful of whiskey. "Tell me, Mav. Does she make you fuck her with the lights off?"
A protective instinct I didn't know I possessed flared. I wasn't going to let Putnam—or anyone else—talk about Maren like that. She wasn't just the woman I saved from the pool at Ritual anymore. We were business partners, and more than that, I'd promised not to let her down.
