Free Night of the Living Deb by Susan McBride Page B

dressed”—wait, shouldn’t that be “undressed”? I wanted to say, but didn’t—“though I haven’t seen her yet.
    She’s kinda flaky, Trayla is, more into men with dough than the dancing. But if anyone can set you straight, it’s her. Follow me, all right?”
    So we did.
    I had Brian’s picture in my pocket, which I planned to slide under the nose of this stripper called Trayla— what the heck kind of name was that, anyway? —just as soon as we reached a place with better lighting than inside the club, where everything but the stage was dimly lit.
    Maybe the guy who took off with G-String Girl wasn’t Malone at all, and it was purely a case of mistaken identity.
    A lot of guys in Dallas wore button-down shirts and glasses. Preppy had never gone out of style, not here. Although, if Lu said, “Oh, sorry, I was wrong, that wasn’t him,” it would leave me with even more questions, wouldn’t it? Namely the unresolved biggie of where on God’s green earth was Malone?
    My mother’s announcement of her trip to Vegas with Stephen was unsettling enough. I definitely didn’t need this on top of everything. If I got any more unwelcome surprises, I’d have to hit the Pepto hard before I went to bed.
    I followed on Allie’s heels behind Lu, weaving around the stage, showered in vibrant red lights as a woman peeled off a crimson-feathered brassiere and tossed it to the floor, while she worked what her mama (and, obviously, the plastic surgeon) gave her.
    Lu approached what looked like a dim rectangle cut into the wall to the left of the stage, drew the portal open, and the three of us slipped inside.
    As the door settled shut with a firm click, I realized the music had faded to a more bearable decibel, though I could still feel the thump of the bass through the walls. It brought back memories of the tiny apartment I’d shared with my friend Molly O’Brien in Chicago during college, when I’d learned to appreciate ear plugs and the whir of a fan when I needed peace and quiet.
    Through a narrow hallway we went, doors on either side, some closed and a few cocked open wide enough that I could see girls in front of mirrors, getting dressed—or, rather, undressed—for the stage.
    But Lu didn’t stop until she’d reached a room at the farthest end, near a glowing exit sign with a fire door heading outside. I noticed a star, cut out of foil, taped to the painted metal with a giant black T in the center. It looked like a child had made it. Still, I was impressed the woman had her own dressing room.
    “Hey, Ms. Trayla Trash, it’s me. You in there?” Lu called, but didn’t wait for a reply. She put a hand on the knob and pushed.
    Trayla Trash? That was her name?
    Are you kidding me?
    Though, come to think of it, why not? I mean, what better to precede “trash” than “trayla,” and it had a nice redneck ring to it.
    I watched Lu go in and Allie after her, before I went inside, nearly bumping into them both as they stood still as statues.
    Though I wasn’t sure why.
    I’d expected a mess of feather boas and sequins, ittybitty outfits slung over a chair or an old-fashioned hinged screen, but not this kind of a mess.
    The only chair in the room lay on its side.
    A square mirror lit by round bulbs had smudges of makeup all over it. A photo with the edges curled clung to the edge of the frame. Tiny chunks of Scotch tape still glued to the glass told me there’d been more pictures once, though someone had obviously snatched them off.
    Below the mirror, an enormous makeup case spilled its contents across the vanity. Tubes of lipstick, powder compacts, and tubs of eye shadow littered the ledge of Formica. Some kind of lotion with glitter gleamed in a shiny puddle.
    Yuck.
    On the floor beneath were several tissues smeared red with rouge. At least, it looked like rouge.
    I wasn’t touching those babies with a ten-foot pole, even if they were crumpled maps drawn in Revlon guiding me directly to my missing