Free The Arrangement 10 (Ferro Family) by H.M. Ward Page B

with us to keep the guys from getting handsy. Some rich brat out on Long Island rented us for the night. There are seven of us going to perform on stage, plus the stripping wait staff, and dear, sweet, Bruce.
    Gretchen is piling her long golden hair onto the top of her head and securing it with a long bobby pin. She’s strutting around half naked, as if we like looking at her. She smiles sweetly at Bruce and waves a hand, bending it at the wrist like he’s silly. “Please, I’ll be ready before Cassie even finishes lacing up her corset.”
    She tilts her head in my direction as I fumble with my corset hooks. Every time I manage to hook one, another comes undone. Whoever invented the corset should be burned at the stake. The stupid thing might look cool once it’s on, but getting into it is a whole other matter. Add in the fact that mine is a real corset—meaning it has steel boning—and breathing isn’t something I can do either. I got this thing because it was authentic. I thought that meant it had period fabric or grommets or something cool. It turns out that authentic means metal rods built into the bodice, guaranteed to bruise my ribs. Fuck, I hate this thing, but I refuse to throw it away—it cost me three weeks’ pay at my old job. Plus, it’s not like I wear it every night. We only pull out the good stuff on holidays and for special events like this.
    Bruce turns his head my way and looks like he wants to pull out his hair. I’m nearly dressed, except for this contraption. My ensemble includes the candy apple colored corset, lace-topped thigh highs, and a delicate little G-string, coupled with heels that could be used as weapons. If I ever get mugged wearing these shoes, you can bet your ass that I won’t run, not that I could. These are the things I think about when I make my purchases. Can this purse do some damage? Maybe I should skip the leather Dooney and grab me that metal no-name bag with the sharp corners. My roommate and I live across the street from a drug den. Don’t even get me started on that. I know we need to move, but knowing it and affording it are two different things. In the meantime, I buy accessories that can be used as weapons.
    Glaring at her, I reply, “Gee, thanks, Gretch.” My fingers push the next bit of metal through the grommet. This one stays put.
    She bats her glittering lashes at me. “No problem.” Gretchen is tall and lanky with a larger-than-life super model thing going on. I hate her. She’s a bitch with a capital B. It’s all good, though. She hates me, too. It’s difficult to be hostile toward someone that likes you. Gretchen makes it easy to hate her guts.
    Me, I’m not a supermodel. I’m nothing to look at—my mom drilled that into my head a million times. I’m completely average with sub-par confidence, but I can act. I can fake it so that once I hit that stage, I’m as good as the rest of the strippers.
    No, I didn’t dream of being a pole dancer when I was a little kid, but my life took some wicked turns and here I am, dealing with it. There are worse things I suppose, although I won’t be able to think of a single one when I’m letting a bunch of pervs rake their lusty eyes over my naked body. The truth is, I hate this. I’d rather be anywhere else, doing anything else. The gynecologist’s office, sign me up. Root canal, no problem. I’ll be there early and with a smile on my face. Anything is better than this.
    Bruce lingers in the dressing room for too long, staring at his watch. His thick arms are folded over his broad chest as he watches the second hand tick off the passing time. He ignores Gretch’s gibe at me. I may be newer, but I pull in a lot more cash and that’s what the boss likes—lots of money. As long as I keep doing it, I have a job.
    I finally get my corset hooked up when Beth walks by. She’s already wearing some frilly satin thing. “Hey, Cassie. Do you want me to lace you up?”
    Tucking a piece of hair behind my ear, I