Cover

Dedication

To my daughter, True. You are the work of my life. Now hand this book back to me. You’re seven; you’re not reading past this page until 2030.

CHAPTER

1

“It is a redacted universally acknowledged, that a throbbing redacted in possession of a thick redacted must be in want of a redacted.” Andrea bites out each “redacted” with a distaste that grows more resigned with every repetition, the final utterance leaving her on little more than a throaty British sigh. A Mad Libs sheet hangs limply between the tips of her thumb and forefinger, the page held away from her, as though to keep the vulgarity she so thoughtfully “redacted” from staining her white blouse.

She lowers her reading glasses to hang from the gold chain at her neck, eyes shifting to study each of us in turn. The Twins carry on with their stretches on the far side of the dressing room, Ginn slouching and bored in a front split, Tonic doing her best to look shocked as she holds cobra pose. Ming sits at a makeup station, feigning innocence, a row of false eyelashes dangling from her fingers like a cigarette.

“Dare I ask how this ended up on table two?” Andrea’s narrowed eyes land on me, and her lips flatten to a matte red line. With her severe black bob and alabaster skin, she looks like a cartoon villain even when she’s smiling; her current expression has me wondering which of us she plans to turn into a coat.

I shift side to side, the weave of my fishnets pressing into the ball of one foot, then the other. Ming did the Mad Libs last weekend, when I brought in the pad to play with between shows. She filled in every noun with the word “penis,” inspiring a debate about whether the repetition was funny or if she’d drained the novelty from the word. I argued she should have diversified, but now I’m not sure; Andrea’s lilting West Midlands accent gave the piece an almost musical quality, even with the substitution.

Still, I keep quiet, trying to feel her out. As the general manager of a venue with a burlesque show, Andrea deals with this degree of raunch on a near-nightly basis. Hell, she’s just as nasty as Ming.

She releases the page, letting it drift to the surface of the low file cabinet beside her. “I don’t care what you get into while you’re down here, but don’t bring the juvenile humor upstairs. It’s beneath you.”

Ming’s brows shoot up, and I choke back a laugh at the suggestion she’s above anything, let alone a dirty Mad Lib.

“Why are you grilling us about this?” Ginn props her chin in her hands, elbows on the ground between her legs. “It could have been the guys in the band, or Jane—”