“I like the getup,” one of the cocktail waitresses said, putting her tray on the bar. “It’s classy. Makes you stand out. Tell me something. Is it Velcro?”

What? She could barely hear over the pounding music. “No. It’s Chanel.”

The cocktail waitress shook her head. “Nah, Chanel don’t wear that uppity shit. She’s old school. Nothing but nipple clamps and a thong. I keep telling her she should wear more clothes if she wants her act to last longer, but no one listens to me. I need four beers and a daiquiri.”

The music died down a bit as this particular show ended, and thank god, the clapping wasn’t nearly as loud. These “gentlemen” showed their appreciation with dollar bills, not enthusiasm.

“What kind of daiquiri?” Who the hell ordered a daiquiri in a strip club? In the hours since she’d been thrown to the lions, she’d poured about a hundred beers, made up dozens of tequila and whiskey shots, and a couple of sidecars and boilermakers.

The fruity drinks hadn’t come up, though she had plenty of citrus. She’d been surprised at how well stocked the bar was. Normally a dive like this would be nothing but beer, whiskey, vodka, and tequila. Cherry Pies sported all the liquors of a good bar and three types of vino—red, white, and a pink of indeterminate origin.

The cocktail waitress, who was in fact topless, shrugged. “No idea. I asked and he said if you didn’t know what a classic daiquiri was you weren’t a real bartender. I told him this is a strip club, ain’t nothing real here, but he insisted. He’s hot, too. Damn, we don’t get many men in here who look like that, and there’s a table of five of them tonight. I thought JoJo was going to bust an implant shaking those things their way, if you know what I mean.”

She didn’t. She understood very little. Since the moment she’d walked in, the world had been a loud, weird place where nothing seemed to stop and glitter rained down from time to time. Certainly the drink orders hadn’t stopped, nor had the head bartender’s orders or Jai’s leering. Or the constant comments about her boobs. Which were covered, and yet the men of Cherry Pies believed in equality. They harassed a woman no matter her age, size, color, or amount of clothing she wore. These men were serious about their sexual harassment, and no amount of clothing would stop them.

Her “interview” had consisted of Jai looking her over, nodding, and then tossing her to the wolves. She’d been there five minutes when she was thrown into the pit, as she now affectionately called the large bar at the back of the establishment. She’d poured her first beer, gotten her first one-dollar tip, and told herself life was going to be okay.