Bare Necessities

“I got your sugar right here, baby,” a man in line behind her called. Bridget gave him her meanest look. He just laughed and elbowed his friend.

She took a deep breath and turned to the bouncer. “Sugar, your brand-new Frisky’s Kitten—” she pointed to the entrance “—is expecting me.”

The guys behind her perked up. “Hey, you got a new Frisky’s Kitten? Is she hot?”

“Tall, tanned and thirty-six G.” Bridget figured Sugar wouldn’t mind a little free buzz. A collective yelp rose from the line. “And if she doesn’t get her special delivery, she might not go on for her second set!”

“Let her in, man! Thirty-six G!”

“Fine.” The bouncer jerked his head at his coworker to take over and tugged her into the club.

“Thank you!” she yelled over the pounding rock music.

“What?” He cupped his ear.

She gave him an exaggerated smile, figuring at least her white teeth would show in the black-lit club. He gave her his original grouchy look. After seeing the most beautiful girls in Chicago naked every night, her charms must fall flat.

And it was amazing that these girls didn’t fall flat considering what they were managing in four-inch heels. There was a main-stage runway where one dazzling redhead did what could only be called a Little Bo-Peep show. She wore a tiny ruffled skirt and matching bonnet and not much else. Her toy sheep sat on the stage’s edge as she did things with a shepherdess’s crook that would make Mother Goose molt.

The club’s corners held smaller stages where dancers held court, and several girls gyrated above men in private lap dances.

Her blush roared back. She could handle nudity, but the mock-sex made her all twitchy and embarrassed. She hurried behind the bouncer, eager to find Sugar.

Her escort took her through a hallway, past the kitchen and rapped on a door marked Private.

A towering brunette dressed in a mock-tattered leopard-print slip opened the door. A dozen girls in various states of nudity rushed around behind her. Bridget gave the Amazon a weak smile. “Sugar’s expecting me.”

Her client pushed through the mass of tanned flesh, wearing a bright white bikini and matching superhigh heels. “Bridget!” She gave the bouncer a sultry wink. “Thanks, you’re such a sweetie pie for making sure my personal designer made it here okay.”

Sweetie Pie melted into a puddle. Bridget expected him to scrape his foot on the floor and say, “Aw, shucks.” She must not have hid her amusement because he straightened in a hurry and glared at her. “Next time, go to the back door!” He puffed out his chest and headed to the front.

Bridget followed her client into the dressing, or rather the undressing, room. “Sorry, Sugar. But why won’t they let women in? Surely you get some female customers here.”

Sugar leaned into the lightbulb-surrounded vanity mirror and fluffed her blond extensions. “No, I’m sorry, Bridget. I should have told you to come around to the stage door. The bouncers have strict rules not to let unaccompanied women into the club.”

“So the patrons don’t bother me?” Bridget rolled her suitcase next to the vanity bench and peered over Sugar’s shoulder. In comparison to the dancer’s buffed perfection, Bridget looked like a schlump. Her wavy, light brown hair had frizzed in the March humidity, and her summer-sun highlights had faded after a winter of city living. Her complexion was pasty and she had big rings under her eyes from staying awake late to finish her sewing projects.

“Um, so you don’t bother the patrons. Not that you would, of course. Security’s had problems with prostitutes hanging around, trying to pick up customers. Bad for business.”

“Of course,” Bridget said faintly, looking down at her suitcase. No wonder the guy had been suspicious. Who takes a suitcase to a strip club?

“Not that you look like a prostitute, or anything like that.” Sugar patted her hand comfortingly.

That could be a compliment or an accidental put-down. Not skanky enough to be mistaken for a junkie hooker, or not pretty enough for a call girl? Bridget snapped out of her pity party. Whatever. Some women were meant to dazzle and some women were meant to supply expensive lingerie for them.

She unzipped the suitcase and lifted out the silver spandex and ivory lace garments. “I brought your bras.”

“Wonderful.” She took a cursory look at the silver one but ran her fingers over the ivory lace. “And this is my everyday bra?”

“Complete with gel-filled straps and special cup construction.” Bridget was currently wearing a matching one in black lace. The matching thong and garter belt took a bit of getting used to, but she liked not having panty lines under the midcalf black skirt she was wearing. The getup hadn’t boosted her confidence yet, but maybe it was a case of “fake it till you make it.”

The leopard-print Amazon turned from where she was gluing on her false eyelashes. “So now you have your own personal lingerie designer? Well, la-di-dah!”

Sugar sneered. “Now that I’m a Frisky’s Kitten, I can’t afford to let these sag.” She grabbed her breasts and thrust them at the other dancer.

Bridget intervened hastily. “I’d be more than happy to design something for you, as well. I’m Bridget Weiss, by the way.”

“I’m Electra.” The Amazon put down her mascara wand and shook Bridget’s hand. Did she have a grip or what? If it weren’t for Electra’s feminine hands and lack of Adam’s apple, Bridget might suspect there was more equipment under that outfit than met the eye.

“You have a very striking look. Very sexy and powerful.” Bridget looked her up and down. Wide shoulders, black hair, thighs that could crack a walnut. Why not go with first impressions? “How about an Amazon costume? Kind of a gladiator outfit with gold over the breasts, gold cuffs and a fake sword.”

“Or a real one for the assholes around here.” Another girl sauntered over, wearing only a black leather thong and thigh-high black boots. She had a Goth look going, complete with inky hair, milk-pale skin, a pierced eyebrow and pierced…nipples? Bridget hadn’t seen that in person before.

“This is Jinx.” Sugar nodded. Next to Jinx, Sugar looked like a photo negative with her dark body and bleached hair. “She’s our resident brainiac—a graduate student, no less.”

“So what kind of costume would you design for me?” Jinx put her hands on her hips, daring Bridget to come up with something quick.

“Hmm.” Bridget circled her, thinking frantically. Something tough, something dominant. “Remember the kids’ comic book with the little devil in it? I’d update that for you with red boots, a pitchfork and headband with little sparkly horns. And for the main attraction, a red vinyl bustier with cutouts for your breasts. You could wear matching ruby nipple rings.”

Where am I coming up with this stuff? she wondered. For a girl who started in lingerie design by adding tiny satin bows to her ugly old-lady bras, she sure was branching out.

Jinx quirked an eyebrow. “Sounds cool. Draw a sketch, and I’ll take a look.”

“Great.” Bridget passed them both a business card and Sugar paid her the balance for the silver bra and the new ivory set. So it looked as if her electricity was good to go, and maybe she’d even splurge on some hamburger for her Hamburger Helper. Vegetarian Helper just didn’t have much protein.

“Girls, you’re up. Now!” a raspy voice bellowed across the room. A fierce old broad waved her clipboard.

“Marge is the house manager,” Sugar explained. “She’s been in the business for about ninety years and runs the show.” She trotted away, her heels clicking.

The dressing room emptied. Bridget looked around. Was she supposed to leave or stay? She grabbed a disinfectant wipe and swabbed the Naugahyde couch. Maybe she could work up designs for Electra and Jinx now and leave with some more arranged commissions. Taking Sugar’s advice, she’d get the cash up front. Money straight from the club customers to her, via the dancers’ garters.

“HELL OF A DAY, huh, Hale?” Tom, one of his coworkers, leaned against the cracked vinyl upholstery of the cab they were sharing.

“The markets really took a beating.” Several foreign countries had skipped their usual purchases of corn and wheat, raising supply and driving prices down. Fortunately, Adam had ducked the worst of it, but once he dropped Tom off, he’d go home and crash. Just like the markets.

“Thank God it’s Friday. Sure I can’t convince you to get a drink with me and some of the guys? We’re meeting at Frisky’s.”

“Frisky’s? I haven’t been there in years.” Strip clubs weren’t his style anymore. He worked too hard for his money to blow it on overpriced drinks and overpriced dancers.

Tom laughed. “Hale, you sound like an old man, and you’re fifteen years younger than me!” His laugh turned into a hacking cough. Adam decided not to point out that considering his coworker’s bad habits, he’d be lucky to make it to old age.

They pulled to a stop in front of Frisky’s, the pink kitten glowing in the dusk. A short line had formed. Adam hopped out of the cab to let Tom pass and saw a woman standing in line. He did a double take. Was that Bridget? Arguing with the bouncer at a strip club?

“Thanks for the ride, Hale. See you Monday.” Tom pushed past him.

Adam gaped at the entrance. The woman disappeared into the club with a bouncer, but not before the pink neon clearly illuminated her profile. If that wasn’t Bridget, it was her clone. He tossed some money at the cabbie. “Wait, I changed my mind.”

“Sure, the more the merrier.” Tom gaped as Adam rushed to the door.

Ignoring the protests of those already in line, he pushed to the front. “I need to get in there!”

“Don’t we all, pal,” the guy behind him said. “No line jumping.”

The second bouncer pointed to the end of the line. “Sorry, sir, you’ll have to wait your turn.” He winked. “Don’t worry, the girls are getting prettier as we speak.”

That’s what Adam was afraid of. “What about that girl who was just here?”

The guy behind him shrugged. “She said something about a new dancer named Sugar.”

“Who’s supposed to be superstacked,” added his friend. “Now if you don’t mind, it’s our turn.”

Adam’s coworker dragged him to the back of the line. “Man, for a guy who didn’t want to come to Frisky’s, you sure are getting into it.”

Adam smiled weakly, his mind churning. Was Bridget actually dancing at the club using the name Sugar? He knew she had to be on a tight budget, but this wasn’t her style at all. She always seemed embarrassed about her great body, hiding it in baggy sweaters and her brothers’ old flannel shirts.

Her brothers. Oh, shit. If she were stripping and Colin and Dane found out, they’d lead-foot it to Chicago and drag her back to Wisconsin faster than a cheap lap dance. And then they’d tie his body in knots around the stripper pole for not keeping her safe.

Finally, it was their turn. Adam paid his cover charge and followed Tom into the club. He scanned the smoky darkness for any sign of Bridget. When he didn’t see her in the crowd of men and a few women, he forced himself to check the stages.

A quick scan found nothing but strange faces. He relaxed slightly, but still was apprehensive. Tom caught his elbow and steered him to the bar. “I’ll have a Glenlivet Scotch, neat. What’ll you have, Hale?”

Adam definitely needed to keep his wits about him. “I’ll have a club soda.”

Tom grimaced. “Club soda? Come on, you’re allowed to live it up a bit at a strip club on a Friday night.”

“All right, make it a Guinness.” He hadn’t had the dark Irish brew in a while. Tom rolled his eyes and paid an exorbitant amount for the probably watered-down Scotch, while Adam dug out money for his Guinness and some information.

He pushed a twenty toward the muscled bartender. “I’m looking for a girl.”

The bartender nodded at the nude bodies behind them. “You’re at the right place.”

“No, not one of those girls.” Adam checked the dancers again just to be sure Bridget hadn’t appeared. “I’m looking for a specific girl—medium-tall, long, wavy brown hair with light-blond streaks, dark blue eyes and freckles. And a killer body,” he forced himself to add, despite his embarrassment about speaking about Bridget like some jerk.

Tom set down his Scotch, his eyebrows raised. “Holy crap, Hale, you’re never finding a girl here with all that going on—except for the killer body.” He and the bartender traded grins. “I thought you were crazy when you dumped that swimsuit model you were dating last fall—what was her name?”

“Daria.” Adam picked up his bottle and took a long drink of the dark beer. Unfortunately, the rich barley flavor didn’t wash the bitter taste from his mouth.

“Yeah, Daria. She didn’t look a thing like what you’re asking for now. Didn’t she have dark hair and eyes?”

Adam nodded. Daria had been dark to the core. Luckily he’d learned that before it was too late. “Are any of the girls named Bridget?”

The bartender shook his head. “These girls don’t use real names. But feel free to keep looking.” He turned to another customer and ended the conversation.

Tom nudged him. “We’re not gonna find any girls if we sit on our asses at the bar. Let’s go mingle.”

Adam followed him into the middle of the club. A redhead with a stuffed sheep skipped off stage, replaced by an S-and-M-looking black-haired chick dressed in leathers and carrying a whip. No way that was Bridget, even with a wig. The Goth girl had much smaller breasts. Adam winced. Pierced nipples, too. Some guys must get into that scene, but definitely not him. He was more of a natural beauty connoisseur.

He’d lost Tom already. The other broker had sprawled onto a couch, a curvy Hispanic girl swaying on top of him. Judging from the glazed expression on his face, he’d be busy for a while.

Adam shook his head. Sure, he’d been young and dumb during his first couple of years at the Merc, going to his share of strip clubs with the guys. He’d enjoyed the attention from the dancers until he realized they were as good at trading as he was. Possibly better.

After all, they both sold possibilities. His were grains, livestock, something tangible. The dancers sold possibilities of themselves as girlfriends or lovers, a much more remote possibility. The corn crop always came in, but guys almost never hooked up with strippers. Those who did paid through the nose for the privilege.

The DJ changed the music to a sultry soul tune. “Let’s all give a warm welcome to Sugar, our newest Frisky’s Kitten!”

Adam choked midsip on his Guinness. That was the name Bridget had mentioned in line. What if it were Bridget, bared to the raucous crowd as she twirled on the stage? Jerks like Tom drooling over her creamy skin when he was the only one who should see her naked.

Wait, no one should see her naked, especially him. He turned in dread to the main runway.

A pair of shapely legs strutted out. As the dancer advanced, Adam caught sight of an extremely large pair of breasts. Not that he’d memorized her shape or anything, but he didn’t think Bridget was quite that built. Finally the light hit the dancer’s face. The knot in his stomach eased and he drank more beer. Sugar was pretty, but not as pretty as Bridget.

The catcalls and whoops grew to a deafening chorus as the Frisky’s Kitten did her stuff. He caught some of her act as he continued to look around. Someone tapped him on the shoulder.

“Buy me a drink?” A muscular brunette ran her long fake nails along his arm. He took a double take. No, it wasn’t a man after all. Maybe she knew something about Bridget.

“Sure.” He ordered another Guinness and watched with a skeptical eye as the bartender poured something for the dancer from a bottle under the counter. Probably iced tea. He paid up and they sat together on a couch.

“I’m Electra.”

“Adam.”

“Your first time here? I would have remembered you.” She gave him a sly wink.

“My first time here in a couple years. I wish I’d known what I was missing.” He winked back. “My friend Bridget recommended this club.”

“Bridget did?” She gave him a puzzled frown, glancing around.

“So you know her?” He mentally cursed his over-eagerness when he saw her withdraw. Great, now she thought he was a stalker. “I’m a family friend, just trying to make sure she’s all right.”

No luck. Electra finished her drink and gave him a tight-lipped smile. “Thanks for the drink.” She gestured to his lap. “Unless you want something else, I should be getting along.”

“No, no, thanks. But if you do run in to Bridget here, please tell her Adam’s worried about her.”

The dancer gave him a sarcastic look. “Sure you are.” She stood and weaved her way through the crowd, stopping to smile at a skinny little man who couldn’t take his eyes off her. Within a minute, she was rotating above him. Good thing her thigh muscles were strong enough to keep herself from crushing the guy.

It was obvious the girls weren’t going to tell him about Bridget. They closed ranks to protect their own.

He circulated throughout the club, sipping at his beer until it became warm. No sign of Bridget. Maybe Tom knew where the dancers’ changing room was. His coworker was pretty much blotto, stoned on a continuous supply of Scotch and female flesh, but managed to point to a hidden door next to the DJ’s booth.

Adam set down his beer and casually made his way over to the door. When the DJ bent to pick up something from the floor, Adam ducked through. Three doors lined the fluorescent-lit hallway. One turned out to be a janitor’s closet, the second was locked—probably the manager’s office—but the third doorknob turned under his hand.

He opened it to face the S and M girl from the runway. She curled her lip. “Clear out before I call security to stomp your pretty face.” It wasn’t a compliment.

“Look, I’m here to see Bridget.”

“No Bridget here.” But like the tall brunette earlier, her eyes twitched briefly toward the back of the changing room. Years of working in the deafening trading pits had taught him to watch for tiny body language clues.

“Bridget!” he yelled. “It’s me, Adam! I really need to talk to you.”

“Get out of here!” The Goth girl actually picked up her whip and cracked it.

“Whoa.” He raised his hands in a placating gesture.

“Sonny! Sonny!” the girl called.

The bouncer came running, alerted by the whip crack and her shouts. He stopped short when he saw Adam. “You again. Why can’t you wait your turn and pay for a lap dance like everyone else?” He put his hand on Adam’s arm.

Adam yanked away but bumped into the whip-wielding dancer. She planted her boot into the small of his back and shoved him to crash face-first into the doorjamb. The bouncer pinned his arm behind his back as the flesh under his eye stung and swelled. But it wasn’t so swollen that he didn’t see Bridget appear from the back of the dressing room. Her shocked, then disapproving, expression was clear as glass.

“Adam Hale. What the hell are you doing here?”

3

“TELL ME AGAIN WHY you insisted on bringing me home?” Bridget unlocked her front door and flipped on the light. Adam reached for her suitcase to carry it in but she glared at him and grabbed it herself.

“We need to talk.” Adam followed her into her apartment, his cheek throbbing. He hadn’t been there since her moving day. That heavy-ass Ping-Pong table held her sewing machine and several scraps of shiny material.

“Talk about what? How you got into a brawl with a stripper and were ejected by the bouncer?”

“Hey, I was not brawling with her. I lost my balance and she kicked me.”

“You’re lucky Jinx didn’t crack you with her whip.”

He shuddered. Totally not his scene. “That is one scary chick.”

“What were you even doing there? I thought you finally grew up and stopped going to strip clubs.”

“I did. And how do you know I used to go?”

She curved her face into a look of mock puzzlement. “Was it Colin or Dane I overheard bragging? Probably Dane, since he’s single, and Colin isn’t. Didn’t you used to take Dane to clubs when he came to Chicago for business?”

“Damn. Those brothers of yours have some big mouths on them.”

“You won’t get any argument from me. So go home, and put some ice on your cheek.” She pointed at the door.

Adam was halfway out the door when he stopped. Very slick. Her excellent offensive attack had almost distracted him from his own questions. He turned back to her. “I was dropping off a coworker on my way home when I saw you arguing with that bouncer. What the hell were you doing at a strip club?”

She paused from hanging up her coat. “The logical assumption would be that I am dancing at Frisky’s.”

He couldn’t help himself and burst out laughing.

“Why is that so hard to believe? You don’t think I’m sexy enough?” She glared at him. Uh-oh.

“Come on, Bridge. You, a stripper? You always wear the baggiest clothes possible and blush beet-red if anybody even glances at your—” He gestured abruptly at her breasts, too embarrassed to even say the word.

“Maybe I’ve changed since I moved to the city. Maybe certain things don’t embarrass me anymore.” She moved to her futon and picked up a shiny lime-green bra. “Don’t you think this would make a perfect stripper top? Not that I would be wearing it all that long, anyway.” She grabbed a matching thong off her worktable.

“Whoa, are you serious?” He ran his fingers through his hair. “You’re dancing at Frisky’s?”

She held the green bra to her chest and shimmied a bit. “What do you think, Adam?”

“Oh, my God.” He looked, really looked around her apartment for the first time. A chrome clothes rack held a black corset thingie, a Day-Glo pink bra and panties, and a white vinyl tube top. No, that was a mini-mini-miniskirt. Bolts of silver, red and gold spandex fabric stood in a corner. But the kicker was a pair of six-inch clear plastic high heels with straps. Nobody wore those except strippers. “Did you dance tonight?”

She tossed down the bra. “Did you miss my performance, Adam?”

He laughed nervously and took off his coat. It was getting hot in her apartment. “Come on, I followed you into the club and I never saw you onstage.”

“You’re the strip-club expert, Adam. Don’t dancers have private clients or do private parties?”

He plopped onto her futon. “Oh, Bridge. What will your family say?”

She just laughed. Here he was, picturing her parents’ shock and horror and her brothers’ anger and disappointment, and she laughed? She had changed since she moved to Chicago, and not for the better. “It’s not funny.”

“Adam, you worry too much.” She plucked the pink bra off the hanger and rubbed her cheek over the shiny fabric. She’d look great in the pink with her fair skin….

“No!” He’d been imagining her in the pink bra and nothing else and hadn’t meant to say that aloud.

“‘No’ what?” She gave him a puzzled look.

He jumped up from the futon and walked over to her. “No, you can’t do that. Since your family isn’t here, I’m going to put a stop to this.”

“You are? How?”

“I don’t know—do you need money? I can loan you some.”

She looked shocked. All right, so he was tight with his money. Then she smiled and trailed the pink bra over his chest. His heart beat faster. “Tell you what. You’re a gambler, big guy. You gamble on corn, soybeans, cattle. Let’s make a bet.”

“On what?” That smile was making him nervous. That and imagining how her breasts would look in the pink bra, her nipples hard against the tight fabric. Were they pink, too?

“On you.” She drew out the last word, teasing him. “Since you consider yourself my friend, you can give me an unbiased opinion on whether I’m good enough to make it at Frisky’s. If you say no, I won’t continue my budding career as an exotic dancer.”

“What? You want to do a demo for me?” His throat grew tight, and he reached to loosen his tie, only to remember he’d stuffed it into his jacket pocket hours ago.