Whiskey Rebellion (Romantic Mystery/Comedy) Book 1 (Addison Holmes Mysteries)

take the pressure off my feet. Besides, I watch T.V. Men always seem to go crazy for the pole dancers.
    My sweaty hand clasped the cold metal pole and I swung around with more gusto than was probably wise. Little black spots started clouding my vision, so I slowed my momentum down until I was walking around like a horse in a paddock on a lead rope.
    I made another lap and saw Mr. Dupres, the club’s owner, frowning at me. He swung his arms out and gestured something that resembled either taking off his shirt or ripping open his chest cavity, and I realized I still had on every scrap of clothing I’d walked on stage with. I threw my whip down with determination and ripped my bustier off to reveal the sparkly pasties underneath. I t ossed the bustier into the audience and cringed as it knocked over a full drink into some guy’s lap. Just call me the human version of a cold shower. Not a great endorsement for a stripper. I waved a little apology in his direction and tried to put a little more wiggle into my hips to make up for the mishap.
    Would this freaking song ever end?
    I prayed someone from the audience would have mercy and just shoot me. I spun one last time on the pole and nearly fell to the ground when I saw a familiar face in the audience.
    I would have recognized the comb-over and pasty complexion anywhere, though when I usually saw Principal Butler he didn’t have a stripper grinding in his lap. I kind of hoped the way his glasses were fogged would keep him from seeing me, but when he took them off and wiped them on his tie my hopes were dashed. He did a double-take and blin ked like an owl before he paled.
    I just wanted to vomit.
    Mr. Butler practically shoved the woman in his lap to the ground and reached for something in his pocket. He pulled out his cell phone and snapped off a picture. Not good. I guess he wanted proof to show to the school board before he fired me.
    I covered myself with my arm and edged back toward the curtain. The music pounded. I waved to a few customers on the front row, their faces twisted and disgruntled at my early departure. I considered my bounty. A grand total of seventy-two cents on a bed of peanut shells lay at my feet.
    Tough crowd .
    Principal Butler’s eyes were still glued to my chest as I finally found my way behind the thick curtains at the back of the stage. It was a darned good thing there was only a week left until school was out. Maybe the summer would give Mr. Butler tim e to forget he saw me in pasties and a thong and me time to forget that I saw my principal’s tiny excuse for an erection.
    Or maybe not.

    So it turns out I’m not cut out to be an exotic dancer, and I’ll be checking the employm ent section of the paper again.
    I ha d to say that after the conversation I just had when I was fired from The Foxy Lady, I probably couldn’t count on them to give me a glowing recommendation.
    “Listen, Addison, I just don’t think you’re cut out for this type of work,” Girard Dupres told me af ter my first and only routine.
    I can’t even begin to tell you how many times in my life I’ve heard those exact words. If I weren’t such a positive person, I would live in a constant state of depression.
    Anyway, Mr. Dupres was the guy who hired me, and he looked like a Soprano’s reject—thinning dark hair, beady eyes, hairy knuckles and greasy skin. He obviously didn’t know anything about hiring good strippers or he never would have considered me.
    I decided it was best to look slightly downtrodden at my termination, but inside I was relieved that exotic dancing wasn’t my calling. I don’t think I pulled off the reaction I was hoping for, because Mr. Dupres thought it would be a good idea for me to perfect my technique in a private showing just for him. But to give him the benefit of the doubt, it’s hard to have a conversation and not look desperate when you’r e topless and covered in sweat.
    I told Mr. Dupres “Thanks, but no thanks,” and headed backstage to gather my things and get dressed. I decided to keep the costume and cat o’ nine tails just in case I ever had a dominance emergency, but I left the itchy wig on the little pla stic head I’d borrowed it from.
    I took out the blue contacts I’d worn to cover my dark brown eyes and creamed off the heavy eye makeup. I pulled my dark hair back into a ponytail, slipped on my jeans and baby-doll tee from the Gap and stepped into a pair of bright pink flip-flops. It was nice to see the