Long Shot by Kayti McGee Page A

Well. That’s…horrible.
    “I imagine it’s near the back?” I don’t mean to sound like a smartass, but this huge dude I don’t know has totally thrown me off my game. I clutch the folder a little tighter and glance over my shoulder, hoping there’s no one around to witness this supreme humiliation. Nice, normal girls don’t get recognized by strip club bouncers.
    To Big Guy’s credit, he doesn’t take offense. He just smiles big and looks like he wants to give me a hug. “Go all the way to the back. Stage door is behind the bar.”
    “Thanks.” I smile awkwardly, because what else can one do, and I slip inside.
    I haven’t missed this place. Lights strobe, some shitty pop song plays, and some dude gyrates on stage with what must certainly be a sock stuffed in his g-string. I squint, wondering if it’s Peter, but at that exact moment he dives down to the floor and buries his head in a girl’s tits. Everyone screams and claps and I’m taken back to that night with my sister when we threw bills all over the place and bought lap dances and ranked all the guys based on dick length and girth.
    Back when things were less complicated, more fun. Ah, those blessed Jameson colored glasses.
    It is Peter. No sock, then. He pops up, winks at the crowd surrounding his part of the stage, and goes back to dancing. I accidentally watch his entire set, smiling the whole time, even cheering. What is this life? Who the hell am I?
    I’m just a girl, standing in front of a handbasket, waiting for my ride to hell.
    At least it wasn’t Rob. I don’t think I could stomach watching him be a stripper right now. I can pretend he’s just a late-blooming journalism student who bartends. I’ve met some sexy bartenders in my day, and he did make me several drinks.
    Peter finishes his set by doing a backflip, very impressive, and winks again at the crowd before disappearing backstage. Up next is some guy named Bam Bam, so I take that as my cue to get the hell out of here before I accidentally enjoying watching another set.
    The backstage entrance is inconspicuous, a simple black door with an Employees Only sign, but stepping through it is like stepping into a totally different world, one that smells vaguely of gym socks. Strippers or no, dudes are still perpetually gross, I guess. Mirrors line the entire room and sparse clothing racks full of g-strings and sparkly vests and a variety of hats litter the floor. In the middle of the room sits a couch, a loveseat, and a coffee table packed with old Playboys, presumably from when they still did nudes. Half-naked guys—and, surprisingly, a few girls—are scattered around the wall of mirrors, the couches, and in corners, posing.
    It is a total den of filth up in here. A sparkly den of filth.
    “Hey!” Rob jogs across the room and scoops me up to kiss me. I let him, because I have a problem, and because I want to, and because I’m a hot mess. “Here to watch me do my thang?”
    I ignore the fact that my boyfriend uses the word “thang”.
    “The bouncer knows who I am?”
    “Oh!” Rob is practically beaming at me. “That’s Bruce. I was telling him all about you today on break. You’d like him a lot, good guy.”
    “Oh.” It’s now that I realize he’s practically naked. He sets me down and I size up his getup. Assless chaps, a leather vest, and a heart-printed g-string. I stifle a laugh. “Do you know you look like an asshole?”
    “Yep.” Rob shakes his hips at me. “I hope you’ll stay for the show. I’m going to dedicate it to you.”
    “Legions of girls out there were be cataclysmically disappointed.”
    “Nah. They’ll think it’s sweet.” Rob kisses my nose. “To what do I owe the honor of your presence in our den of iniquity?”
    Sounds about right. I hold up the manila folder. “Pictures are ready.”
    A guy on the couch, whose girlfriend was all but giving him a blowjob, perks up. “Did you say pictures? Like the ones for Peter? Wait, is this your