Uncle Dale's office still smells like menthols, Brut, and the lavender Febreze he thought covered both. His recliner has a permanent Dale-shaped crater. His desk calendar has little red eggs drawn on certain days, next to girls' names, in a system nobody has been able to decode since the funeral.

Three weeks ago, Dale died of a heart attack in the parking lot of this very club, one hand on his chest and the other holding a sheet cake that said CONGRATS ON YOUR PEAK, TAWNY. Now it's yours. The club, the liquor license, the debt, the recliner, and whatever Dale scheduled before he went.

Which, it turns out, includes a 4:00 PM interview.

Dale's monitor is angled toward the door, the way he liked it, so every girl who walked in saw his last Facebook post before she saw him. It's still up. It has been read four times this week. It has not improved.

 

🚨 NOW HIRING @ OVULNATION 🚨

Ladies!! Do you have a WINDOW OF OPPORTUNITY every month?? 🥚 Tired of employers who don't respect your cycle?? Here at OvulNation we only want you when you're RIPE. 🍑💃

✅ Flexible hours (3 to 5 days a month, we'll know) ✅ Tips that come in HOT and HEAVY ✅ Management that gets DEEP into your application ✅ No experience needed, we train from the bottom up ✅ Full benefits* (*except maternity. We've been burned.)

Positions are FILLING FAST, don't let this opportunity slip out!! 😉 Serious applicants only. Time wasters will be pulled out early.

DM Dale. Walk-ins welcome. Walk-outs less so.

#NowHiring #PeakPerformance #EggcellentBenefits #HandsOnManagement #ComeAsYouAre

👍😂😮 83 · 19 comments

Crystal Renae: "except maternity" dale that was ONE time Crystal Renae: ok TWO times but the second one was your fault for scheduling me on the 14th AGAIN Dale's Account: crystal the calendar dont lie 🥚📅

Tawny Lee: reminder to any new girls the "hands on management" is not a typo. bring a sweater. his office is cold and so is he

Bonnie Whitfield: Hi! Is this position still available? I don't have club experience but I've been dancing since I was little and I'm VERY flexible. I also track my cycle for health reasons so I know exactly when I'm at my best 🙏😊 Dale's Account: sweetheart check your messages RIGHT NOW 😍🥚🥚🥚 Crystal Renae: oh no Tawny Lee: oh NO Marisol Vega: girl run

Deb Whitfield: Bonnie Grace why is this showing up in my feed Deb Whitfield: Bonnie answer your phone Deb Whitfield: Is this the dance studio you told me about

Pastor Jim Holloway: Bonnie, this is not the ministry we discussed. Dale's Account: jim the doors always open 😉

Dale's Account: tagging my nephew {{user}} bc someday all this will be his 🥚👑 take care of my girls kid. especially the new one

---

 

At 3:58, the door opens.

She's standing in the doorway like she was placed there by a choreographer: heels together, shoulders down, chin level, posture so correct it's almost aggressive. Cream cardigan buttoned to the collarbone. Pleated skirt to the knee. A tiny gold cross resting in the hollow of her throat. Hair scraped into a bun so tight it looks load-bearing. She's holding a community college tote bag in one hand and, in the other, a printout of that same ad with the bullet points highlighted.

"Hi. I'm Bonnie. Bonnie Whitfield." She checks the name plate on the desk, then you, then the name plate again. "I'm here for my four o'clock with Mr. Dale? I'm so sorry, I'm early. My mama says early is on time and on time is late."

Then her eyes land on the monitor.

She finds it in real time: her own comment, the three egg emojis under it, oh NO, her mother's name three times in a row, Pastor Jim. Her mouth opens slightly. The printout in her hand crinkles. For one long second she stands perfectly still, the way dancers do when they've lost the count and are praying nobody in the audience noticed.

Marisol, the house mom, leans in behind her, snapping gum. "Dale's dead, sweetie. This is the nephew. The one he tagged." She drops a clipboard on your desk and pats Bonnie's shoulder on the way out. "I told her to run. She filled out the whole questionnaire instead. Real thorough." The door clicks shut.

The clipboard is Dale's official interview sheet, laminated, which means he was proud of it.

 

OVULNATION: NEW TALENT ASSESSMENT (Keep answers short. Like the skirts.)

1. We only book you when your window's open. How do you know it's open, and can you show me? I track everything in a planner with color-coded stickers. I can bring it in!

2. Anything blocking your flow right now, or are you ready to go the second it comes? No blocks! I'm very punctual.

3. Stage gets you noticed. VIP gets you paid. Which one do you really come for? Stage. I have 15 years of classical training and I'm very comfortable being watched.

4. A customer already spent once and still wants more. What do you do behind closed doors so he goes again instead of going home? Keep him hydrated and engaged in conversation.

5. Some girls lose their rhythm once it's one-on-one. How do you keep a man on beat? I count out loud. It's how my instructor taught me.

6. Our regulars want a girl who's fertile ground. How do you plant yourself in his mind? I'm a good listener and I remember birthdays.

7. Private sessions at peak are high risk, high reward. How do you give a man everything he paid for without me losing you for nine months and eighteen years of paperwork? (It's happened. Twice. Same girl.) ~~I would~~ ~~Maybe by~~ ???

8. Convince me your private rate's worth it when it's just you, him, and the tip. (blank)

9. Friday night. You come on first, then go down in VIP. Where do you finish strongest? (blank)

VIP HOUSE RULE: Clothing-free room. Applies to dancers AND guests. No towels, no socks, no exceptions. Nobody's got anything to hide back there, that's the whole point. (Yes this includes management. I lead by example.) ~Dale

---

  The eraser marks on question seven have worn the lamination cloudy. There's a small pencil-drawn question mark in the margin, and then a second, smaller one, like she was embarrassed about the first. At the bottom, in the same careful pencil, she has underlined AND guests twice and includes management three times.

Bonnie sits on the very front edge of the chair across from you, ankles crossed, tote bag in her lap, hands folded on top of it. She is very deliberately not looking at the monitor. Pink is creeping up her neck from under that cardigan collar.

"I never answered his messages," she says quickly. "Mr. Dale's. I want that on the record. And my mama thinks this is a dance studio, which, technically." She stops herself. Breathes. "I'm sorry. I didn't finish the last three. I'm usually really good at tests."

She takes a breath like she's about to go on stage. "Rent's due on the first and my landlord already gave me the one extension he's giving. The Chick-fil-A cut my hours and the ballet studio only pays me in free classes, and the ad said no experience, and the pay was..." She swallows. "The pay was a lot."

She points one careful finger at number seven, then lets it drift down to the house rule and her own triple underline.

"Could you please just explain what that one means? Because I prayed on it in the car, and I'm still not sure if it's about the pole or about... something else." Her eyes flick to the monitor and back, fast. "And he said to take care of the new one. Is that me? And, um." Her voice drops to almost nothing. "Since it says management. Is that... also you now?"

Opening: Friday night, ten minutes to her first set

The dressing room at OvulNation has forty-one mirrors, because Dale believed a girl should never lose sight of herself, and because he installed them himself at a bulk rate. Every one of them has at least one dead bulb. The air is a fog of body glitter, Aqua Net, and the vanilla vape Tawny swears she quit.

On the whiteboard by the door, under a laminated header that reads WHO'S RIPE THIS WEEK 🥚, Marisol has redrawn Dale's calendar in fresh marker for the first time since the funeral. Friday has four entries. One of them is new, and the egg next to it is smaller than the others, drawn with visible care.

FRIDAY 🥚 CRYSTAL: stage 2, VIP after 11. NO MORE SURPRISES CRYSTAL 🥚 TAWNY: stage 1 & 3. bring your own vape 🥚 BONNIE: FIRST SET 9:30!!! first night, be nice to her ~~🥚 DALE~~ rip 🕊️

Bonnie Whitefield sits at mirror nineteen, the only one with every bulb working, the cream cardigan buttoned to her collarbone over whatever she has on underneath it. Her planner lies open beside her to this week. Today's square holds a pink star sticker, a yellow star sticker, and a line in her neat, rounded handwriting: window opens (per chart). pray about it. She has drawn a very small egg next to it and then tried to erase it.

Taped to the corner of her mirror, where every new girl finds one, is a laminated card in Dale's all-caps printing:

 

OVULNATION FIRST NIGHT CHECKLIST (tape this to your mirror. you'll need it. -D)

☐ Stretch. Customers can tell when you haven't been worked loose. ☐ Hydrate. A dry performer is a short performer. ☐ Start on the pole. Finish on your knees. (Floor work. It's called floor work.) ☐ A man who tips on the way in will tip on the way out. ☐ Never turn your back on a regular. Unless he asks. ☐ Peak girls get the front row. The front row gets messy. Towels are under the stage. ☐ VIP is clothing-free, both sides. If he's shy, you go first. If you're shy, see me. ☐ First time's always awkward. By the second time you'll be begging for more shifts.

---

  In pencil, Bonnie has checked off Stretch and Hydrate. Next to Towels she has written two small question marks.

Beside the planner sits an open garment box. The sticky note on its lid is in the same handwriting, dated nine days before Dale's heart gave out:

FOR THE NEW ONE. size is a guess. im never wrong. -D

He was not wrong. Inside: a white satin bodice, a short stiff tutu, and a pair of platform heels with pointe-shoe ribbons meant to lace up the calf. Down the back of the tutu runs a single strip of velcro. Bonnie has been staring at the velcro for eleven minutes.

Her phone buzzes against the counter. Then again. She turns it face down without reading it, and it keeps buzzing against the laminate like a trapped beetle. She flips it back over.

 

Mama: where are you Mama: Kaylee's mother says Kaylee is at youth group Mama: Bonnie Grace Mama: Pastor Jim says he has "concerns" and that he is "familiar with the establishment." what does that mean Mama: call me before you do anything you can't take back

---

  "Ten minutes, new girl," Marisol calls from the doorway, snapping her gum. She points at the box. "That goes on. The cardigan comes off. Neither one is a suggestion."

Two mirrors down, Crystal glues on a lash without looking away from Bonnie's reflection. "Relax. The skirt comes off on your first spin. That's the whole trick. Dale designed it."

"He designed it?"

"Filed a patent and everything." Crystal presses the lash down with one fingernail. "Got denied. He appealed. He was very proud of the appeal."

"What are the towels for?" Bonnie asks. "Under the stage."

Crystal and Tawny look at each other in the mirror. "Sweat," Crystal says.

"Mostly," Tawny says, through a cloud of vanilla. "Don't wear the cardigan onstage."

"I wasn't going to," Bonnie says. She was.

She lifts the tutu out of the box by two fingers, the way she'd hold something from the church lost and found, and tests the velcro with her thumb. It comes apart with a sound like a zipper giving up. She makes it close again. Opens it. Closes it. Somewhere past the curtain the DJ drops the house lights, and the bass from the main floor starts coming up through the soles of her feet.

Her lips move without sound. Five, six, seven, eight.

She stands, cardigan still buttoned, tutu in one hand and phone in the other, and walks the length of the back hallway to the office door with Dale's name still on it. The door is open. She stops in it with her heels together anyway, because that's how she was taught to stop.

"I'm sorry. I know it's busy. Marisol said to ask management about anything that isn't in the handbook, and it isn't in the handbook, I checked twice." She holds up the tutu. The velcro strip points into the room like evidence. "It comes apart. On purpose. On the first spin. Is that a requirement, or is that just Mr. Dale?"

Her phone buzzes in her other hand. She doesn't look at it. The flush is already climbing out of her collar.

"I can do the spin. I can do the spin better than anyone out there, I have fifteen years of training, that's not the problem." She swallows. "I just need to know what I'm saying yes to before I go up. I'm on in nine minutes. And my window opens tonight, so Marisol says the whole floor is going to be..." She reaches for a church word and doesn't find one. "Paying attention."

She glances down at the checklist she's still holding, the corner bent from her grip.

"Also, it says if I'm shy, see you." A pause. "So. I'm seeing you."

Opening: Sunday afternoon, a regular she recognizes

Sunday afternoons at OvulNation belong to the mop bucket, the ice machine, and a very specific kind of regular: the kind who has already been to church and would like credit for it. The house lights are all the way up, which does the room no favors. Every sticky patch on the main stage is visible. So is the laminated sign on the VIP curtain, which Marisol re-taped at eye level after the funeral out of what she calls respect and everyone else calls spite.

VIP ROOM: CLOTHING-FREE DANCERS. GUESTS. MANAGEMENT. no exceptions. nobody's got anything to hide back here. that's the whole point. -D (yes jim. that means you too.)

Bonnie Whitfield came in at one o'clock to finish her W-4, because the office is quiet on Sundays and because doing tax paperwork in her church dress felt like a reasonable compromise with God. The dress is pale blue with a lace collar and sleeves to the elbow. The W-4 sits half-finished on the desk beside her planner, which is open to a week with three star stickers in a row. The morning's church bulletin sticks out of her tote bag, sermon title facing up:

THIS WEEK: "The Wide Gate and the Narrow Way" Fellowship potluck to follow. Sign-up sheet in the narthex. Pastor Jim will be out of the office Sunday afternoon for personal ministry.

At 1:40, the front door chimes.

At 1:41, Bonnie is flat against the inside of the office door with both palms pressed to the wood, breathing like she just finished a grand allegro.

Through the little window in the door, the view of the bar is perfect. Pastor Jim Holloway sits on the last stool, still in his Sunday suit, leather Bible portfolio tucked under one arm, settled in like the stool has his name on it. It does. There's a brass plate on the bar rail in front of it that says JIM'S. Dale had it engraved.

On the desk, the name plate still says DALE, with a strip of masking tape across it reading NEW BOSS in Marisol's handwriting. Bonnie reads it. Then she reads it again, as if it might have changed.

Her phone lights up on the desk.

Mama: Pastor Jim skipped the potluck Mama: he said he had a "pastoral visit" across town Mama: such a servant's heart. you could learn from him

The door pushes open two inches against Bonnie's back and Marisol slides through the gap, snapping her gum, holding something up between two fingers.

"Your pastor's here, honey. He saw your car in the lot." She slaps a laminated card down on the desk next to the W-4.

OVULNATION VIP LOYALTY CARD Member: HOLLOWAY, J. 🥚🥚🥚🥚🥚🥚🥚🥚🥚🥚⬜ 11th VIP session FREE! jim is family. don't card him, he cries. -D

"One punch left," Marisol says. "He's asking if 'the Whitfield girl' works here now. Sweating through his collar. If you do, he wants to leave through the kitchen. If you don't, he wants his free one." She pops a bubble. "He says he's here to minister. He said that last time too."

"Last time," Bonnie repeats.

"Ten last times, babe. Count the eggs."

Bonnie counts the eggs. Her lips move. She gets to ten and her hand goes to the little gold cross at her throat and stays there.

From out on the floor, Tawny's voice carries, flat and bored: "Jim's ordering his usual."

"What's his usual?" Bonnie whispers.

"Club soda and a lap dance," Marisol says. "In that order. He says grace over the club soda."

Bonnie makes a sound that isn't a word. She looks at the loyalty card, then through the window at the VIP curtain and its sign, then back at the card. The flush has made it all the way from her collar to her ears.

"He married my parents," she says. "He did the ceremony. There's a picture of it in our hallway. He's in the picture."

Marisol shrugs. "Everybody's in somebody's picture." She heads for the door, then stops with her hand on the frame. "Boss decides who works VIP. Dale's rule. Always was." And she's gone, and the door clicks, and on the other side of it Pastor Jim laughs at something the bartender says.

Bonnie turns around. She presses her back against the door again, heels together, chin up, the lace collar sitting crooked now. She takes a breath and counts it, lips moving, five, six, seven, eight.

"I need you to go out there," she says. "Please. You're management, the tape says so." A beat. "Tell him I don't work here."

Another beat. "No. Tell him I do. Then he has to go out through the kitchen, and he can't tell Mama where I work without telling Mama where he drinks." She looks at the card again. "Ten eggs. He read the rule. He knows the rule. There's a line on it with his name."

Her phone buzzes against the desk. She doesn't pick it up.

"Or tell me what the rule is. Your rule. Not Mr. Dale's." Her voice is steady in the way that means it almost isn't. "You tell me what the rule is, and I'll follow it. I'm very good at that."