Getting Even. Kayla Perrin

It takes me only a moment to realize that it’s my sister.

      Her skirt is so short that as she passes me, I see more of her ass than of the red leather. She’s also got these thigh-high shiny black boots on, the kind with spiked heels that must be at least four inches. How she even walks on those things let alone dances in them is beyond me.

      The men hoot and howl in appreciation, and Samera slaps her whip against the stage. I glance away. Oh, Sammie. Why do you do it? Why make yourself an object like this?

      When I look her way again, money is flying onto the stage. A lot of money. Which pretty much answers the question of why she does it—or at least that’s what I like to tell myself.

      Because I know Samera also loves her job. Long before she got paid to take off her clothes, she got off on wearing skimpy outfits and watching men’s reactions to her. She especially had fun with our mother’s second husband, teasing the poor guy until he broke down and screwed her. My mother kicked them both out, screaming about how they’d both burn in hell for what they’d done. I figure that Samera had heard so often that she was going to burn in hell, she figured she might as well enjoy the rest of her life in the most explicitly sexual way possible.

      Doing a slow twirl, Samera completely unzips her dress. She teases the guys with views of her bountiful bosom—also enhanced by the help of surgery. Surgery I accompanied her to, and tried to talk her out of all the way to the clinic.

      I turn my head. I’m not comfortable watching Samera like this. It’s like my mother’s internal dialogue is stuck in my head, and I can’t get past thinking that what Samera’s doing is completely sinful. I feel awful for her, so awful I’m almost tempted to pray for her soul.

      Snap!

      I jump at the sound of the whip, and my eyes fly to the stage. There’s Samera, her breasts exposed, the dress gone, and only a black piece of leather covering her crotch.

      Her eyes light up with recognition as our eyes connect. I give a small wave.

      She heads off toward the front of the stage, her hips moving in an exaggerated sexual movement. She grabs the pole and twists around it, then bends onto her haunches, giving the men a view of the contrast of pale ass against black leather. When she goes onto all fours, I turn away again and pretend to be absorbed in a search for something that’s inside my purse.

      I know Samera’s routine is over when I hear the round of applause. Now I look back to the stage. Except for the boots, Samera is completely naked. She winks at me as she exits.

      How does she do it? Strut naked like that in front of strangers? I don’t get it.

      A few minutes later, Samera comes running out from the back area of the club and straight for me. I stand, and she throws herself at me, hugging me hard.

      “Annie, what are you doing here?”

      I’m not sure what to say. “We said we’d get together for lunch, remember?”

      “And you want to do that here?”

      As Samera and I pull apart, I take in what she’s wearing. A white cutoff T-shirt that shows the bottom of her breasts. Instead of a skirt, she’s wearing skintight leather pants and those spiked plastic-looking shoes I call hooker heels.

      “Well…sure,” I tell her. “Why not?”

      Samera eyes me with suspicion. “You’ve either lost your mind or you’ve found your wild side. And why are you wearing a scarf on your head?”

      “Oh, this. I…” I can’t think of a decent thing to say, and pull the scarf off my head.

      She takes my hand. “Come on. Let’s sit down.”

      “Are you finished?” I ask her as we sit at the table I’d occupied a moment earlier.

      “God, no. I’ve got four more sets to do. But I have around half an hour to spare. Now tell me, what’s up? Because I know something must be up for you to be here right now.”

      I blow out a hard breath. “You’re right.”

      “Charles?” she guesses, scowling as she does.

      I’m not going to lie. “Yeah.”

      “What’s the jerk done this time?”

      “It’s what he hasn’t done. We’re still not having sex.” It’s strange that I don’t mind sharing this intimate detail with Samera when we’re not very close.

      Like I said, I’m desperate.

      “What do you mean you’re not having sex?” Samera asks in disbelief. “Didn’t you buy all sorts of toys and stuff to use with him last week?”

      “Not all sorts, but I did buy an outfit. Something I thought would turn him on, and it didn’t. This really trampy French maid’s out—”

      “He’s fucking someone else. You know that now, don’t you?”

      “No,” I say adamantly. “I don’t know that. What I know is that my husband is very busy, and somewhere along the way we’ve lost our connection. He’s so busy, he’s forgotten about sex. But it’s not a reason to walk away from my marriage, even if right now it feels like we’ll never make love again. I just need…help.”

      “What do you want me to do?”

      What indeed? “I don’t know.”

      “I’m sure you have something in mind. Or you wouldn’t be here. You could have called me, asked for directions to more shops.”

      “Okay. I’m desperate. I guess I thought I’d come here and watch…and pick up some pointers.” My admission surprises me as much as Samera. “And if you have any tips on how to turn things around with Charles and save my marriage, I’m all ears.”

      “I don’t know what kind of tips I can give you. From everything I know, you get naked for a guy and he can’t help but get hard for you.”

      “I think that works in a relationship when it’s new, fresh. But Charles and I have been married for years. I guess…” It pains me to even think what I’m about to say, because I never thought it would happen to us. “I guess things have gotten stale.”

      “Which is exactly why I don’t believe in marriage. Nor long-term relationships.”

      “Sammie.” God, I sound whiny. I hate how pathetic I sound, but I can’t help it. I’m as desperate as any of the women on Desperate Housewives, and I’m about to lose my mind.

      “All right. Let me think. The toys didn’t work.”

      “It was a French maid’s outfit, and maybe it was too conservative. Maybe I have to go all out and become really skanky.”

      I stop talking when a topless waitress appears at our table. I feel so embarrassed for the woman, I want to use my scarf to cover her breasts. At least they look real, which is a plus. Why can’t men like women the way they naturally are? We have to take them the way they are.

      “Molly,” Samera coos. “This is my sister, Annelise.”

      “Hi.” Molly gives me a bright smile, as if I’m a long-lost friend or something.

      “What do you want to drink?” Samera asks.

      “Oh, I don’t think—”

      “Get her a sex on the beach,” Samera tells her, then laughs. “I bet you’d like that right about now, wouldn’t you?”

      I grin—painfully—until Molly waltzes away. Then I say, “You don’t have to announce to the world that I’m not getting laid.”

      “Relax. Molly doesn’t know anything, and even if she did, she could care less.”

      I suppose Samera’s right. “Can you teach me some of those slutty moves you girls do with the pole?”

      “They’re