The fourth rejection happened at a small topless club called Little Darlings. I leaned over to Trixie. “Ask him why he won’t hire me,” I whispered. She walked over to the manager and said something I couldn’t hear over Van Halen’s “Panama.” They disappeared behind a door.
On the floor of the club, a small-boned brunette with flawless golden skin and a ponytail sat on a guy’s lap, and then led him to the VIP lap dancing area. I wondered if my candy heart tattoos were too edgy for Vegas. So far, the three fanciest strip clubs hired Trixie while I fumed on a bar stool, wondering how I’d become so unemployable. After all, I was blonde. I had big boobs. I was tan.