#the one where youre not just rejected as a host. but clowned on and humiliated beforehand as well | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

diyunho · 5 years

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The Joker x Reader - “Ghost” Part 1

Bane’s wife is a mystery to everyone, including her husband. Ghost also happens to be The Joker’s little obsession, not that she ever pays attention to him. Maybe that’s why The King of Gotham should stop messing around: when you push too much, you might get more than you bargained for.

“Boss,” Frost makes his presence known in the VIP room. “Ghost is here.”

“Don’t make her wait,” The Clown growls and Jonny nods in acceptance, aware the woman’s infamous temper might create some unwanted trouble if she gets delayed from her schedule.

The Joker passes his fingers through the neon green hair, not that it needs fixing; he also unbuttons another button from his purple shirt, only two of them holding the garment together now. A quick glance to the other man present here: still on the couch facing the windows depicting the busy night at the club; earbuds in while listening to an important cell phone message received a few minutes ago.

Might as well take advantage of the situation.

You part the sparkly beads and enter the premises, immediately positioning yourself on the loveseat across from The Joker’s without any invitation.

“Hi Mister J,” you flatly greet without any trace of emotion.

“Hello Ghost,” The King of Gotham checks out the guest since he finds the creature totally fascinating.

I mean, why wouldn’t he be captivated? You have white hair shaved on the left side that’s meant to expose the skull tattoo you got after you’ve met your husband; smoky, dark red eyeshadow and glossy lips. You always wear black, tight skin leather suits and boots; not high heeled because it’s not your style: more like the heavy military kind, custom ordered to match your spouse’s.

“I have a business proposal; name your price,” The Joker grins and you give him a cold stare.

“I’m listening.”

“I want you to kill Bane for me.”

“Why?” you tilt your head in annoyance.

“I can’t stand him,” the honest response prompts retaliation from the guy that finally realized you’re there and just took his earbuds off:

“Stop hitting on my wife!” Bane huffs, displeased with J’s nonsense.

You’re not a big fan of The Joker either, yet you attempt to avoid useless conflict.

“I’m going to get me a drink. HB, want one?” you address your husband and he signals for his favorite.

“Triple shot of whiskey, no ice.”

“Be right back,” you announce and prepare to leave but tonight’s host is not happy with the outcome:

“I want a drink too.”

“Ask your girlfriend,” you cut J off and he underlines:

“She’s not here yet.”

“Too bad and so sad,” Y/N grumbles while vanishing from the VIP room.

Bane can’t hold in a very amused chuckle and choses to start something for the heck of it:

“Imagine being with a strong minded woman that does what she wants.”

J is far from receptive about Bane’s insinuation, definitely mad you brushed him off:

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?!”

“Did you ever hear the expression: jerk to the world but not to your girl?” Bane’s distorted tone amplifies today’s advice. “You might want to apply that to your fragile relationships.”

“Spare me your wisdom, HB!” The Clown Prince of Crime emphasizes the initials, deciding to counterattack. “B is from Bane, obviously,” he thinks he found something to make fun of. “H Comes from… Herbert? Hugh? Hedwig?”

Your spouse would love to wipe out J’s almighty smirk with a punch; savoring the aftermath of telling him the truth is infinitely better:

“HB comes from Handsome Brute; my wife calls me that.”

The Joker doesn’t have time to comment though: Y/N returns with the drinks and positions herself on Bane’s knees, helping him taking off his mask so he can enjoy his whiskey.

“Hey Ghost, how come you don’t smile or laugh?” The King of Gotham continues to be obnoxious, still upset you didn’t indulge his request for a beverage.

“I do,” you reply and guzzle down half of your drink at once. “HB makes me laugh all the time; he’s hilarious.”

J glares at the couple with his mouth slightly open; it’s fair to say you are probably the most serious people he does business with. I mean, sometimes you have this expression on your face that could pass as a grin in disguise and your husband…well, the way he looks makes it impossible to imagine him cracking up about anything.

“Duly noted,” The Joker scoffs and Frost suddenly yells loud enough to be heard from outside the VIP room:

“Sir, the truck is here!”

J gets pumped up and rushes out, urging his companions to follow. “Come on, let’s see if it was worth the wait!”

But Y/N and her spouse don’t oblige: Bane finishes his drink in one sip and you place your glass on the small coffee table nearby, casually mentioning:

“I’m late.”

“No you’re not,” he’s fast to disagree while pointing at his wrist watch. “You’re always on time.”

You place his hand on your tummy and it clicks.

“Oooh,” Bane gulps and his wife has to add the necessary info:

“Just a little bit over a week, might be nothing. I’ll have to check it out.”

“Oh my God…” he zones out since the possibility of becoming a father sounds exciting and terrifying all at once. “We might have created a tiny Ghost.”

“Maybe, but I have to let you know I have no idea how to be a mom.”

“Me neither,” his witty answer makes you snort before bursting out laughing like crazy.

The Joker is on the hallway and stops, confused: he’s returning to the VIP section to see why you didn’t follow him, yet the contagious snickering coming from inside baffles his mind: are you two laughing?!

“Bane!! Ghost!! Are you coming or not?!” he shouts and the chuckle slowly dies out as you help your other half put on the mask.

“Yeah, coming!” the pair joins The Clown towards the exit leading to the private parking lot behind the club.

“What were you talking about?” J curiously inquires.

“Personal stuff,” Bane gives an elusive explanation and opens the emergency door, firmly halting The Joker’s movement. “Ladies first!”

“For God’s sake,” J puffs and waits for you to pass by.

“Where are your manners, hm?” your husband scolds since he doesn’t approve of the host’s behavior.

“Would you give it a rest?!” The King of Gotham impatiently speeds up, fed up with Bane’s bickering.

As you walk towards the truck, you notice something you don’t like: the new muscle hired just a week ago is smoking without a care in the universe. You stomp towards him, yank the cigarette out of his fingers and step on it, aggravated:

“No smoking around my husband; you know the rule!!!”

The crew knows this is law simply because Bane has breathing problems but Lenox decides to mumble a thing or two to himself regarding the feisty woman. That’s too bad: your spouse doesn’t like it one bit. You don’t even have a chance to react to the observations since the goon is slammed against the nearest SUV by a very enraged husband.

“My wife’s a Goddess, you fucking asshole! You’re lucky if she blinks your way!”

The man is trying to escape the tight grip, the elbow forcefully pushing into his Adam’s apple not budging.

“I’m s-sorry boss,” Lenox struggles to speak and the noise of broken bone brings the quarrel to an end.

“You’re fired!” are the last words the henchman distinguishes as his limp body falls to the ground.

The Joker’s girlfriend sneaks up and grabs his hand, uneasy about what she just witnessed.

“Elected to show up?!” J growls, instantaneously criticizing her lack of coordination. “I told you to be here at 7pm sharp!”

“Sorry baby, there was a lot of traffic on the freeway. What happened?”

”Ugggh,” The Clown scoffs, unwilling to describe the events. “Clean up the mess!” he orders and pushes her arm away since he’s not in the mood for cheap affection.

Kara sighs, upset she can’t squeeze any type of intimacy from him except for the instances when they sleep together. The Joker abandons her, more interested in Ghost because she’s already digging in some crates lowered from the truck, not even phased by Bane’s performance.

“Did you find items that strike your fancy?” he hovers over your boxes.

“Yeah, this gun, “ you show him the pistol decorated with skulls. “ Matches my motorcycle.”

“Very nice,” he praises your option and leans to whisper: “One of these days I would love to sink my teeth in you. I bet you taste good.”

Such an inappropriate remark would usually prompt a punch or a bullet from your part, yet you are dealing with the dreadful Joker: he’s not worth the trouble. Instead you lift your tight sleeve higher, exposing skin that you take directly to his lips.

“Go ahead then: take a bite, this way we can all go on with our lives.”

In the meantime, Bane is talking to his mercenaries, instructing them to load the merchandise he’ll pick in the trunks of the bigger cars.

“Ghost!” he calls out. “I need you to lead the convoy afterwards!”

Apparently you have your hand up to The Joker’s mouth: did he blur out some crap again?! Definitely.

Yet you abandon your problem-project, waving at your husband.

Kara approaches also, not understanding what she saw from a distance.

“Hi Ghost,” the woman sadly acknowledges, jealous The Clown’s unwanted flirting might interfere with their already frail arrangement.

“Hey,” you elegantly reject more dialogue, pretending to be immersed in your task.

“I’ll go see what else we received,” J groans and shamelessly discloses his thoughts with his girlfriend standing right there. “When you get bored with Bane, maybe you’ll allow me to make you my Queen.”

Kara’s heart sinks at his indifference regarding her hurt feelings; Ghost certainly has no patience for his shenanigans.

“I’m already someone’s Goddess and I’d rather die than settle for less!”

The Joker smirks, groping his girlfriend in the process. He hops in the truck, starting to search the containers, entirely ignoring Kara and your reply to his proposal.

She sniffles after the humiliation on having her man utter such aberrations straight under her nose.

“You have to keep him in a leash; he sure loves to bark a lot,” you feel the urge to add, irritated she’s such a pushover. “I’m not interested in his rubbish,” you take pity on her pathetic demeanor. “He’s totally howling at the wrong tree mostly to exasperate you and my husband.”

Kara nods a yes, unconvinced her boyfriend’s reasons are the same with the ones you’re illustrating; she tried to unsuccessfully befriend you for a while now, her desire linked to J’s twisted interest in another guy’s wife. Her logic is not the greatest: if you believe getting close to the woman your partner has a special attraction for will help your case, then you should recheck your priorities.

Ghost never gave a damn about becoming Kara’s buddy since she doesn’t tolerate people to begin with. Except Bane. He’s special.

“Mmm…” The Joker’s girl fusses with her minuscule purse,”do you happen to have a pad? I thought I had an extra one in here.”

“Nope, but my husband does,” you serenely admit.

“Huh?” she hums, completely baffled.

“HB!!!” you get his attention. “I need you for a sec!”

He comes to meet you at the end of the truck, lowering himself so you can reach his heavy vest. One of the many pockets contains the required product and you can’t help but soothe his disappointment:

“No worries, it’s not for me,” you wink and he exhales, relieved.

As soon as Bane returns by his side, The Joker has to say it:

“You often carry feminine hygiene articles inside your gear?”

“Ghost might need it,” your spouse marvels at J’s question. “You don’t do that for your girl?!”

J doesn’t like to be put on the spot, yet your spouse grills him on regular basis as a payback for The Clown’s numerous offenses.

“I have no space,” he wiggles his way out of it.

“You got pockets attached to your fancy suits, correct? I’m sure you have enough anatomy knowledge to understand such matters and how simple it is to improve your woman’s life with such a small thing.”

“Would you give me a break?!” J interrupts Bane. “Nobody cares to hear about how perfect you are.”

HB doesn’t appreciate the irony in The King’s tone:

“You’re so hopeless,” he justly deduces, raising a massive crate with ammo he finds useful for his team. “I’ll take half of everything,” Bane changes subject, actually bored with teasing The Joker.

**************

The convoy is exiting the parking lot following your lead: you usually ride your motorcycle in front of the vehicles, scouting ahead when necessary. You never know when there’s a road blockage or accident where cops will be patrolling the area; it’s wiser to steer clear of redundant trouble.

Your husband is driving the first truck behind you, followed by four more vans and six SUV’s. He wouldn’t have it any other way: Bane’s addicted to the nice view of seeing Ghost mounted on her customized Harley Davidson: skulls painted against a shiny, clear background to match her tattoo, a gift from him for your four year wedding anniversary.

“Your butt looks very nice on that bike,” he compliments and you giggle through the mike in your helmet. “I can’t wait to…”

“Boss,” Eric cuts in. “You forgot to switch the frequency to the other line; we can all hear you.”

“Goddamned jerks!” Bane groans and pushes the red button on his walkie-talkie, vexed he forgot to switch the channels.

Again.

You laugh at his frustration, finding it priceless this keeps on happening.

“Yes, I know you can’t wait to get home,” you snort and accelerate. “Me too; it’s been a long day and sex is bound to do the trick and wind us down.”

Watching Ghost’s long, white hair flying in the wind makes Bane even more impatient.

“We might need to pull over, not sure I can make it.”

“You have to,” his wife advices. “Otherwise we’ll be late and we might bump into traffic coming from 205 Southbound.”

“Shit…” he reckons you’re not wrong. “I’ll try my best but I can’t make any promises.”

************

After two hours

You ignore the first knock. The second and third also.

“Jesus!” you moan, disappointed with the interference.

Bane continues to kiss your neck, making his way down your cleavage: he sure adores the red, skimpy little bra you’re wearing.

More knocking.

“You must be kidding me!” you grind your teeth and get off him, leaving a disappointed husband hanging by a thread.

“If it’s one of the boys I’ll bash their brains in!” he threatens and you tug on the door handle, prepared to lash out when the sight of Kara catches you by surprise.

“Yes?...” you roll of eyes at the unwelcomed visitor while wrapping the bathrobe around your frame.

“Hi Ghost,” she swallows her tears and you can see she is fighting to stay calm. “Is J here?”

“No.”

“He’s not answering his phone,” she gulps and nervously bundles in the thin coat she’s wearing, unconsciously attempting to cover her ripped skirt.

“Well, he’s not here,” you make it short but something about her strange behavior causes a small investigation. “What’s wrong?”

She chokes and suddenly bursts out crying, struggling to articulate the sentences.

“J l-eft me at the c-club to wait for him and o-one…one of the bouncers tried to rape m-me.”

You’re silent for a few moments before inviting her in your home. No wonder security let her pass: they recognized The Joker’s girlfriend and assumed she was expected.

“This way,” you guide her towards the living room, gesturing for one of the chairs. “Sit!”

She can’t stop sobbing and you pour some bourbon in a glass, encouraging her to drink.

“Finish this!”

Kara sips the alcohol and her shaky hands almost drop the container.

You take a blanket from the sofa and cover her with it, immediately snatching your cell from the table.

You touch the screen and it rings just once.

“Hello there.”

He sure picked up right away.

“Why aren’t you answering your phone?!”

“I just did.”

“Your girlfriend is trying to reach you!” Ghost mutters, literally pissed at his conduct.

“I’m busy,” he takes the easy way out and you are instantly fired up:

“If you would pay attention to Kara instead of wasting your charms on a married woman maybe the idiots working for you wouldn’t assume they can take liberties without any type of consequences!!!!”

J is stunned you’re screaming like that, yet he wants to find out what’s going on.

“What do you mean?!”

“One of your bouncers at the club tried to rape her and you won’t even answer her calls!”

The King of Gotham is dumbfounded and speechless for once since someone would dare such an affront.

“Lemme talk to her,” he requires and you hand over the phone to the horrified girlfriend; she has a difficult time telling him the details of her scary experience and how she barely escaped the attack.

You keep on gazing at her, Kara’s misfortune striking a chord within your soul: her situation reminds you of your past, although the circumstances were quite different.

Five years ago, Y/N survived her faith; the man responsible for creating the Goddess she is today saved her and didn’t ask for anything in return, not even for a name.

Although she told him once.

And he decided there’s nothing better than a mysterious Ghost, except being loved by one.

Also read: MASTERLIST

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#the joker x reader #the joker fanfiction #the joker imagine #the joker jared leto #the joker #joker #joker fanfiction #bane x reader #joker imagines #joker jared leto #mister j #Mistah J #Mr.J #dcu

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kootenaygoon · 5 years

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So,

They called it the suicide blanket—the ominous, low-hanging fog that settled over Kootenay Lake and plunged Nelson into a perpetual grey gloom.

Paisley and I huddled under porch blankets as the trees frosted at the summit of Elephant Mountain, the white descending slowly on to the city. Winter is coming. From the comfy warmth of our little hermitage I watched YouTube theory videos about Game of Thrones and scribbled on my chalkboard wall, creating character lists and fine-tuning a timeline for my ever-evolving thesis manuscript. I wanted it to be composed of multiple interlinking stories, like my favourite novel A Visit from the Goon Squad, but I was constantly swapping out one story for another, never reaching any conclusion.

While Paisley worked on her desserts I huddled down at my laptop and hammered away at my real work. Journalism was still only a secondary concern in my head, a means to make money until I sold this manuscript and vaulted up into the world of novelists. I sent out excerpts to literary journals, receiving a flurry of rejection letters in response, and tried to ignore the fact that I hadn’t made any legit progress on my fiction since arriving in Nelson. I felt this insistent fear that I wasn’t good enough, that I wasn’t going to live up to my ambitions, while meanwhile Paisley would remind me that we had a pretty nice life and maybe I needed to chill out a bit, okay?

“I don’t think I can go into work today,” I said one morning. “I feel like somebody’s sitting on my chest. I can’t do this.”

“So take a sick day.”

“I don’t have any yet. You have to be an employee for like a year before you start getting them.”

“This is your mental health, Will. Calvin can handle things without you.”

I hesitated.

“Stay home and I’ll take care of you, okay? I don’t have a co-op shift today.”

Around that time I wrote a story for the Star about a music video called “Junkyard Bettie”. It was directed by a local dude named Jonathan Robinson and featured an Aussie singer named Sofiella Watt. She was backed up by her banjo-plucking hipster band the Huckleberry Bandits. Set in an actual junkyard just outside of town, the video told the story of a lonely young traveler struggling to make it through a Canadian winter. Oh, lady winter, you have done me wrong, you’ve done me wrong. Oh dark December, won’t you please be gone, please be gone? Played by Sofiella’s friend Lauren Herraman, the dark-eyed protagonist wanders morosely through a bleak landscape populated by derelict cars, only to discover some friends and end up at a barnyard dance party. When I interviewed Sofiella, she told me the lyrics were a true story she picked up from a housekeeping co-worker at a local hotel. The woman’s boyfriend had left her, her cat went missing, and all her missing posters were rained on and got torn down.

Then the junkyard dog bit her.

“It was one of those quintessential blues song scenarios where everything goes wrong. I said ‘that’s terrible, but such an amazing story’. I asked her if I could write a song about that, because I could never make up something that good.”

I admired Sofiella’s ability to take a dark experience and create something beautiful out of it, but wasn’t sure how to accomplish that in the Star newsroom. Calvin had found himself embroiled in a number of community conflicts, and his stress level was rubbing off on everyone around him. I made excuses to leave the office when he was upset, setting up interviews across town or just wandering down to the park to take some pictures, because I couldn’t stand being around his energy. Tamara felt the same way, and when he wasn’t around we’d sit commiserating over all the unnecessary drama he’d brought into our lives.

“At the end of the day, you have to take care of yourself. And if Calvin’s negatively affecting your mental health, maybe that’s something you should report to management,” she said.

“I feel like such a whiner.”

“You’re not whining — you’re just expressing your truth.”

“The truth is I think he’s going to quit any day now, and I can’t wait.”

It wasn’t just work getting me down. Though I couldn’t admit it to myself, cannabis had become my primary mental health problem. In Victoria we’d been consuming a little baggie of weed a week, maybe two, while in Nelson we were literally burning through hundreds of dollars’ worth of pre-rolled joints a month. Was it the solution, or was it the problem? It was like an extra rent payment. Somewhere along the line we started buying pot before groceries, and a few times we ended up with an empty fridge while we waited days for the next paycheck. Sometimes we went begging to our parents. It was our ritual, the way we bonded, watching Pineapple Express and making candy runs to 7-11, but it was also the way we coped with our feelings post-fight, it was how I treated my depression and she treated her pain, and increasingly it was more of a chore than a fun time.

As we started to make friends our age, it became apparent that we weren’t alone. We were surrounded by functional chronics, people who operated in a perma-stoned state, and for many of them cannabis was nearly interchangeable with coffee. Both were something you consumed to tweak your mood and outlook, both lasted a few hours, and both cost around five bucks a hit. I found myself hosting never-ending debates in my head about the benefits and drawbacks of my new lifestyle, trying to weigh what it was costing me against all the benefits I was becoming dependent on. Was my memory worse? Was I less present? Could I really stop smoking if I wanted to? Paisley and I repeatedly made vows to quit, sometimes lasting a few days, but inevitably it crept back into our lives. Whenever her parents visited we had to do a thorough job of hiding the evidence.

“I never would have predicted that I’d become a stoner,” said Paisley. “My whole life I avoided it, never touched it, was never interested. And now it’s got this fucking hold on me.”

“You can’t blame yourself.”

“Watch me.”

Despite this, Paisley’s job at Kootenay Co-op was going well and she was making new friends. Her desserts were generating us a third income, and she was writing recipes and coming up with new culinary innovations all the time. From September to December she was happily busy, walking downtown once a week to practice her burlesque routines at Boob Camp with Charlotte Coco Orchid, and the rest of the time she spent nesting with the dogs and decorating our house. She went out and purchased the costume she was going to need for the upcoming show, then showcased it in our living room before heading out to a photo shoot with the other women. She looked adorable, in clown makeup and fishnet stockings, and I held her in my arms.

“I’ve been thinking,” she said. “Maybe you should be in the show.”

I snorted. “It’s next week.”

“Charlotte’s looking for a male performer to pick up the clothes left on stage between sets. I was thinking about it, and you went to theatre school. You should totally do it.”

“I’m not going to do burlesque.”

“Why not?”

That was a good question. She continued to push the issue until I agreed to talk to Charlotte, and pretty soon I’d been recruited. Paisley took me out shopping for a pair of white “manties”, a baggy Speedo decorated with bright red hearts, then we bought a set of blood-coloured wings that matched the plush bow and arrow I would be carrying. I did love being onstage, and had arguably done more outrageous things in high school, but the concept of prancing around in my underwear in front of a bunch of Kootenay strangers definitely gave me pause. It would be a spectacle. For it to work properly I was going to have to be thoroughly shit-faced, I knew. I worked my way through four or five beers before we even headed down the hill to the show, at the Hume Hotel.

“You’re not allowed to hit on the other girls,” she said. “And don’t be creepy.”

“I won’t be creepy.”

“I mean it.”

“The only one I care about is you, okay?”

Once we arrived in the warm-up room, it was game on. Women were rushing in and out, changing from one costume into another, and some wild-haired dude was giving himself a sponge bath in the sink. Show-tunes and party anthems were blaring from nearby speakers. I met a little person named Cotton Candy and an older burlesque legend named Suzanna Sultry who the women all worshipped. We all posed together for a photo. One of Paisley’s friends took charge of decorating my torso with lipstick, inviting the others to leave kisses from my treasure trail to my collarbone. Don’t be creepy, I reminded myself, as they took turns kneeling in front of me. Over the months that Paisley’d been doing Boob Camp I’d come to know a bunch of them, and a few of us ducked into a back alley to smoke a joint. Upon my return the photographer grabbed me, and said she wanted a few shots of me with Paisley. I turned to her, held her close to my chest, and gave her a gentle kiss as the shutter snapped. Eventually Charlotte gathered everyone into a circle for a pep talk. The topless woman standing across from me was missing one of her nipple tassels, so was clutching her boob with one hand.

“Look at all the power in this room,” Charlotte said. “I am so proud of each and every one of you. You’re going to go out there and blow them away. You’ve done all the hard work, and now you get to reap the reward.”

Standing back-stage clutching a beer, feeling cold sweat collect in my hairline, I wondered if I was about to humiliate myself. There had been no rehearsals, no real instructions. Was I supposed to go out between every number, or just a select few? Was I supposed to dance, and if so, what kind of dance was I supposed to do? There’s a subversive element to burlesque, I knew, and a sense that nothing is sacred and everything is silly. I could get down with that. For her first performance Paisley marched out with the five other women, working her way through an elaborately choreographed sequence that saw the women crawling across the floor, hurling themselves on to their backs and spreading their legs wide. I congratulated her as she came breathlessly off-stage, then kissed her as Charlotte beckoned me forward. I was in bare feet, brandishing my bow and arrow, and upon my entrance the audience roared with approval. I gyrated, spinning around to bend over like a porn star, and frolicked drunkenly as I went searching for the various layers and lacy bits that had been left behind. Charlotte was loudly announcing something into the microphone as I gave the audience a last wink and departed. My back and shoulders were shimmering with sweat, my hair wet against my forehead, my limbs vibrating.

I can’t believe I just did that, I thought.

While the show progressed I stood at a gap in the curtains and looked out at the rowdy crowd, some of them in costumes, who were roaring and shouting for the performers onstage. These are my people, I thought. Charlotte was a champ, commandeering the entire thing while performing multiple sets herself, and Paisley cuddled up beside me. Charlotte chased Cotton Candy around the stage, both of them half-naked, and then a boylesque performer did a leather-clad striptease. I was continuing to drink, and somewhere along the way I’d been forgotten — which I was fine with. I wanted to get back into my real clothes, but that would mean cutting through the parking lot in my underwear. I was just planning my escape when Charlotte introduced Isla Valentine, who was performing her first ever solo set. A milky-skinned brunette, she slinked across the stage and threw herself down on a chair. She smiled languidly at the audience, undoing her bra. Upon release she whipped it into the air triumphantly and flung out her jiggling breasts — dislodging both her pasties, which flew into the audience.

“Oh, shit,” said Paisley, as the crowd gasped. “She must not have glued them right.”

Isla quickly clasped her hands to her nipples, her face furrowed, and for a moment it looked like the number would be over. But as we watched, a look of determination crossed Isla’s face. Fuck it. She dropped her hands, stood up, and continued dancing to elated whoops. Striding from one edge of the stage to the other, she jutted out her hips and whipped back her hair, grinning defiantly.

“Wow, she really went with that,” I said. “Good for her.”

“No, not good for her. She’s going to get Charlotte in trouble. She told us ahead of time: the hotel can get fined for nudity.”

“Really? You think they’ll actually fine Charlotte?”

“They could.”

“It was a mistake! What was she supposed to do?”

Paisley frowned. “You don’t get it.”

The remainder of that evening is a haze, but one memory remains intact: meeting Ryan Martin, the owner of the hotel. I’d heard from multiple people in town that he was an important person to know, a powerhouse in the business community, but we hadn’t crossed paths yet. While I padded along the carpet coming back from the bar, double-fisting and still in my underwear, I nearly bowled him over coming around a corner. As soon as I realized who he was I was embarrassed, and felt like I needed to explain myself. Nearly naked, with lipstick smeared all over my stomach and the crimson wings drooping over my shoulders, I knew I was something of a radical sight. I stammered out that I don’t actually drink that much, told him this wasn’t usual behaviour for me. He grinned and clapped me on the shoulder.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “This is the Kootenays.”

The Kootenay Goon

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