Utianle

Amber Lee!

I hated that name but the men at the strip club liked it, they had chorused it over and over again as they slipped Naira notes through the tiny band of my G-string. It was a confirmation of what Boss herself said when she first suggested it - a fancy name for the stripping business.

They were not the only ones who thought the same of the name, the additional 2,000 people who just followed me on Instagram after watching the video must have liked it too.

With high hopes, I skipped to my business account, the one that had all the samples of my work.

768 followers!

That was what stared back at me, even with all the giveaways I previously advertised. I knew it had something to do with my lack of sexual content on the account but it didn't stop that feeling of sadness that gnawed at my throat. I was good at what I did, even Vincent had said it a thousand and one times, I just needed that big break, a chance at showing the fashion world what this Calabar lady had in store for them.

"What are you thinking of?" Faith nudged me with her elbow, drawing me out from my mind trip.

"I'm just," the fear of speaking my worries into existence caused the words to dry in my throat, "I'm just tired. What if we no come dey alright?"

"Don't say that, things will get better," her right hand reached for my left, squeezing it gently. "No condition is permanent."

That was the same thing she said last year and yet there were no improvements, except for the fact that I finally worked up the courage to quit my job. I didn't contradict her words, not because I believed them but because the optimistic part of me wanted to hang on to that tiny thread of hope.

"Do your legs still hurt?" Her question brought back the pain I had tried to forget, memories of the routines I still had to learn played over and over again in my head. Balling my hand into a fist, I drummed it gently against my thighs, shaking my head in response to her question.

"I can talk to Vincent for you, he will understand," she must have seen through the false smile on my face when my fist connected with my laps. "You have never missed a day, so he can forgive this."

"No, it's fine. I made an agreement with Bose," Bose was the woman who ran the strip club I was now working in. "I'll only come during the weekends."

"Fine. Don't get used to it," she murmured disapprovingly; she tugged on the neckline of her shift dress, another one of my creation, while her other hand rotated the steering wheel of her father's Range Rover as we turned into the street that housed my fashion school. "And my offer of a loan is still open."

"I followed you on IG," she resumed when I said nothing. "So, you have been hiding your twerking skills from me, abi?"

We both burst into laughter at that, after which, I went on a tirade of the bone twisting routines I had to do while sweating behind a mask and wig I used to protect my identity. I loved the power and freedom that came from the job but I had no intention of staying a day more once my needs were satisfied.

* * *

"Aunty Uti, welcome!" The security man at Vincent Fashion Hub greeted, pulling the single glass door open. I responded with the same enthusiasm, hiding the nervousness I felt for coming in late.

Making my way to the office cum workspace, I stopped in front of the glass doors. With my forehead pressed against the door, I got a glimpse of fellow interns bent over their phones, probably poring over designs Vincent sent them.

He was more of an electronic than a paper sketch guy. With his background in Graphic design, an avatar with the choice of outfit the clients wanted was always ready.

At a corner of this large space was a desk with his laptop, it was meant to be his private space but he always wanted to keep an eye on us, so he had the thin wooden wall separating us removed. The rest of the room was occupied by various sizes of large electric sewing machines, floor to wall mirrors and ironing boards.

A wave of tiredness swept over me and for a fleeting moment, I considered taking Faith's suggestion. I was yet to finish Cynthia Ubani gown, she was on the list of top ten Celebrity stylists and a shoutout from her after wearing one of my designs might be the breakthrough I needed.

"Uti, you came right on time," Vincent said as soon as I walked into the room. One of the upsides of having his desk at its current location was that he was the first one to see whoever entered.

Smiling innocently at him, a trait I inherited from having little children in the house, I bounced on the balls of my feet. With heavily muscled upper body and slim legs, he was the perfect cast for the role of The Hulk but underneath all those muscles was a kind man who just wanted to dazzle the world with his daring fashion.

"I always do," I muttered. My eyes strayed to the man beside him and an inaudible gasp escaped my lips. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from gawking at him, forcing myself to think of Umoh instead.

Handsome was an understatement to describe his looks. His grey suit looked like it was sewn on his body. Flawless skin the colour of chocolate and face that looked like it was made after God rested, I couldn't help taking another look at him.

"Uti, this is King, the one you made that outfit for." Chuckling to myself at the reminder of that day, how much of a wreck Vincent had been after King's phone call. He could never work under pressure, so the mandate of making the outfit had fallen on my shoulders.

"Hi, welcome." I stretched out my hand to him, sighing contentedly at the softness of his hand. His hold on my limb lasted for longer than it should, accompanied by an arrogant smirk that adorned lips that were now parted to reveal white, perfect dentition.

"I just sent you his style," he showed me an image on his iPad that failed to capture the true beauty of the man in front of me, "take his measurements and I'll do the rest."

We both turned to look at King as if seeking his consent to go ahead; some clients were particular about who took their measurements or laid hands on their clothes. He shrugged half-heartedly and together we sauntered to my work table.

Silently, I took his measurements, stopping a few times to scribble on the book in front of me.

"You have such beautiful handwriting," I swooned mentally at the sound of his voice which matched perfectly with his good looks. "It's a relief to see writing that doesn't look like it was scrawled by chickens."

Laughing out loud at his remark, I tried and failed to come up with an appropriate reply.

"All done," my stomach took this time to grumble and it did so loudly. My hands instinctively went over my belly, smoothing the invisible creases on my yellow spaghetti strap top that was tucked into an Ankara short of the same colour.

"Maybe we can go have lunch, my way of saying thank you for that outfit you made. It scored me some really good ass." The look that crossed my face led him to hurriedly add, "in my office, we say ass instead of assignment. Don't judge us, we are all a bunch of hormonal men."

Shoving back that judgmental part of me that wanted to scream na them at his poor attempt of a cover-up, I responded, "oh, it's fine. You don't have to, I was only doing my job, it's part of the training."

"I insist, there's a restaurant down the street, what do you say to that?" He raised his left hand to beard filled jaw, exposing the expensive Rolex wristwatch on his wrist. Staring at me with honey-coloured irises that barely concealed the lust in them, a slow, seductive smile formed on his lips.

"I have a boyfriend," I replied with my hands akimbo and a lack of amusement at his actions.

"Is he hungry too?"

My calm exterior cracked for a bit before I regained my composure, letting out words I regretted the second they were out, "fuck you."

"I can't, you are not my type." He replied with a smirk, shoving his fists deep into his pockets.

Taking deep breaths to refrain from talking back at him, I hurled him a look that showed what I would do to him if I ever got the chance, none of which was pleasurable.

"Uti! Is everything okay?" Vincent's voice broke us from our battle of stares.

My left eye twitched when I replied in the affirmative, twitching again when I nodded the second time he asked.

"You know, the customer is always right," he added before turning around, leaving me glaring daggers at his back.

*****

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