Page 29 of Angels Fall

Don’t go there, Scarlett, the angel says.

That would be fucking epic! the devil exclaims.

—and make me move to stupid France with them. My mother would cry, I’m pretty certain of it. And it’s not like they’re judge-y or anything. It’s just… they’d be so disappointed in me. I had such potential as a teenager. My mother has actually never said that to me, but I’ve read the look in her eyes. Every time I start something and then fall on my ass, she frowns and gives me this look that says, You had so much potential before…

You know, I fell off Mount Everest after Scotty died and… yeah.

And then there’s the whole Tyler thing.

I sigh again. It’s even longer and sadder, if that’s even possible.

My alarm dings again, letting me know I’ve got one minute to make it on time.

I shouldn’t care so much about being on time, but I do. Because sad as it is, I need this stupid job. I’ve made some cash since I started working here full time. Like, almost nine thousand dollars. But I’ve pretty much sold my soul for that money. And I have no pennies to spare, either. I can’t shop, or even try to get more video appointments with the real estate people, or fucking eat, if I’m being honest. And now I’ve only got a few weeks left to get the other hundred and seventy-six thousand.

It’s never gonna happen, but I’ve always prided myself on my eternal optimism, so I just keep on truckin’.

“Ha!” I laugh again.

I grab my backpack, get out, slam the door, and walk to the building.

I am Pete’s old, black door. I think I’m paraphrasing the movie Fight Club to myself. Which has a lead character in it called Tyler. Who is played by Brad Pitt. Who looks like the Tyler I know. Which makes me think of him. Which pisses me off. Christ.

Inside it’s dark, as usual, and there’s like seven people here, as usual. And Candy, the girl on stage, is bent over, holding onto the brass pole, bumping her ass up and down to the beat of Pretty Fly (For a White Guy), working it hard as she looks over her shoulder at the one guy sitting up near the stage, mouthing the words, Give it to me, baby.

He takes a sip of his beer and throws her a single.

I walk past and head for the stairs. Because if I’m the morning manager at Pete’s then I need a fucking raise.

I climb up, determined, my jaw set, my knock firm. Because I’ll be goddamned if I’m gonna work my ass off like Candy down there, and take a half-heartedly thrown dollar bill as my payment.

“Yep,” Pete calls.

I find him slumped over his desk, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose as he scans a spreadsheet on his computer.

“Hey,” I say, all my confidence faltering.

“Madison,” he says, not looking at me. “What can I do for you?”

Madison. Jesus. That’s a wake-up call. I feel like I’m talking to the dean back in college and not my strip-club boss.

“Um… well,” I stammer. “I just…”

He looks up at me, fluffy eyebrows raised. “Close the door.”

Holy shit. “Did I—Am I in trouble?”

Pete crosses his arms across his chest. “Dunno. You tell me.”

I’m not sure what that means, so I just turn, close the door, and take a deep breath. “I just… feel like I’m doing a lot of extra work.” He squints his eyes at me, like that was a loaded comment. And it probably was. Because it’s leading somewhere, so… “I mean, I fired someone for you. And I made the schedule last week. And I handle little problems, like with the other girls and stuff. And since, you know, you don’t have a morning manager, and I seem to be filling in, and I’m pretty sure Raven gets a salary for her extra efforts, then maybe…” I run out of breath and stop, unsure if I should pull the trigger and say it.

Say it! the devil screams in my head. You’re the boss!

“I’m kinda the boss down there, OK? And you’d be taking advantage of me if you didn’t pay me for my extra work.”

He stares at me. I squirm and shuffle my feet, praying that I didn’t just piss him off and get myself fired. He clears his throat and says, “Yeah, I was wondering when you’d figure that out.”

“Figure… what out?”