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ChapterOne
I need a new job before I murder my boss.
Silks was never the most upstanding of strip clubs to begin with. Plenty of the girls dancing and serving here are happy to go into private rooms and work on their backs for a hundred bucks, but when Vinnie owned the place, the rest of us felt protected. If we wanted to keep our masks on, do our jobs, and go home without seeing a limp cock, we could. Bernard, the new sleaze in charge, views the world differently.
“No.” You’d think that word would be simple enough for his diminutive brain. Two letters, one syllable. Most toddlers understand it.
“Now listen, sweetheart." It's hilarious he thinks I'm the one not listening when he's completely ignoring my straightforward answer. "They’re offering a lot of money to talk to you privately. Just a talk, mind."
I suppose his attention is too focused on my exposed tits for him to hear me. Some guys just can’t multi-task.
I pull my hoodie over my head, covering the cupless silver bra and nipple stickers.
Back in Vinnie's day, we could wear whatever we wanted as long as it was short and revealing. I found the perfect balance to get the most tips and the least amount of handsy creeps was a cropped top and a pair of shorts.
Then Bernie instituted a "uniform."
I should have quit as soon as I saw the ridiculous outfit, mostly comprised of intertwined strings, but the AC broke again and I needed the money. Badly. As I usually do.
Maybe getting dressed will help the jerk concentrate on my actual words. “I don’t serve the VIP section. I don’t do private dances. I don’t do privatetalks. And I sure as fuck don’t do it for a thousand dollars.”
No one would offer that much cash without expecting to get their dick very, very wet.
I’m not a prostitute. I wait tables in this strip joint because I can take home over two hundred bucks per night in tips on weekends, and I have bills to pay.
I have no time for day work, between my classes and the fact that, for all intents and purposes, I’m my little sister’s parent. Mom’s still around, but only when she’s passed out. As soon as she wakes up, she gets out the door and rushes to the thug hangout where she can get her fill of drugs, alcohol, and cocks. I’m only free at night. There isn’t much else Icando except working at a gas station, and that wouldn’t cover a tenth of my expenses, given the cost of the insulin Willow needs to live.
I actually used to like my job, before Bernard bought the place. Watching the insanely talented women dance on the poles is fun. Sure, some clients get a little grabby, but Vinnie’s bouncers used to stop them the moment they put their hands on us. Now, I’m on my own when someone wants to cop a feel.
I don’t judge the girls here who screw their clients. My closest friend, Lola, started fucking for cash when she was sixteen because she couldn’t find a job, with her baby face and her two left feet. Among my fellow waitresses, I know that Marina has two kids with special needs. You wouldn’t believe her hospital bills. If taking flacid dicks helps her stay afloat, good for her. I just don’t want to fuck strangers for money. In fact, I don’t think I want to fuck anyone at all. Sex can lead to children, and I already have one—a fourteen-year-old, barely four years younger than I am. I’m tired, broke, and bitter. Let’s not add pregnant to that shining resumé.
Thankfully, my hormones are on my side on this. Men don't do much for me—with one notable exception, but he doesn't count.He scarcely know I exist. My brain wisely chose a completely unattainable object to obsess over, probably out of self-preservation.
“Look here, Morgan.” Bernard crosses his arms on his chest, endeavoring to make himself look impressive, I suppose, but he's five-five to my five-six. The only thing imposing about him is his beer belly. I think could take him. That is, until he calls his bouncers. “You work for me. If I say you gotta talk to those clients, you gotta talk to them.”
I stare at his double chin for a moment, daydreaming about punching his carotid artery. Or I could be boring and just go for the junk.
I'm not one for violence, but one doesn't grow up the way I did without learning to throw down occasionally—usually for my sister's benefit.No one gets to talk shit about Willow.
“Fine," I grunt, resolved.
His flushed face starts to morph into a leery grin.
I open my locker up again to clean out the few personal possessions I leave here: a deodorant, my portable phone charger, spare change. “I guess I quit.”
I can’t afford to, but that was always the plan. Graduation was a week ago. I can apply for a day job. It’ll be nice for Willow to have someone there at night. Not to mention safer. I stress out about leaving her alone in the trailer. Some of our neighbors are all right, like Lola’s family. I know her little brothers would help my sister if something happened. But there are also dodgy guys who openly ogle us like they aren’t three times our age, waiting for the first vulnerability to pounce. I saw it happen to Lola. Her family was a month late on rent and about to get kicked out when Mr. Dwight offered her some spare cash for “helping out around the house.”
I don’t ever want Willow to fall into that void. She’s too bright, too sweet, and she’s mine to protect.
My stomach twitches, like it does every time I think about my best friend's disappearance.
Lola, Erica, and I were always a trio. It was us against the world. Now Erica lives across the river, in the posh part of town. She's married to a rich hottie from one of Thorn Falls' founding families.
And Lola’s missing.
Seven weeks. A month and a half. She was last seen in May and it’s now mid-June. There’s no trace of her online, and Lola was a social media addict.
Is. She is a social media addict. She’s alive. She’s all right. I have to believe that. I've already set the wheels in motion to find her. In fact, it's possible I’ll have an answer waiting in my inbox when I get back home today.
