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CHAPTER FOUR
*Lace*
Most nights, the club is completely cleared before I leave. For the first couple years, security fought my wishes to be left alone due to the general saloon rule that all dancers must be escorted to their vehicles. I would simply get in my car and drive away only to come right back and park my house on wheels for the night once all was clear.
Sure, I live behind a gentlemen’s club, but the lot is not at all visible from the road, which makes it ideal for a squatter. Or, in my case, someone living out of their vehicle. Plus, I can take moonlit strolls on the beach and baths in the gulf across the street. As an added bonus, it’s also only a few blocks from my parents’ house. Fine-tuning my mobile living arrangement has been a seemingly never-ending venture, so I still keep a few odds and ends at my childhood home.
For now.
Not for much longer, though.
Hopefully.
Almost time for this birdie to leave her cage.
An extra percentage of my tips every shift was eventually enough to persuade security to stop chaperoning me. Well, a little extra money and Foster’s blessing, of course.
Who is to question why Foster approves of my staying late, after all? Do I care that most of the staff probably assumes we have some sort of extra-curricular agreement?
Nope.
Let them think what they want.
Whenever possible, I try to run things by Foster rather than Stoney. For one, I tend to get my way. Secondly, Stoney is an incredibly vile person. Outside of Bike Week, I try to avoid him as much as possible in general — even going to the extent of only working when Foster is on the schedule.
That larger tip out also ensures word doesn’t get around to Stoney that I have a key and am the one who locks up the club most nights after staying late to practice pole tricks.
No practicing tonight, though. Foster is still here making sure the new doxy properly understands the saloon rules. And, last I saw before stepping out, a couple stragglers were still hanging out under the front awning, waiting for the rain to let up a little — much like I’m doing right now at the backside of the building.
Tired of waiting, I give in to Mother Nature, make a dash for my wagon, pop open the trunk, and use the raised hatch as cover while converting my makeshift home back into a regular ol’ wagon. Breaking down my bed and the small drawers beneath the frame that hold all the necessities for my miniature kitchen and dining things only takes a jiff. Hauling each bulky item, one trek at a time takes longer, though. After a couple trips to the thin strip of property alongside the building, all the deconstructed pieces are temporarily stored and safe from the rain under a tarp.
Since the construction stuff is now out of the way — a feat I attempt only on rare occasions — I collect and unzip the duffle kept stored under the flattened rear seats, pry up the trunk floorboard, and store a quarter of my earnings from tonight into the hidden compartment and a quarter into the bag. Before work tomorrow, I can make a bank deposit for the rest. Dad always taught me, “Best not put all your eggs in one basket.”
Visiting Mom and Dad is not something I do often. I left that toxic environment for a damn good reason. Only to waltz right into another type of toxic environment, apparently.
Nevertheless, looking a lot like I have been ridden hard and put away wet, I load up and head that way to swap out some things for a mini vacation at the condo Hell for Leather rents every time they come down.
When I drive around to the front of the building, those lingering customers are still there, getting wet for all the wrong reasons, both because the saloon has closed for the night, and they’re too drunk to drive.
Getting to my parents’ house only takes a few minutes. I pull into the driveway and park. As soon as I swing the wagon’s heavy door open and hop out, a muffled, blood-curdling wail from inside cuts through the heavy patter of rain.
My heart drops into my stomach, and I race toward the house, slipping in the door that opens directly into the living room. Mom, in her constant state of being fucked up, seldom remembers this entrance exists as the sliding glass door is covered by long, vertical blinds. No matter how often she tries to lock me out, Dad just goes right behind her and unlocks it.
I rush through the living room, following the hiccupy wails of my baby sister into the dining room. Tilting my head back, I discover Reece had somehow climbed up to the loft and gotten her leg stuck between the wooden slats.
Blood drains all the way to my toes. I bound up the winding staircase and drop to my knees at her side. “Shh, hey sweetie. There, there. Ace is here. I got you, baby girl.”
With one hand, I whip my cell phone out and turn on the flashlight while pressing my opposite fingers between her chunky thigh and the wood. Her leg is wedged pretty tight, and the bright flashlight reveals that it is starting to turn a purplish-blue. Thank the Universe I showed up. Brushing wispy hair out of her watery eyes, I explain that I’ll be right back. But as soon as I stand, her screeching returns.
Leaving her becomes that much harder. I charge down the steps, nearly falling on my ass in the process, and hurry toward the garage to pilfer some tools. A hammer is easy to find, seeing as I know Dad’s shop like the lines in my palms.
As soon as I reenter the house, scale the stairs, and squat at Reece’s side again, her wail turns into a distracted sniffle. I plop onto my butt and carefully lay her backward, catching an eye-watering whiff of stale diaper contents with the movement.
She lies still, her hazel eyes wide and watchful, and gives me all her trust. To protect her from the swing, I cover her head and face with my opposite hand and forearm before wrenching the hammer back and slamming it against one of the two slats that have her pinned.
The first couple hits accomplish nothing. On the third strike, a little squeak comes from the end where the nail connects the slat to the railing.
“Almost there, baby girl,” I grunt, giving the wood another good whack.
