Текст книги "Four Seconds to Lose"
Автор книги: K. A. Tucker
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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 25 страниц)
I let myself believe that it was over.
Then a man cornered me coming out of the gym one night in May, just after finishing the last of my high school exams, asking all kinds of questions about Sal and Sam. I kept my cool, playing the clueless, normal eighteen-year-old girl to award-winning perfection.
I told Sam the second I got home and the next day, he handed me a manila envelope full of new documents and identification—birth certificate, driver’s license, passport, credit cards. Everything needed to be twenty-two-year-old Charlie Rourke from Indianapolis. The package came with a one-way ticket to Miami leaving that night and a bank account with ten thousand dollars in it. With a heavy hand on my shoulder and a slow, even voice, Sam said that his little mouse needed to disappear for a little while. “This will keep you safe and hidden from guys like that. Just relax, lay low, and wait until all this blows over. We don’t want anything pinned to us for Sal.”
To us.
“But what about Tisch?” I had asked.
I got a regretful smile in return. “You’re going to have to delay for a year. Too risky, otherwise. I’ll take care of it.” I remember the disappointment that flooded through me at that news.
Instructing me to hand over all of my real identification, right down to my bank card, Sam murmured, “You’re not you anymore. You’re Charlie Rourke and only Charlie Rourke. Be who you want to be but stay in character, my little actor. As long as you do that, no one will find you. No one will hurt you. Everything in this envelope is legit. It’s a genuine ID.” Muttering more to himself, “For a hundred G’s, you should have no issues at all.”
I remember my jaw dropping—a rare but unplanned reaction.
This wasn’t a half-assed get-you-past-the-bouncer type of ID that you pick out from a bag of stolen driver’s licenses. Sam would have had to start making these arrangements for me long before yesterday, before anyone ever approached me.
That was my first clue that Sam wasn’t telling me the truth.
And when the first drop request came a month after moving to Miami, I knew with certainty that this move had less to do with my safety and more to do with business.
Sam was looking to expand his enterprise into Miami.
And he’d decided to use me to do it.
That’s when I started wondering if that guy who approached me outside the gym that day was ever a real threat. It was all too well timed to be a fluke. Perhaps he was a friend. Perhaps Sam hired him to give him an excuse to send me to Miami.
To scare me.
I’ve thought about just running. Packing my bags and disappearing into the night. But Sam’s earlier words hang over me like an ominous cloud. You can’t run from me. As long as Sam has a name, I’m afraid that he’ll find me.
And when he does . . .
What’s left? The plan. It’s a good plan.
I’ve created an entirely new person, complete with big, bold curls and brown eyes and layers of makeup, with equal parts perfection and flaw. A real person in the eyes of the unsuspecting.
Just not really me.
I’ll stay until I make enough money and arrange for a new identity. One that Sam doesn’t know about. And then I’ll run. I’ll fly to the farthest corner of the world.
I’ll disappear.
For real.
chapter five
■ ■ ■
CAIN
“We’re fully stocked again, thanks to moi!” Ginger’s husky voice hollers as I stroll past, on my way toward my office. The sound of clattering beer bottles stops and I drag my feet back to the walk-in fridge, where I find Ginger ass-up in her shorts, leaning over a keg, trying in vain to move it. The girl may be well toned, but she has no hope in hell of moving a 160-pound keg.
Without hesitation, I dive in and grab the other side. “You know Nate or one of the other guys will move all of these around, right?”
With a phssst sound, she smirks and mutters, “You know I don’t need a man for anything.”
I chuckle, shaking my head. “Yes, Ginger. You’ve made that very clear.” Taking visual inventory of all the beer as I run a hand through the back of my hair, I mutter, “How did this happen?”
Ginger’s grin is nothing short of triumphant as she folds her arms over her ample chest and leans against the cooler wall. Streaks of blue that weren’t there yesterday run through her hair. “We really need to work on your charm with customer service, Cain.”
I wait for her to elaborate, knowing full well that it would take more than charm to get our fridges and shelves restocked that quickly, given the supposed shortage. Finally, Ginger confesses. “A small truck came by last night with sweet fuck-all. So . . .” The way she draws that word out, her pretty eyes averting to the ground, I know I’m not going to like what I hear. “Hannah and I gave the delivery guy a short demonstration of the private show he’d get if our supply room was somehow miraculously filled by tonight.”
“Jesus Christ, Ginger,” I groan as my forehead hits the door frame. I have a good idea of the kind of “show” those two could provide, given that they’ve been linked as an item in the past and are, at the very least, close friends. “You know I won’t let anyone prostit—”
“Hey!” She snaps her manicured fingers inches from my nose. She’s one of the few people who has the nerve to do that. “Don’t you dare use that word with me. We offered no such thing. But, if letting the fucktard get off in his pants while Hannah and I round second base means we don’t have to deal with angry customers all weekend, then I don’t give a rat’s ass who watches. I’ll do her full-on, right up on the stage!”
Ginger rarely gets snippy with me and she’s fairly private when it comes to her relationships, which means that the supply issues have started to wear on her. Unhappy customers generally mean shitty tips, and shitty tips means pissy staff. They work hard for their money.
I hold up my hands in surrender. Now that she’s negotiated this deal, backing out would guarantee an irate deliveryman and even worse service for who knows how long. “Okay, fine. But don’t ever offer anything like this again. And warn me so I can turn the cameras off, will you?” I don’t want any evidence of . . . anything. “And make sure you’ve got Ben or Nate outside that door, for safety.”
She winks. “You’re welcome.”
Shutting the cooler door on our way out, I add, “You know, I could use a full-time manager. You sure you don’t want the job?”
“I’d rather have my scalp waxed,” she says in a singsong voice, heading back toward the main bar to finish setting up. She comes up with a new clever retort each time I ask. “Oh,” she slows and throws over her shoulder, “don’t forget that Charlie’s on at eleven. Try not to act so weird again, okay?”
“Did she say I acted weird?” Not surprising if she had.
“I’m saying you acted weird. Just . . . She really wants this job.”
I nod slowly. “You okay with her on the main bar with you? I’m thinking we can use a third girl there, given how busy it’s been.”
Her full lips curve into a frown. “I thought she was looking for dancing.”
I consider how to answer this. “Only stage for now.”
Ginger narrows her eyes at me and I know she’s trying to figure my motives out. “Sure, okay. I just thought you said you weren’t hiring anyone else for the bar.”
“Yeah. I thought a lot of things yesterday.” And then Charlie strolled into my office.
Ginger shrugs. “If this busy run keeps up, we’ll definitely need Charlie.” Then those streaks of blue disappear around the corner, leaving that name hanging in the stale air between us.
Charlie.
No, I haven’t forgotten about her. She was at the forefront of my night with Vicki, she plagued the four hours of sleep that I got, she hijacked my morning workout . . .
It’s because she looks like Penny. That’s all. But she’s not Penny. She’s just another young woman who needs to make money and she’s looking to me for a job and nothing else. Whether her motives for stripping are true or not remains to be seen. The sooner I get accustomed to her, the sooner she’ll become just like all the others. Hopefully she won’t be here for too long.
And I need to keep my dick far away from her.
■ ■ ■
“The line-up’s around the corner again,” Nate says next to me, his eyes roaming the crowd.
“This is insane. I mean, it’s great for business, but . . .” I rub the side of my neck as I take in the sea of heads. Penny’s is a decent-sized club—fifteen thousand square feet of stage, V.I.P. rooms, and seating area—and we’re at capacity. According to the front door, no one has left in the past hour. Most patrons are angled toward the stage, and Mercy—a petite platinum-blond girl with big blue eyes and an ultra-skinny waist who’s real name is Annie. Some steal glances at one of a dozen flat screens showing the Marlins game. Others are busy trying to catch the eye of one of the many girls milling around the floor.
I’ve done my best to keep Penny looking upscale versus sordid. I kept the neon lights to a minimum, opting for soft lighting to balance off the stage lights instead. The floors are all mahogany, as are the bars and the stage. On the south side of the club, there’s a slightly raised V.I.P. lounge, complete with plush leather chairs and an unobstructed view of the entire stage.
Still, no matter how new and tasteful the décor is, no matter how hard the cleaning staff works, when I walk into this club, it always feel seedy to me.
“Thank God that delivery came in today or we’d be dealing with a small riot,” I mutter, more to myself.
“By God, you mean Ginger, right?” Nate’s deep laughter is a low rumble. For anyone who doesn’t know the guy, he comes across as one scary-ass dude. The stuff gangster stereotypes are made of. He certainly plays the part perfectly when he needs to.
But I knew Nate when he was the underfed, grubby little neighborhood kid, running through the streets alone at night when a child his age had no business being out in South Central. I saw the angry bruises across his cheeks, earned when Nate didn’t move fast enough to answer his strung-out mother’s demands. I saw his rib cage when he hadn’t eaten anything but a moldy loaf of bread in a week. I saw his tears on the nights when he sat confused on his back porch steps, wondering why his mom still didn’t love him like she said she would after he fetched her a dime bag of crack.
Nate has been a fixture in my life for thirteen years now. I took him under my wing, making sure he was fed, bathed, clothed, and safe. In exchange, he gave me his unwavering trust. The kid idolized me. It was always a rather strange friendship—Nate was five years younger than me, after all—but in him, I found a level of co-dependence that kept me going through those dark years after my family was killed. Taking Nate with me when I left South Central for Miami was an easy decision.
Prince’s “Cream” starts booming over the sound system. That’s Cherry’s signature song and the regular crowd knows it, exploding in a round of cheers as the exotic Asian struts out onto the stage in a silver sequined dress and heels that could gouge a person’s eyes out.
“I made some calls. The guy’s going away for a long time,” Nate says, watching her begin her routine.
I see nothing but smiles and winks as Cherry rolls her hips. “Does she know that we know?”
Nate shakes his head. “Don’t think so. She was in a good mood when she came in today.”
“Good.” Although I’m still bitter that the ass-wipe insinuated that I’m Cherry’s pimp. My eyes drift over the crowd of horny men, each staring hungrily at her as she twists and turns her body to the music with unbelievable agility. That’s her talent.
Extreme flexibility.
And that’s all these guys picture in their heads—their greatest fantasies come alive with Cherry at the helm. What they don’t see is the twenty-four-year-old who got pregnant at fifteen and who’s been struggling to give her son a good upbringing since her very traditional parents booted her out of their home and their lives. Who is so insecure that she ends up with douchebags who use her for sex and get her hooked on drugs.
“Cain . . .” Nate just shakes his head as his eyes drift over the crowd. I know he’s about to say the same thing that he always says. You can’t save everyone. He doesn’t, though, because a small commotion on the floor grabs his attention. Hannah, with a drunk patron’s hand cupping her breast.
No amount of money buys that under my roof.
Nate is talking into his mike in seconds, ordering three bouncers over to remove the guy and his rowdy eight-person bachelor party through the side exit, by their necks if necessary. That’s why I put Nate in charge of security. Aside from being one of the only people I trust, he’s a natural at making fast judgment calls. He gets how important it is to overreact.
How critical it is to take nothing for granted.
I know he still blames himself for the night Penny was killed. But it wasn’t his fault. Hell, he shouldn’t even have been working in a club back then—he was too damn young, despite his size. If Penny’s death was anyone’s fault, it was mine. For waiting too long to tell her that I was in love with her.
For ever telling her.
For having my door locked, for not stopping the murder that happened mere steps away.
A hand slaps me over the shoulder, breaking through my dark thoughts. “I feel like I just had my balls x-rayed! When’d you have those new metal detectors installed?” I turn to find a tanned Ben standing next to me in his black bouncer uniform, fresh off a one-week celebratory vacation after taking the bar exam. Aside from Nate, Ben is the longest-standing bouncer at Penny’s, working here while he put himself through law school.
I’ve always tried to keep a solid line of separation between myself and my employees. It helps maintain a level of respect when it comes to following the rules. It’s worked with most of them. But Ben has managed to weasel his way over the line to become one of my closest friends. He’s an easygoing guy and a fantastic employee, aside from a few rumors of taking late-night blow jobs in the stock room. But I’ve also heard through the grapevine that I enjoyed a threesome with Mercy and Ginger in that same room.
I think I’d remember that.
“Monday,” I answer with a welcoming pat on his back.
Ben frowns. “Where was I?”
“Shit-faced in Mexico?” I offer, earning another one of Nate’s deep chuckles.
A wide grin splits Ben’s face. “Was I ever!” I see his eyes drift off somewhere in thought—likely to the numerous women he nailed while down there—before his attention comes back to me. “Why the beefed-up security?”
“Teasers is closed indefinitely.” Teasers, a popular but sleazy club with a reputation for welcoming shady clientele, got shut down six weeks ago for running a prostitution ring. Now that clientele is looking for a new place to conduct “business” while receiving lap dances and, unfortunately, judging by the rise in men trying to get through my doors with weapons on them, Penny’s seems to be their preferred locale. Frankly, I’m surprised. This isn’t your typical adult entertainment club. We’re only open in the evenings, and I shut the doors by two a.m. I’ve even started closing on Mondays. That, plus my connections to the police force through Dan Ryder—my former dancer Storm’s fiancé—and my outright refusal to associate with any illicit activity, makes Penny’s an unlikely place for them to congregate.
Ben nods in understanding. “Some idiot tried to come in with a samurai sword strapped to his leg two weeks ago.”
Nate and I both shake our heads in dismay as Cherry’s act comes to a close, earning a boisterous cry of approval from the crowd.
“You need to hire more Asian dancers, Cain,” Ben murmurs. “This crowd loves Asians.”
“They love her, dumbass,” I correct with a wry grin and a shake of my head.
“Yeah. I had customers demanding free drinks and lap dances last night because she wasn’t here,” Nate offers with an incredulous look.
Damn customers. Always looking for a free ride. Or, in this case, to be ridden for free. I heave a sigh and pat Nate on the shoulder. “Thanks for covering here last night, Nate. How did things go?”
Nate falters with his answer, his steely gaze on a large cowboy whose arm is stretched out over the rail, reaching out to grab Cherry’s ankle, to get her attention. The other bouncers are on him in a second, though, pulling him back. After the attack on Storm three years ago, they all know to toss first, question later. That strung-out guy should never have been in here to begin with. I fired the two bouncers watching the section for that.
Nate finally answers my question. “Fine. Except China and Kinsley were at it again.”
I curse under my breath. “Those two are getting a bit too territorial for Penny’s.” That’s what happens when dancers work here for too long. They start to stake claim to regulars and get testy when someone encroaches on their turf. And China can be especially testy with that sharp tongue of hers. That sharp tongue hides the fact that her father repeatedly assaulted her, physically and sexually. She’s actually quite sensitive when you get under her Teflon exterior. I’ve had my work cut out with that one, helping her through a serious and undiagnosed case of dyslexia. She’s ready to take her GED soon. If I fire her, she’ll end up back in the hands of a slimeball like Rick Cassidy—where I found her to begin with—or some other guy who feeds off vulnerability like a piranha.
That’s the thing with these girls. Yes, some of them are just here to put themselves through college and pay the bills. But many were dealt a really shitty hand that’s left them with no self-esteem, a need for attention, and no idea how else to make their lives work. Even as young as sixteen, I knew my sister Lizzy was headed down that path. In some ways, China reminds me of her.
But I’ll never know how my sister would have turned out because I didn’t save her in time.
Terry the deejay’s voice crackles over the speaker to announce, “Next up is Charlie . . . a new addition to Penny’s. Make sure you give her a warm welcome!”
“New girl?” Ben’s eyes immediately light up.
“Don’t start, you jackass,” I warn with a cutting tone. All of my bouncers know that they’re gone if I catch them screwing the girls. Ben loves this job, so I’m pretty confident that he’s never broken the rules under my roof. But I also know that controlling what he does outside of Penny’s is too dictatorial and just plain impossible. I can only hope that Ben would treat them with some level of respect. Truth be told, if one of these girls could tame this tall blond’s wild side, I think she’d have a happy life ahead of her.
He gives me a shrug. “We haven’t had any new talent here for a while. Things were getting stale.”
A grunt of agreement makes me turn to my left, to find Nate’s normal scowl gone, replaced with the beginnings of a crooked smile.
“You too, Nate?”
“I think we could all use a change.” There’s something secretive in that look that I can’t read.
“Is she any good?” Ben asks, adding with a sly smirk, “At dancing, I mean.”
“Sure you did, Morris,” I offer wryly. “Just keep your fucking hands off her.”
chapter six
■ ■ ■
CHARLIE
I’m going to puke.
The fact that I can stroll into a hotel room and conduct a sizeable heroin trafficking transaction without my hands shaking doesn’t matter right now.
Right now, as I stand behind a privacy screen in a pair of tiny black boy shorts, my ass cheeks hanging out, and a fitted snap-on vest covering a skimpy hot-pink bikini top—which is only barely covering even more flesh that is about to be exposed to a large crowd of jeering, judging men—my knees feel like they’re about to buckle.
The three shots of tequila I pounded back in the dressing room did absolutely nothing for my nerves. They only made me more queasy.
I’m not sure that I can do this.
And why do those lights have to be so bright? It feels like there are a million spotlights out there, ready to beam down and highlight every square inch of my uncovered skin.
“You ready?” a husky voice calls into my ear.
With a startled jump, I turn to find Ginger behind me. I immediately throw my arms around her shoulders, surprising both of us. I’m not a hugger and we’re not really on hugging terms but, clearly, I’m desperate.
She giggles. “Oh, come on. I’m sure this is nothing compared to Vegas, right?”
Sliding my arms away from her, my head bobs up and down and I swallow, releasing the lie smoothly out of my deceitful mouth. “I get bad stage fright. That’s all. It’s my thing.”
With a gentle smile and a squeeze of my biceps, she winks and says, “Well, go spin your thing out there and I’ll cheer you on. I’ve seen you do this. You’ll be fantastic.” She disappears down the steps as the deejay gestures to me.
Thirty seconds.
I take a deep breath and mutter under my breath, “Only a few months of this and then I’m free.”
I didn’t know what I was getting myself into when I dropped off that pencil-case-sized bag at a dance studio in Queens—besides a shiny silver Volvo. I mean, Sam was always sending me on little errands. Dry-cleaning, mail pickup, check deposits. I took care of all our grocery shopping. Errands were my way of “earning my keep,” Sam cheerily told me. So when he asked me to drop off a package in the city . . . I dropped off a package.
Simple.
When Sam handed me an ID with my face and some other person’s name and told me to sign up for a weekly dance class at that same dance studio in Queens, I figured it out pretty quickly. Still, I went along, not saying a word.
He rationalized it by saying we were giving people a good time and making a bit of money. It wasn’t any different from selling booze during Prohibition. I bought that bullshit in the beginning. But, then again, I was only sixteen.
I was naïve.
I was stupid.
It really didn’t seem like a big deal. I had watched my friends smoke a joint after school. I’d been to parties where someone brought an eight ball of coke or a handful of ecstasy pills. I’d heard the whole “say no to drugs” campaign loud and clear, but drugs seemed to be everywhere in high school. Everywhere people were having fun. And when something’s everywhere people are having fun, it begins to feel less immoral. Almost . . . acceptable.
And when your own stepdad—the man who has raised you and given you everything—asks you to do something, the lines of right and wrong become a little more confusing, and it becomes easier to deny that little voice inside your head. I guess I didn’t have the best moral guide growing up.
When I actually saw the inside of a suitcase on the first Miami drop, though . . . it finally hit me. Sam doesn’t deal in eight balls and handfuls of party-time highs. He deals in hundred-dose vials of heroin. Bags of them.
Goddamn suitcases.
He deals in the stuff that turns people into junkies, ruins their lives, and eventually kills them.
And I’m helping him do it.
That’s when I stopped ignoring that little voice. I finally realized that what Sam has me involved in is plain wrong and it doesn’t matter how many cars and designer dresses he buys me. The wake-up call has brought a wave of guilt that I’m still learning how to deal with. Now I struggle to sleep, to eat. I’ve lost at least ten pounds off my already lean frame. Every morning I get up and feel the urge to walk out my door and never look back.
When I hear about another overdose on the news, I feel responsible. It’s not the recreational overdoses that are making the headlines; it’s the really addictive stuff, like heroin. It feels like the reporters are talking to me, judging me, condemning me. With my help, kids as young as fourteen have overdosed. Kids have been left orphaned because their parents overdosed. There really is no such thing as an occasional heroin user.
But I don’t want to spend the rest of my life struggling financially, so I guess my feelings of guilt still aren’t overwhelming enough. That, or I am just a truly bad person.
I deserve what happened to me with Sal, back in New York. I deserve to strip in front of a crowd of salivating men. I deserve a whole lot worse.
Sam also deserves to be punished for all that he’s done—to countless, faceless victims, and to me. For giving me love and protection that seemed unconditional, but actually had strings attached.
But who’s going to punish him?
I peek past the screen, through the crowd, and I see all the faces—waiting expectantly. All of those eyes will be on me. I don’t think I’ve ever been on a stage that big before in my life. Then again, maybe it’s just because I’ll be on it alone—basically naked—that makes it seem all the bigger.
I watch as three girls climb down from the circular platforms that jut off from the main stage. In between the main shows, the girls take turns teasing the audience a bit. But they know to get off now.
To let all eyes fall on me.
My potential boss is there too, looking classy in a midnight-blue fitted button-down as he leans over a railing, talking with that gargantuan bouncer—Nate, I heard someone call him—who was guarding the back door earlier tonight. Even in the darkness and at this distance, I can see the cut of his arms. The guy must have an immaculate body beneath those clothes.
There was plenty of chatter about Cain in the dressing room as I was getting ready. Comments about him being overly moody, suggestions for how to cheer him up followed by wicked giggles. It’s clear that any single one of them would give her left boob to sleep with him. I’m not at all surprised. Under different circumstances—both mine and his—I’d probably want the same. A dark-haired one named Kinsley made a comment about him “comforting” her last week in his office—in private. I wonder how many of them he’s slept with. It’s confusing, though. I mean, I had my dress on the ground. He could have tried something on me but he didn’t. I guess I’m not his type. That’s probably for the best.
I’m not sure what to think about the other dancers. I earned a few looks of surprise from them, but otherwise they pretty much ignored me. Ginger says it’s because they haven’t had a new girl in here in a while, other than Kinsley. And few people like her.
Terry taps on the glass window of his little booth and points toward the stage as the beginning chords of my chosen song—“Coming Undone,” by Korn—blast over the speakers. I earned a delayed nod of approval when I requested that one. I know it’s probably not the first choice for most dancers but I find it energizes me, and given that this is the song I work out to the most, I’m able to move fluidly to it, almost like in a routine.
And a strict routine is what I need.
With one last, deep breath, I manage to slip on that same coat of confidence I don through the drops.
And I remind myself that my mother did this.
That I can do this.
That I will do this so I can free myself from Sam’s softly padded shackles one day very soon.
I emerge from my hiding spot, my adrenaline firing on all cylinders, my heart pounding in my stomach. I zero in on the brass pole ahead of me and I time my steps with the beat of the music—the chords distorted within my ears, competing with my thumping heart—in what I hope is a sexy strut. Unable to help myself, my eyes flicker in Cain’s direction for just a moment, to see his dark gaze intently locked on me.
I want to run.
But I can’t. I force my attention back to the pole, seizing it with one determined hand. My brain may be going haywire but my body knows what it needs to do.
I begin.
Years of competitive-level gymnastics has given me physical strength, balance, and coordination to hit just about every move I learned in pole-dance classes and I don’t hold out now, executing the most complex spins, drops, and transitions with ease.
It feels surprisingly organic, the moves coming naturally to me. And if I keep my eyes glazed and my attention on the brass, the heavy beat of the music, and the soft blue hue of the stage lights, I can almost forget that I’m surrounded by leering men.
Almost.
But I can’t shake the feel of their eyes on me. And Cain . . . Somehow, his attention is more nerve-wracking than that of the hundreds of others combined. Probably because his opinion is ultimately the one that matters. When I make the simple mistake of letting my eyes graze over him during a boomerang hold, I find that same steely expression on me, only heavier. Heavy enough to halt my racing heart for a beat. And unsettling enough that my grip slips. Luckily, I’m not in the midst of a nose-breaker drop or another dangerous move, and so I quickly recuperate.
I hear a couple of hoots and hollers of “come on!” I can’t stall the inevitable any longer. Gritting my teeth, I reach up with my free hand to pull the snaps of the vest open. I let it fall from my shoulders and I toss it aside, exposing the stringy top beneath. The buzz from the crowd spikes with pleasure.
My stomach is no longer churning. The second those snaps popped open, numbness took over. I’ll gladly take it, because I have another minute and a half of this song and that vest wasn’t the last thing that needs to hit the stage if I want this job.
And so I push away the catcalls and shouts as I continue with my well-practiced moves and I let my mind drift elsewhere. To the valleys of Tuscany, where I could run a small vineyard. To the African hills, where I could watch lions bask in the hot sun; the Swiss Alps, where I could fly through the air on a snowboard. I don’t know how to snowboard. But maybe one day, I’ll learn.
By the time I reach up to tug the strings of my bikini top, to let the scrap of material drop, fully exposing my breasts to the cool, air-conditioned room and the cheers and whistles, I’m tanning on a private beach in the Maldives.
I’m anywhere but trafficking drugs. Or stripping on this stage.
Anywhere but in my shameful life.
It isn’t until I’ve escaped backstage—my body shaking as the rush of adrenaline fades—that I’m able to breathe again. I did it. I made it through my first strip show. I swallow the revulsion bubbling up. I just stripped on a stage. I just stripped in front of a club full of men. They may not have touched me, but . . .
