I had no idea what I was getting myself into. What exactly I hoped to do at Ambrosia was a mystery. The ad I answered hadn't given much away, simply saying that it was an assistant position, and the outside of the building is simple. Nothing about it would catch your eye if you were passing it.
But as I step through the heavy doors, it's an entirely different story.
My heels sink into the carpet, catching on the thick pile. I stumble and throw out a hand, connecting with the clod marble of what appears to be a hostess station. I wait a moment for my eyes to adjust, the dark red walls absorbing all the natural light, making me entirely reliant on the low light coming from the wall sconces. My mouth drops as I scan the room and my eyes land on a platform in the center of the room. But it isn't the platform that has my heart racing or the blood rushing to my cheeks. It's the pole that sits upon it, bolted to the floor and ceiling.
It's a strip club?
Uneasiness fills me. Everything inside me is telling me to turn around and leave. There is a clank of glass on glass and I glance over and see a thin girl behind the bar, the sheet of blonde that is her hair peppered with bright red streaks. Her shirt shows a bit of her stomach and I can't help but stare. As if feeling my eyes on her, she looks up from what she's doing and cocks her head to the side. She follows my gaze down to her shirt and smiles. She looks like everything I want to be.
Unashamed.
Unabashed.
She looks free.
"Can I help you?"
"I'm here for an interview?" My voice is so quiet I wonder for a minute if she hears me.
"Have a seat, I'll go grab him." She walks out from behind the bar and disappears down the hallway, my eyes are glued to the way her hips sway as she stalks away from me. She carries herself with such confidence. I am almost hypnotized by her.
I sit down on one of the chairs. My legs are shaking, my knees bouncing up and down as I wring my hands. I cannot stay still. I feel like I'm on fire, the cold leather of the seat a stark contrast to my flushed skin. Too nervous to stay in one spot, I stand and pace back and forth between the cocktail tables centered around the platform.
I should walk out. Dylan would be furious if he knew. But he gave me a deadline to find a job and that deadline expires tomorrow. His theory is that since I cost him his job that I needed to get one and take care of him. I've been looking all over for somewhere that will pay me enough to be able to support us, but I haven't found a thing.
It's been two months since he lost his job. Two months since the worst beating of my life. He lost control that night, not caring about where or how hard he hit me. Since then he's been more careful, the beatings confined to places that you can't easily see; after all, I can't go to job interviews bruised.
Too many questions.
I've never been in a strip club before. I have no idea how it all works, an uneasiness flows through me at the thought that I might have to learn. But the thought of what might happen if I go home without a job . . .
That's far worse.
I hear footsteps approaching and then stop. Slowly I turn to find the most gorgeous man I have ever seen standing in front of me. He towers over me, casting a dark shadow that leaves me cold but not afraid, with a strong intimidating frame, his hair is medium length A stray lock of hair hung over his forehead and although my fingers twitched at my sides, wanting to push it back so that his hair would be perfect, its unruly and rugged appearance fit exactly with the rest of him. The last thing I notice are his eyes: a deep chocolate brown, and like they can see right into my soul. He is dressed in a leather vest with a white T-shirt underneath. His jeans are a darker wash, and on his feet are black boots.
My face reddens in embarrassment as I realize he has noticed me examining him.
"Hello."
I attempt a smile, not knowing what else to do. "I'm-I'm here . . . for the . . ." I chew my bottom lip, hating how juvenile and immature I sound. He raises an eyebrow and I realize I still haven't uttered a full sentence.
"For the job. I'm here to interview for the personal assistant job," I say softly, embarrassed at the way I have portrayed myself. If he's the one interviewing me, he'll never hire someone who can't even talk. I lower my head, wishing the ground would just swallow me whole.
"What's your name?"
I don't answer him. The only thing I want to do right now is turn around and leave. Then I remember leaving means going home and facing Dylan's wrath and my lower lip begins to tremble.
A rough, calloused finger touches the skin under my chin, raising my head so I am looking at him. I jump at the contact and take a step away from him.