“Yeah. Let’s do that. Hey, someone pour me another drink, will ya?”
Thug One hands me a new tumbler. I frown at him. “What’s this shit? Too much ice.”
He sighs and digs into the glass with his fingers, tossing two cubes into the small galley sink. He splashes another finger of bourbon into the cup before returning it.
I down the fiery liquid in one gulp and pass it to him again. He frowns, but pours me another anyway. Trudi grabs it before I get my hand on it, chugging, only to sputter and cough as she pulls the glass from her lips.
“That’s what you get for drinking a man’s drink.” I grin. Serves her right. Take my fucking bourbon.
She waves her hand in front of her face, her eyes watering. “Whatever. You don’t need any more of that shit right now.”
“What do you want from me, Tru? I gave you all I can give for one day.”
She nods. “All right. I get it. So…what did you do for fun when you were eighteen?”
Fun. Was eighteen ever fun?
Her face looms in my memories though. Her smile, her laugh. The way she’d snuggle into my arms. The way we laughed about everything and everyone that seemed to be working against us. I had fun with Lou. But I can’t tell Trudi that. That part of my life is off limits. The curious public doesn’t have to know every tiny detail of my past.
So I smile and lie. “There’s this little place outside of Slidell. I used to go up there with my buddy.”
I rub my sweaty palms on the backs of my camo shorts. Everything from my elbows to my knees trembles as I step onto the stage. The lights blind me for a second.
I pull back. Oh Lord, is this how Mom felt the first time she turned a trick?
Please, God, don’t let me become my mother.
No. It’s okay. I got this. Just follow Sadie—um, Sassie’s—instructions to spray and wipe the pole with the cleaning solution they keep near the side of the stage. One thing at a time.
As I spritz the brass, I train my eyes on the floor, the walls, the lights, anywhere, avoiding the faces of the handful of people in the club. Luckily, it’s pretty dead at this hour. Aside from Lonnie, his bartender, and the three bouncers stationed around the perimeter, there’s only one table of guests. They’re the ones I avoid the most as I wipe the pole.
If I don’t look, they aren’t there.
Sadie—I mean, Sassie—says they’ll play a short song. Just a short one. I can do this.
Sweat breaks out on my forehead and upper lip. I stand with my fists at my hips, feet planted shoulder width apart, trying to swallow the sick feeling that’s climbed into my mouth and throat. This feeling isn’t too different from what I got that first day of boot camp, stepping off the bus, waiting to be yelled at by the drill instructors. It’s just another day.
“Everyone, please welcome Honey to the stage.” The announcement seems to thunder through my core.
The music begins. I close my eyes as I start to move.
Trudi and I sit with our backs three feet from the stage. She wasn’t really excited when I told the crew about this place. But it serves her ass right after the house and the way she suggested we go have fun. As if I feel like doing anything. Much less something fun.
Her lips form a tight line.
I lean to her. “Fun, right?”
She glares.
I lean back in my chair and fold my hands over my chest. I dig my phone from my pocket. Six voice messages. All from Arianne.
Fuck me. Can the woman not take a hint? I clear the messages without listening. Screw that. I’m done with this.
The next message is from Bob. “Buck, listen. Not sure what your deal is with Arianne, but I just got a call from McDowell’s assistant at Razor Wire. He’s apparently not sure why you’d ignore his daughter. Fucking call her. You don’t want to lose a chance at that part because you fucked the wrong girl.”
I text him.
-Arrianne=head case. Been trying to break it off w/her 4ever. Doesn’t know when to quit. She’s squatting at my place until she finds another arrangement. But only b/c I’m not there.-
His reply comes almost immediately.
-Fuck it. Let her stay at your place; you aren’t even there. What’s it gonna hurt?-
Maybe. I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it when I’m not half drunk.
The crew sits around the three small tables we’ve pushed together, eyes rapt on the stage. The lights flash and the music cranks up. Whoever Honey is, she must be doing a good job.
Hell, even Thugs One and Two gape, and those two are about as serious as I’ve ever seen bodyguards. I hired them six months ago, when I started having issues with paparazzi showing up everywhere, even the fucking pool at a hotel where I was staying under an assumed name.