More silence, then she sighed heavily.
“There’s something I haven’t told you,” she said. “It’s not just about bus tickets. I need the money to pay off some of the club girls.”
“Mom, if your life is in danger, I don’t care about whatever the hell you owe those women. They were idiots to lend you money in the first place. This is reality—I have a hundred and forty-four bucks. That’s all there is. If I send it, I won’t even be able to pay my power bill or buy gas.”
She gave a harsh, humorless laugh. It turned into a terrible, racking cough that didn’t stop for a good thirty seconds—sounded like she was gacking out a lung.
“I wish it was that easy,” she said. “They’re watching over me. Teeny’s convinced I’m going to run away, so he’s got them watching me all the time. I need to pay them off. I do that, they’ll let me leave and I can come up to you. Things are different down here than they used to be, Becca. I need that money or I’m going to die in this house. Please, I’m begging you . . . Shit, he’s coming. I have to go.”
The call ended.
I sat in my car, hands trembling, trying to think of what to do. I had to save her, of course. I couldn’t just let her die because I was too squeamish about how I made money. Maybe I should go check out that strip club after all? I knew girls could earn a lot fast stripping—Mom always had.
Puck flickered through my thoughts and I pushed his image away. I couldn’t worry about him and my mom, and I’d be damned if I’d ask him for money. He could talk about “keeping” me all he wanted but I was my own woman. I’d fought too hard for that independence to just give it away. Mom was a kept woman and look how that turned out.
So. Money. I needed to get money, and I needed to get it fast.
First things first—I called the school and told them I wouldn’t be in.
Then I searched for the strip club’s address, which wasn’t hard to find. There were only two clubs in the area—zoning restrictions were harsh, something I’d always assumed was heavily influenced by the Reapers MC. How a second club had managed to open up right down the road from theirs was a mystery, but I didn’t doubt for a minute that someone had been paid very well for that particular privilege.
There it was. Vegas Belles. They opened at eleven, which gave me just enough time to stop off and fix myself up a bit before going in.
Hopefully they were hiring.
—
I’d like to say that I’d never been in a strip club. That’d be just peachy. Even better, I’d love to say I’d never worked a stripper’s pole, but I actually had a real talent for it.
How did I get so good?
Well, it goes back to all the time I’d spent in strip clubs years ago. When I was a kid, stripping was one of Mom’s fallback income sources, ranking above outright prostitution (plan C) and finding herself a man stupid enough to support her (plan A). I’d grown up around them, in them, you name it. Hell, I’d spent more than one night sleeping under a dressing table or on a pile of discarded clothing.
Most strippers have big hearts, at least when it comes to little girls. They’d give me candies between snorting lines, and one even taught me how to do my stage makeup. By the time I was ten, I had that shit down cold. I’d never actually worked in a club myself, but I had no doubt I would’ve if I’d stayed in California.
One or two nights wouldn’t kill me.
I’d stopped off at Walmart to invest in a cheap but sexy G-string and demi bra from the clearance rack, which I’d changed into in the store bathroom. Then I’d driven to Post Falls and parked outside the Vegas Belles building, waiting for them to open.
Unfortunately, they were located just down the street from The Line, which was run by the Reapers MC, so I felt like I had to duck down every time a car or bike drove past. I didn’t know any of the members well, but we’d traveled together five years ago. Painter and Puck still hung together a lot—I’d seen them out riding together. I couldn’t risk one of them seeing me and reporting to Puck. (Yeah, I know I’d said it wasn’t any of his business, but I wasn’t stupid. Puck would shit bricks if he knew what I was doing.)
The doors opened at eleven. I straightened my hair, slapped on some fresh lipstick, and walked into the building, trying to radiate confidence.
A bouncer met me at the door, looking me over with raised brows.
“You guys hiring?” I asked brightly.
“Sometimes,” he said. “Depends on what the boss needs and how good you are. He’s not here yet. You can wait over by the bar.”
Well, crap.
“Okay, thanks,” I said, smiling brightly. Never piss off the bouncers—Mom taught me that early on. An angry bouncer can cause a girl all kinds of trouble. I walked over to the bar and sat down. A woman wearing a bustier was setting up for the day—she looked like she was about thirty. Blonde hair teased high and heavy makeup.
“Dancing or waiting tables?” she asked, her voice friendly enough.
“I’ve already got a job waiting tables,” I said, shrugging. “Don’t really need another one of those.”
She nodded.
“Have you danced around here before?” she asked casually. I found her phrasing interesting . . . She hadn’t come right out and asked me if I’d worked at The Line, but there weren’t any other options.
“No, but I’ve had some experience,” I said, deciding to keep things ambiguous. She nodded thoughtfully, leaning forward on the bar.