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Hell, management took eighty percent of their tips.

There was a small part of me that had some respect for this strip club, though.

It didn't even pretend to be classy.

It knew what it was, and what it wasn't.

They never pretended the rules couldn’t be bent or broken for a price and did nothing to hide the fact that most of the dancers were strung out and just dancing for drug money.

The waitresses were like me, dirt poor and working a few jobs to make ends meet.

Some were runaways with fake IDs management didn't care to check, others were single moms trying to put food on the table while hiding from an abusive ex, or with a record too long for a nine-to-five.

I hated every second of working there, but it paid in cash and no one ever asked me questions, too afraid someone would start asking them questions.

This was the type of job that I needed. I once hopedthat in a month or two I could quit this one and work solely as a cleaner but plans clearly had changed.

I needed to get to the club, get on the good side of my boss, and try to pick up extra shifts until I found something to replace that cleaning job.

I shuddered.

Getting on the bosses’ good side was never fun.

It meant making one of the managers think there was a chance I would let him fuck me in the office. If it was the other one, I would have to demean myself even more by boosting his delusional ego, convincing him in a cutesy, almost childlike voice that he was the big, important man.

Both options made my skin crawl.

Before I left, I grabbed a bruised apple from the counter. My stomach twisted at the thought of food, but I needed something to hold me through this shift, and probably the next.

If I was lucky, I might grab some maraschino cherries from behind the bar, assuming they were from a fresh jar and not already molding.

My stomach rolled again, acid rising to the back of my throat.

Half a bottle of wine on an empty stomach was a terrible decision.

Who would have thought?

I cast one last look at the gun, sitting on the nightstand by my bed. I could bring it with me.

God knew Vomit Dreams, and the neighborhood around it, definitely warranted carrying a gun.

I knew nothing about guns. How would I know if thatgun was maybe special? Would someone recognize it? Was it some kind of fancy Russian deal that people would instantly know belonged to an Ivanov?

It was too risky, so I left it.

Instead, I grabbed a couch cushion off the futon I had dragged up from the corner and shoved the gun into a hole on the other side of it. I pressed it deep into the worn-out stuffing. Just in case.

Ignoring a fresh spike of pain through both temples and its accompanying wave of nausea, I pulled the dresser away from the door and slipped out. Cringing from the harsh clang from a pot which slipped to the floor that amped up that spike of pain.

It was fine.

Pain meant I was alive.

I'd survived.

If Pavel hadn't found me yet, that meant I was in the clear.

Right?