Page 3 of Climbing Everest

Everest

N o amount of makeup will ever cover the raised marks on my chest, but at least the concealer helps hide the silvery pink color. Add a little glitter and the assholes out there circling the stage like sharks only focus on my tits.

“You’re up in ten, Amber,” one of the bouncers says from the doorway.

I wave a hand over my shoulder and keep my focus on making sure my eyes are smoky, lips blood red, and those reminders of everything that had been ripped away from me are as hidden as possible.

Scarlett walks in, her tits bare, various denominations of bills hanging from her thong and wadded in her hands. We have the choice of whether or not we go fully nude. And, in my experience, the more we show, the more money we make.

Especially in the VIP rooms. While the public rules are no touching, whether we allow the clients to touch us – or fuck us – behind the closed door is completely up to us. Personally, I use my own discretion.

As in, I don’t fuck or suck anyone who wouldn’t interest me outside the club or gives me a bad vibe.

I haven’t bothered with dating in four years. I’ve been too afraid of the questions that would arise when the makeup is washed away from the various scars littering my body, or why I never speak about my family. As far as the few people I speak to are concerned, I have no family. They’re all dead.

Thing is, they are dead to me.

Fuck them. Fuck every single one of them. Most of all my father.

A knife slices a path down my chest, directly between my breasts, bisecting the three initials that had only stopped bleeding less than thirty minutes before. This cut is far deeper, far more painful, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from screaming.

I will never show him or anyone an ounce of weakness.

And I will never willingly walk away from the only three people in this world who mean anything to me. He’ll have to kill me first.

“Girl, they just announced you,” Scarlett says as she wipes away her makeup and prepares to end her shift.

“Shit,” I mutter, pushing from my seat and blinking away the memories that have plagued my waking – and sleeping – moments for the last four years.

Sliding my feet into my platform stilettos, I jog from the locker room, a sultry smile plastered on my face as I climb the stairs and step onto the stage.

Never in my wildest dreams would I have ever pictured myself getting naked for strangers for a living, but I have no choice.

No. All choices about my life and future were taken away from me by Dima Sidorov and his merry band of cocksuckers.

Now, I’m forced to live under the radar, to make only cash to pay for everything. Which, of course, means I use burner phones, live in a shitty and shady as fuck apartment, and drive a beater.

But I’m alive. Maybe not whole, definitely not happy nor healthy, but I’m still alive.

And so are they.

I pray every night they haven’t fallen to the same violence we saw our whole lives from both our families.

What they must have thought when I disappeared .

I refuse to think about it, even this many years later.

Focusing on a group near the stage, a few young guys who look as though they’re celebrating a birthday or maybe a bachelor party, I superimpose different faces over theirs.

I picture Kato, Brixton, and Maddox sitting there watching me, hunger in their eyes, the same hunger, desire, and love I saw every time they looked in my direction from the day the four of us realized we were and would always be far more than friends.

I suppose I’m ignoring the men and women at my back and on either side, but they’re still getting a show of my ass swaying.

Lowering onto my knees, I crawl toward the small party, my lips parting as I let my lids droop a little and put on my best ‘come fuck me’ expression I can muster.

Because no matter how hard I pretend, no matter how hard I push my imagination, my heart and body know the guys elbowing each other and snickering will never make my heart race the way my husbands did.

Not husbands. We were never able to make it official, but they were it for me. They were all I wanted.

My soul mates.

And then they were ripped away from me as I clung to the fantasy of the life we planned by my fingernails.

Hell, I was clinging to my own life at that time, too. But I would have gladly given anything to keep them safe.

And had.

Which puts me right here on this stage in the middle of Georgia, far from the streets and crime and brick buildings of Cedar Springs. Letting everyone in my past believe I’m dead, simply to keep the three men who carry my heart alive.

Four songs later, I step off the stage for the last time tonight.

And, thankfully, I have the next two days off.

Not that I do much more than sleep or watch TV on my days off, but at least I won’t be pushing my muscles and feet to their limit before heading home to scrub off the glitter, shame, and disgust of what I’ve become.

I tried waitressing when I started out on my own, but the only places willing to take me on without an ID or a pile of paperwork didn’t earn me nearly enough to eat, let alone rent a place to stay.

And I was tired of sleeping in abandoned buildings, under bridges, or anywhere else I could get a few hours rest without the cops or some pervert finding me.

Most people have heard of rags to riches…I fell the opposite way and, in the beginning, even rags would have been a luxury.

But at least I now have a roof over my head, a car to get me to and from the club or grocery store, and some furniture I found on the curb or in second hand stores. Far cry from the luxuries I’d known growing up, but the sacrifice was well worth it in my eyes.

I’ve gathered the loose bills from the stage, by far one of the most demeaning things aside from spreading my legs for strangers, and make my way through the club, my bare tits bouncing and swaying with each step. Unlike most of my coworkers, mine are all natural.

“Amber,” Eric calls out as I pass by the bar.

I hate stopping for any reason when there’s literally nothing between me and wandering hands but air, but I’m still low man on the totem pole and have to play nice unless I want to find another club.

I kind of like it here. It’s on the classier side, the security is tight and walks us to our cars at night, and everyone minds their own business. Not a single person who works here has ever asked me about the scars I’m careful to cover each shift.

“Yeah?” I call out, only barely slowing my steps in hopes of pulling on my sweats and heading home.

“You have a VIP request. Room two.”

With a heavy sigh, I nod. I detour into the locker room where I stash the loose cash in my locker and pull free a fresh outfit.

I barely have time to wipe away the sweat, freshen up my makeup and deodorant, and spritz myself with some body spray before I’m sauntering down the dimly lit hallway toward the VIP area.

After another sigh, I plaster the same fucking smile on my face I wear every day in this place and push open the door.

And freeze dead in my tracks.

The man sitting on the couch…

For the briefest of moments, I swore Kato was sitting there. Coal black hair, warm, olive skin, broad shoulders. But as I move closer, I see his eyes are a darker brown, not the icy blue I’d looked into thousands and thousands of times through the years.

“What kind of dance would you like?” I ask as I saunter closer. No way will I ever come out and ask if any of my clients are looking to bust a nut. Great way to get locked up for prostitution and possibly get this club put under investigation.

“I just want to watch.”

“You want to see all of me?” I ask, trailing a red painted fingernail down my cleavage, careful not to scrape away the concealer.

“No. I want to watch you dance. Wearing that,” he says with a nod toward me.

His arms are stretched along the back of the couch, his knees spread.

“And I want a picture or video,” he says.

I’m shaking my head before he finishes his request. More like demand since his tone left very little room for negotiation.

“No. No pictures. No videos.”

The client leans forward, reaches into his pocket, and removes a large wad of Benjamins. And fuck…I need that money.

I’m doing everything in my power to get into a better, safer apartment complex, but I swear every time I think I might have enough for the down payment, something else breaks on my car or some tweaker breaks in and tracks down where I’m hiding my money.

Pressing my painted lips together, I eye the money in his hand, finally nodding. “Fine. But you better not sell that shit on some porn site.”

It’s one thing for the dude to use the pic or video for his personal spank bank for later, but a whole different animal for him to make money off my body.

He smirks and stretches out his arm, waiting for me to take the money. I then cross the room and start the music. He’s only paid for one song and a picture – or video. If he wants more than that, he’ll have to pay. I won’t let the fat roll of hundreds convince me otherwise.

My luck, I’ll get back to the locker room and find a single hundred wrapped around a stack of ones.

As the beat fills the space, I begin to sway my hips, my back still to him as I slide my hands up and into my hair, lifting it as I turn and let it drift back down.

There is no stage back here, nothing to separate us. But there are cameras and a panic button in case the client – or multiple clients – get out of control or too rowdy.

It almost feels weird to dance without the objective of removing my clothes, but he’s the customer. He’s paying for this. Who knows? Maybe this is his fantasy or fetish. Not my business.

I move closer until I’m practically standing between his knees, but he holds up a hand and tells me to back up.