Page 6

FIVE

I close the door of the minivan, tuck my hands into my pockets, and head toward the entrance, oblivious to the flashing red motel sign. The two-story building, which I’ve seen every time my mother drove by, could benefit from a major overhaul. The paint on the walls and doors is chipping, and judging by the doorknobs, the motel uses keys instead of electronic key cards.

The heavy scent of musty carpet and cheap lemon cleaner hits me as soon as I walk into the office and shut the green door behind me as if it has sealed off the space from fresh air.

A young guy sitting behind the front desk peers at me through oversized glasses and asks, “How can I help you?”

“Um…hi. I need a room and was wondering if you’re hiring?” I need a job and a room. I figured I could try to get both.

He sits up in his chair and gives me a slow once-over with his large brown eyes magnified through the lens of his large glasses that have slid down his freckled nose. I’m hardly dressed for an interview. My sweatpants hit right above my calves. The tightness of my shirt sleeves makes me want to tear them off my shoulders. It looks like I borrowed it from my little sister. I’m guessing I outgrew my clothes two years ago. Upon my release, they were all I had. It was the only thing I could grab on the fly when the police came to arrest me. There is still dried blood on the inside of the black sweats between my legs. I’m lucky my shirt is also black, or he’ll think I just committed a murder.

He uses his index finger to push his large bifocal glasses up his nose. He reminds me of an owl. “Do you do drugs? Have a record?”

Not voluntarily to the first, and yes to the second.

I raise my brow. “Do you check?”

He sighs loudly, then rolls his eyes. “The Church is down the street. They can help you out better than I can.”

Does he think I need to be saved?

“The church?”

“Yeah,” he says like I’m stupid. “The Church. This town still does things the old way, but background checks and drug tests are done and sent out. There’s no hiding anything anymore. Everything is a click away.”

“Fair enough. How much is a room?”

If a job at a motel wasn’t an option, I figured I could find a job close by and pay for a room until I figure shit out.

“One thirty-five plus tax a night.”

Shit, I remember when rooms here were like sixty-five bucks. I guess inflation hit everywhere just as bad as electric cars.

In the recreation room, where we would spend our playtime, I would watch the news on the old box TV mounted in the corner, nearly touching the ceiling like a relic.

All the car companies went electric. According to the news, most people in less rural areas stuck to gas vehicles for convenience. The inconvenience of having to charge their car didn’t appeal to them. Technology advanced, but not everyone wanted to be a slave to it.

Smaller US towns like Stockbridge kept to the old ways as much as possible.

“Where’s the church located?”

“Three miles down the road heading south. You won’t miss it.”

By the time I reached The Church, letters glowing in blue neon, my feet were numb. ALL SINS FORGIVEN.

It wasn’t the kind of church you seek shelter or refuge in. It wasn’t a place to pray. Kneeling was another matter entirely.

The Church was a strip club.

The guy at the front desk wasn’t lying when he said to give this place a shot. Near the entrance, there is a sign that reads HELP WANTED, prominently displayed above the large man operating the door, armed with a tablet and dressed in a black suit.

Despite the man’s massive build and potential for physical harm, I approach him and gently clear my throat. “Excuse me, is this place still hiring?”

Dark brown eyes lift from the screen. “Who’s asking?”

“Trix,” I reply with a fake smile, coming up with a name I saw on a cereal box the last time I was at the grocery store.

I didn’t want to give him my real name in case he made a connection from my past. The media no longer reports on the case, and I look nothing like the teenage girl online six years ago. My hair is a lighter shade of platinum blond; I’m taller, and my body has filled out. My face has also changed a bit, but I can’t take a risk.

“Are you eighteen or over?”

“Eighteen.”

Sticking his hand out, he says, “ID.”

I hand it over. He glances at the picture, hands it back, and opens the door. “Go inside and ask for Hank.”

Relief washes over me. “Thanks.”

A woman wearing a shirt with pasties over her nipples looks up with a bright smile when I walk inside and greets me with, “Welcome to Church. Are you ready to be forgiven?”

“She’s here to see Hank,” the bouncer says behind me.

The woman around my age smiles and nods for me to walk through the red curtain. “Straight ahead to the right. When you reach the end of the stage, there’s a hallway. The only office with a red door is Hank’s.”

“Thank you,” I tell her as I walk through the curtain.

The music’s bass thumps through the club as I push black double doors. The entire club is dark, offering a sense of false intimacy. When the neon lights rotate, only the faces of the men throwing money to the girl on stage come into focus. I pause, scanning the club, trying not to look like it’s my first time in a place like this.

Whistles and catcalls drift through the room. On the back wall, neon lights bounce off mirrors. Couches sit in front of about ten tables surrounding the main stage. Dancers to the right are giving a group of men a show. Nearly all seats at the fully stocked bar on the back wall are occupied. Just a few feet away. A man hurls a bundle of singles onto the stage, drawing my attention back to the naked woman. Her long, straight black hair falls over her shoulder, and only a G-string covers the lips of her pussy on her knees. She flails her ass like a butterfly’s wings in the middle-aged man’s face.

“Forgive me for my sins, baby,” he says in a scratchy voice as I walk by, slipping a folded dollar bill into the crack in her ass.

The person who came up with the name of this place was clever. Any man who tells his wife or anyone else that he is going to The Church would think nothing of it.

When I reach the red door at the end of the hallway, the smell of cigars filters through my nose.

I knock three times, and the door swings open. A woman with red hair steps back and turns her head. “Hank, she’s here.” Then she swings her gaze back. “Have a seat.” Her gaze drops to my chest. “I think you’ll work out with your complexion.”

“I’ll stand,” I say, keeping my tone controlled. I need a job fast, but from what I’ve seen so far, I think standing would be better in case I need to run out of here.

“Can you dance?” she asks, scrutinizing my clothes.

“Yes,” I say silkily.

If you consider dancing in a ten-by-ten padded room in a mental institution, then the answer is yes. Sure.

I ignore the way she continues to stare at me as if I were a prized pony at an auction. My gaze focuses on the man with a potbelly behind the desk, clad in an ill-fitting designer shirt and black shades. He must be Hank.

“Trix.” He says my name as if he’s testing it on his tongue. “Steven is my man at the door. He says you’re interested in a job.”

“I am,” I reply.

“When can you start?” he asks with interest, but I can feel his heated gaze on my body. I suddenly feel exposed in my ill-fitting shirt and pants.

“When do you need me?” I inquire, attempting not to come across as desperate.

He chuckles, rolls his cigar in with his thumb and forefinger, and taps it in the ashtray before taking a drag, the end glowing bright red. My stomach churns at the sight of his yellow teeth.

“I like her,” he says, glancing in the direction of the woman standing next to me.

She makes her way around the desk underneath the neon lights wearing booty shorts, fishnets, and a short T-shirt with no bra that reads, DADDY LIKES THE SWEET ONES.

“I think she’ll work out,” she replies as if I’m not listening.

Hank gives her an approving smile. “Cherry Bomb will show you around,” he explains. “I pay cash every night you work. It’s an even split. Fifty-fifty. If your earnings are less than five hundred, you will be required to pay a flat rate of three hundred every night you don’t work. If you fuck any of the customers, the house takes half. After all, I’m the one bringing the traffic. No drugs in my club. If the customers bring it, it’s on them. If Cherry Bomb tells me the customers aren’t interested in you, you’re out.”

“Do I have to screw the customers?” I ask. There is no way I’m prostituting myself. If it’s a requirement, I’m fucked.

He leans back and puffs on his cigar. “It’s your pussy; do what you want with it. I don’t care what you stick in it. You do know you’ll have to take off your clothes.” He smiles. “Well, most of them.”

“Fair enough. When can I start?”

He looks at me. I can see my reflection from the black lenses of his sunglasses. Smoke fills the room, scorching the inner lining of my nose as I struggle not to gag.

“You can start tonight,” he says, placing the cigar on the ashtray. “One of the girls ran off with one of the married customers, so we’re short-staffed. She’ll be back soon enough. They always come back. Anyway, business is business, and the show must go on. We’re one of the few strip clubs left in the state. Small towns don’t have strong Wi-Fi or servers that show porn. The men who visit here are either passing through or simply bored with their wives. Honestly, I can’t say I blame them.”

I want to throw up, but I need to finish this fucking job, or else I’ll end up sleeping on a park bench.

Cherry Bomb steps closer; his hand caresses her ass. “Good girl,” he praises her like he’s petting a cat. “I’m going to give you something extra tonight.” She gives me an unconvincing smile. “So soft,” he continues before turning his gaze toward me. “Go out and look for a girl named Rachel. She should have finished her set and be in the changing room. It’s the first door to the right.” He gently places his hand near Cherry’s crotch.

I whirl around, having seen enough, and quickly leave the room.