Page 4

My stomach drops as I open the door to Behind Closed Doors , immediately hit by the stench of beer fermenting on every surface. Then the rest hits me. The sweat. The smoke. The lingering scent of bad decisions and, even worse, men. Horny men, only there to get their rocks off.

I walk as quietly as possible, ignoring the fact that my shoes stick to the floor with every step. Get in. Get out. Survive another night. It’s been my motto since I started working here.

“Ah, there you are.” Luke’s voice slithers through the air, curling around my spine, and I hate how my body instinctively reacts.

I force out a fake smile and then avert my gaze toward the back door, knowing I’m already late.

If he notices, he’ll dock my pay or add interest to my debt.

It’s all the same in his rigged game. Just another calculated move to ensure I’m chained to this hellhole until I’m too old to be profitable.

I don’t know how I’m going to get out of here, but that’s a problem for another day.

Luke stands by the bar with a rag in his hand as he lazily dries a glass. I brush past him, only stopping when his hand wraps around my arm. I’m so frail, his fingers touch his thumb with ease, reminding me just how weak I am against a guy like him.

He yanks me closer, his fingers digging into my arm like talons.

My nose twitches at the scent of his cologne unable to mask the whiskey and cigarettes clinging to his breath.

I press my lips together, holding my breath as I force my face into something resembling a pleasant smile even as my skin crawls beneath his touch.

The worst part about Luke: He’s not an unattractive guy.

In fact, I think that’s why I trusted him to begin with.

He seemed kind and genuinely concerned for me.

Now I know better. Now I see the cracks for what they are.

The off-centered smirk. The gleam in his eyes that I thought was kindness was actually him scheming.

He’s always plotting. Always thinking of ways he can get a tiny bit more out of me.

His face is wrinkled with imperfection if you look hard enough and every night when I try to fall asleep in the back seat of my car, I curse myself for not noticing these flaws sooner.

Or for not having a plan to get the hell out.

“Is that any way to say hello to your boss?” His gaze rakes over me, and it doesn’t matter that I’m wearing a sweatshirt and leggings that hide my body. I feel exposed. Like he can see every part of me as he looks for another way to get under my skin and manipulate me.

“Hey, Luke,” I say with pep and instantly his grip loosens until he drops my arm entirely.

“That’s better.” He shifts his attention to the glasses. I don’t dare move, don’t even breathe until he sets it down.

Once he settles, I gain the courage to move, taking a couple of steps.

“Oh, by the way…”

I stop immediately.

I knew it. I knew I couldn’t get away without him asking for something else. It’s always the same with him. He’s not even looking at me when I turn back, too fixated on some invisible smudge on the glass.

“Katrina can’t make it tonight. You’re okay with taking her spot, aren’t you?”

That smirk. I kind of wish I were still blind to what it really means.

When I first started working in this cesspool a year ago, I was safely behind the bar, pouring overpriced drinks, scrubbing sticky counters, and keeping my head down.

Luke promised that was all he’d ever ask me to do, and he’d personally bodyguard me if any drunk asshole got too handsy.

Fast forward to now, and somehow, I’m the one on stage dancing even though I can’t dance for shit, trying to pay back a debt that mysteriously grows faster than I can throw dollar bills at it.

Funny how his promises evaporated the second I signed that contract in microscopic print.

That’s not what they care about, sweetheart. Luke’s words echo in my brain. It’s just one dance. I’ll give you double what you get in the bar tonight if you do it.

Shame burns hot up my neck, so I drop my head, refusing to let him see it. He likes this. He gets off on the fact that I can’t say no.

“Come on, babe,” he coaxes. “It’s only one more dance. I’ll add an extra hundred to your paycheck tonight.”

A hundred dollars? It’s not like that will make a difference. Not with the debt I owe him.

“Sure,” I answer meekly. What’s another five-minute dance when the only thing waiting for me is the back of my car? Studying is impossible at this time of night with only the parking lot light. I might as well fill my time with something.

“Atta, girl.”

As I walk past, he gives my ass a tap.

Don’t flinch.

“Always there when I need you.”

I swallow what’s left of my pride and tip my nose up, heading for the door to the backstage area.

I greet the other girls, devoid of any emotion.

You can’t have that here. The minute you show too much, there’s going to be someone there, using it against you.

I find an empty vanity, set my bag down, and sit, only to sigh when I look in the mirror.

All I see are the giant, dark bags under my eyes and hollowed out cheeks.

A tired, desperately lonely, and sad girl stares back at me and I can barely stand to meet my own gaze. She’s unrecognizable now, and I ache for who I used to be. I miss having the backbone to push back and have people actually listen instead of just tolerate my existence.

Before smearing on the crusty makeup that's been sitting on this grimy vanity since God knows when, I pull my phone out of my bag, and pray to whatever deity might be listening that it has enough juice to check my messages.

If not, I'll have to wait until I'm huddled in the far corner of the library tomorrow, stealing electricity along with the Wi-Fi, pretending I belong there just as much as the trust fund babies with their MacBooks and lattes.

I smile when I see two bars. Just enough.

Then her message pops up.

Adley: I was in class today and they were talking about the beaches in California. They mentioned Covey Cove! Have you ever been there? I can’t wait to see a beach in real life.

The beach… Here I am drowning in stress and exhaustion, one missed shift away from homelessness, and she's daydreaming about salt water and sunshine.

That should make me burn with resentment, but it doesn't. I'm actually fucking grateful because it means she's still capable of dreaming about us having a future together.

She's still light enough to float while I'm weighed down by concrete shoes named Debt and Survival.

She's the only life raft keeping me from sinking completely into the black water that threatens to swallow me whole.

Savannah: You’ve seen a beach before when you were a baby. Mom and Dad took us.

My throat closes. The memory claws its way up, taking over the filth, smoke, and desperation that clings to this place.

Oh, how I wish I could tell Adley about it in person instead of through secret calls and texts.

I’m not even sure what she looks like anymore.

Last time I saw her was on the screen at an internet café two years ago, which feels like a lifetime.

She’s fourteen now, just at the start of those awkward teen years.

She needs someone to be there for her. To fight for her.

That’s me. She is who I’m fighting for. To see her again. To give her all the things I missed out on.

I quickly wipe away the tear rolling down my cheek and look around, hoping no one saw.

Thankfully, everyone is too lost in their own worlds to notice mine.

It’s the story of our lives in a place like this.

None of us are here because we want to be.

We’re here because we need the money, or we’re being blackmailed in some way or another.

One day, I'd love to douse this hellhole in gasoline and watch it burn to the fucking ground.

Take all of Luke's little black books with their meticulously tracked “debts” and turn them into nothing but ash and bad memories. But that kind of justice only happens in my dreams, the ones I have on the rare nights when exhaustion and my nightmares don’t claim me first. My reality is far too cruel for such satisfying endings.

In real life, places like this never burn; they just change owners, and girls like me keep dancing until we're replaced by younger versions of our broken selves.

I reach for the leftover foundation and scrape the tube like I’m mining for gold, desperate for enough product to cover the bruise-colored circles under my eyes.

Then I wipe the lipstick clean before using my finger to apply the red stain to my lips.

After that, I pull my hair into a tight knot and slip into the white rhinestone bodysuit.

The same costume I've worn every time I've stepped onto that godforsaken stage.

I've become so dependent on it, I view it as my battle armor, and it's the only way I have enough strength to keep going when every cell in my body is screaming at me to run.

I finish the look with my signature red wig. It’s seen better days, but again, it makes me feel like someone else when I’m out there.

“ Scarlett Cherrywood .” That's what Luke called me the first time he shoved me onto that stage, grinning like he'd just purchased me at auction, his fingers leaving bruises on my back where no one could see them.

And just like that, the name stuck and another piece of my soul was stripped away, replaced with his vision of who I should be.

Another collar around my neck that I never asked for but wear anyway.

My stomach churns at the thought of all those men staring at me with their hungry eyes, mentally undressing what little I’m already wearing. I hate this place. I hate the men who stare like they have a right to. Like I owe them something.