Down and Out(2)

Dropping my eyes, I continue to the row of lockers off to the side.
“You’re the new waitress, right? Samantha?”
I glance up at her as I stop at my locker, seeing her cocked hip and long, bleach-blond hair pushed over her shoulder. She’s all tan, tight skin and curves for miles. There’s literally a small triangle of fabric covering her hoo-ha and nothing else, so it’s impossible not to compare the embodiment of every guy’s wet dream standing before me to, well . . . me.
“Savannah,” I say, looking back to the padlock in my hand.
“Right, sorry.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see her bend down and snort a line of coke off the countertop. As I pop my locker open, she holds out a rolled-up dollar bill. “You want some?”
My eyes briefly meet hers as I sit down, and I can’t help but feel like I’m starring in some cheesy after-school special. My whole life’s an anti-drug PSA, and I’ve seen South Park enough times to know that drugs are bad, mmmkay?
“No, thanks.”
She shrugs as I start taking off my shoes, trying not to groan as the feeling rushes back to the cramped nerve-endings of my poor little piggies. Her Lucite stripper heels click on the tile as she walks over to me, but I don’t look at her.
“You could be up on that stage, you know. Pretty thing like you could make a killing. You’ve got that innocent, girl-next-door look. Guys eat that shit up.” She reaches forward and pulls the low-cut top of my school girl uniform aside. “Your tits real?”
I smack her hand away and glare up at her. Show no fear. Girls like this can scent it out like a bloodhound. They thrive off it. “Look, I’m flattered, but I’m not into *.” I give her an acidic smile as her glossy, pink lips turn up into a smirk.
“All right.” She holds her hands up in surrender. “Just thought I’d help you out.”
“Why?” I ask dryly. “Why would you help me out?” The girls here have all but ignored me. This is the first time one of them has even said more than two words to me.
“Because I’ve been where you are. Lost and broke.” Her accent’s thicker, the telltale Bostonian in her slipping through.
I’ve worked hard to get rid of that same accent.
And I so want to point out that she’s a stripper, doing lines of coke in the backroom of a seedy club. It doesn’t look like she’s figured out shit, but I keep my mouth shut. Who am I to judge? I’m no saint, and although I might not take my clothes off for money, I still work at a strip club, and I still make money off my looks. It’s just a different side of the same coin.
She sighs, her blue eyes starting to glass over as the coke hits her system. “Talk to Bobby.”
My brows arch. “The bouncer?”
“Yeah. He can hook you up with earnin’ on the side, but he gets a percentage of what you make. It’s fifty for a handjob, a hundred for blowjobs, two hundred for *. . .”
Her voice fades away as what she says dawns on me, and I stare at her in disbelief. “You’re a prostitute?”
Blue, glassy eyes flicker as her whole demeanor shifts and hardens. She thinks I’m judging her.
Am I? Do I actually have some moral boundaries after all?
She crosses her arms, covering her bare breasts. “I made over two grand this week. How much have you made?”
I’m stunned into silence.
Holy shit, that’s a lot of money.
“I’m not judging,” I splutter, holding my hands up in a defensive position like she had.
She relaxes minutely, pursing her lips as she looks down at me. “Most of the girls here do it. It’s an easy way to make a shit-ton of money. If you want in, just talk to Bobby.” And with that, she turns and walks away, the sound of her heels growing dim as she leaves the changing area.
My eyes wander down to my feet, to the ugly red splotches that I know will turn into big blisters tomorrow. I busted my ass tonight, and I only made seventy-five bucks.
According to Stripperella, I can make more in five minutes with my mouth.
I’d be lying if I said I’m not tempted. Five minutes of work on my knees sounds a helluva lot easier than eight hours on my feet with those god-awful heels. And I’m already giving it away for free. Why not get paid for something I’m just going to do anyway?
I mull it around in my head and the more it churns, the less sour it tastes. I can put myself through school with that money. . .
For the first time in two years, college seems attainable and not just a pipe dream. Hope blossoms in my chest, unfurling rapidly as I quickly try to squash it and smother it deep within me. Hope’s a dangerous thing. Let it get out of control and it gives you ideas and dreams—things that will inevitably crush you when they don’t happen.
After changing into my street clothes, I relock my locker and head out of the changing area, toward the side exit located on the far side of the stage.
Management doesn’t want us to leave through the front when we leave after our shifts. Seeing us in regular clothes “ruins the fantasy” for the customers.
Everything is so dark in the narrow landing behind the stage. The floor and walls are painted black, and the long “wall” to my right is nothing more than a thick, black velvet curtain. The music is so loud on the other side of the soft material that I don’t hear the moaning until it’s too late.
I freeze as the exit door comes into view, in the little sliver of pulsing light spilling out from the stage. Pressed up against the wall next to the door is a good-looking man, mid-to-late twenties, who’s shocked as hell to see me. Because kneeling in front of him is Stripperella, her head bobbing back and forth as she sucks him off.