Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 74487 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74487 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 372(@200wpm)___ 298(@250wpm)___ 248(@300wpm)
* * *
One year later, I came to the conclusion that no one wants to hire an event planner with no experience, a questionable GPA, and no references, no matter how cute her Betsey Johnson dress is, or how knowledgeable she is about the local party scene. My credit cards were maxed out, I was three weeks late on my rent, and I was desperate. I worked at Best Buy for a few weeks, the job offer graciously offered by a drinking buddy, but the monthly income didn’t come close to covering my credit card minimum payments. So I drove twenty minutes outside of town and stopped in the parking lot of Sammy’s, a strip club located on the county line, and the only option for local men and drunk tourists.
* * *
That was three years ago, and I sat in the parking lot for forty-five minutes before I found the courage to walk in. Looking back, I wish I’d just driven off. Fuck the fact that it doubled my Best Buy income. Best Buy never led to blowjobs just before rent deadlines or married assholes trying to slip their fingers past my g-string.
* * *
I have no great excuses for how my life has turned out. It was a simple case of poor planning. Laziness. A year of living it up, courtesy of Capital One and Jennifer Garner’s damn ads promising double miles.
* * *
I close my eyes, and sometime around dawn, sleep finally arrives.
CHAPTER 2
My rent’s salvation walks through the front doors at 9 p.m. I am moving through tables, my eyes dancing over prospects, when a firm hand grips my elbow, hot pink nails digging into my skin. “Look alive, Candy. Rick’s looking for you.”
* * *
I glance back, carefully prying Jez’s talons out of my arm. “Fuck Rick.” Yes, fuck Rick and his suggestive offer of a double shift. My desperation must be showing, something I need to get a handle on, ASAP. If there is anything our boss loves, it’s taking advantage of his harem in our times of need.
* * *
“Candy.” Rick’s voice cuts through the thump of the music and I roll my eyes, turning to face him.
* * *
“Yep?” I drawl, smiling for the benefit of the middle-aged man who passes, his eyes lingering across my gold-dusted cleavage.
* * *
“We’ve got a high-roller requesting you.” He pulls at my arm, not allowing me an option, and I stumble forward, my heels catching as I hop and skip to keep up with him.
* * *
“What the hell? Slow down!” I hiss at him, narrowly missing the sharp edge of a table as he drags me along.
* * *
“The guy’s up in VIP. He’s waiting for you.” Rick practically sprints forward, as if this “high roller” is moments away from disappearing. I fight the urge to laugh. The guy probably asked for sparkling water and Rick thought him fancy. Our club is an establishment for truckers and minivan driving tourist dads; anybody with any taste or money took their plane to New Orleans or Atlanta if they wanted high quality girls.
* * *
“I’m telling you, this guy is loaded. He already ordered a bottle of champagne—you know that bottle of Dom we keep in the back? Plus, he has private security and came in a limo.” Rick practically pants with excitement, his mouth so close I can smell the hamburger he had for dinner, his hand still pulling me along.
* * *
I allow myself a speck of excitement. This guy does sound loaded. Maybe this night will be different. Maybe I will actually meet someone worthwhile, someone who doesn’t try to haggle over the price of a lap dance, or who will try and cop a free feel. We round the corner and Rick pulls back the curtain that encloses the VIP section. He steps aside and I move forward and into the dimly-lit space.
* * *
It’s hard to put a diamond in the garbage, but our VIP room is a gas station trash can and this man is a Harry Winston diamond. My eyes skip over the empty center stage, over the empty black couches, their cushions ripped and saggy, and hone in on the man.
* * *
He dominates a center couch, his back against the leather, his arms draped out like wings on a plane, a lit cigar glowing from his right hand. Behind the couch, two men stand, their features hidden by the shadows, their silhouetted builds impressive. His security. From the end of the cigar, smoke drifts, a smoky trail across the man’s face, his smug smile widening as I approach. I take the final step, my heel dragging along the bumpy carpet before stopping. This close, I can see his eyes. Bright blue, vivid and turquoise, the sort that matches Caribbean waters and the neon glow of my bedside clock. Will I be staring at it tonight? Will this man ask something of me that will cause guilt-fueled-insomnia?