Page 9 of Lillian

That was the start of my new life. My sweet sister, who lived over two hours away in Flagstaff, managed to make it to Phoenix in three after packing a bag and securing a babysitter, ready to do whatever it took to help. Already a licensed foster parent because of her own unique situation, she was able to take Grace while I went through the arduous six-month process of getting my own license.

Kim’s acceptance was conditional, of course, on me moving in with her to take care of Grace in the meantime. She couldn’t take care of a newborn by herself. Not that I would have wanted her to. Little Gracie was mine from the second I made the choice to call my sister. So, within a week, I was dumped, given semi-guardianship of a newborn, quit my job, and moved back to my hometown.

And it was the best thing that ever happened to me.

The first few years were bliss. Nobody knew where Grace’s biological mom was for the first year. When they finally did find her, it was because she’d overdosed and rushed to a hospital for treatment. With a warrant out for her arrest for child endangerment and multiple drug charges, she did end up doing a little time.

But then she got out, got clean, and wanted her daughter back. Which brings us to today. Another one of her supervised visits. They’re given every few weeks. Sometimes she shows, sometimes she doesn’t. But the courts give the mom every chance. The end goal—the hope—is to reunite mom and child. Damn the child’s best interest to hell.

“Lillian!” My sister’s shout pulls me out of my head.

“Hmm? What?” I frown back at her as she snaps her fingers in my face. “What? I’m listening.”

“What did I say then?” she challenges, one brow raised.

“You said,Oh, Lil. I’d love to lend you one hundred dollars to get your nails done while I watch Grace. You deserve it.”I take on a sweet, mimic-y tone for her, which she should appreciate. It is spot on.

She snorts at me. “Not even close. Though… now that you mention it. There is something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.”

“Why don’t I like the sound of this?” I start slowly, taking in the innocent look in her eye.

“Youhavebeen so stressed. And youdodeserve a break. Raising a toddler by yourself is no joke. Let alone when you have DCS to deal with, too. But I was thinking of something a little more of a stress relief than a spa day.” So much build-up.

“Kim, I am not going to yoga with you,” I deadpan.

“First of all, that’s not what I was going to suggest. Secondly, I think you’d really enjoy it,” she says, holding up one finger and then a second.

“Okay…” I prod. “Then what?”

“I have this friend. She owns this club in Phoenix, and they’ve got an event coming up next Saturday, and I think it is just what you need to relax and let go of all this stress you’re carrying.”

Well, that doesn’t sound bad. Why does she look a little nervous?

“What kind of club?” I narrow suspicious eyes on her.

“Well…keep an open mind, okay?” she starts. “It’s very high-end. Really classy.”

“What’s the club called?” I ask, leaning back in the chair to stare her down. Arms crossed.

“It’s called Club Ecstasy.” Her voice is calm, reasonable.

“Club…your friend owns a sex club?” I lower my voice atsexso the children can’t hear. “And how do you even have a friend who owns a sex club? Who are you?” I’m appraising my sister now. With her soft features, button nose, and completely innocent, unassuming look about her.

“Yes,” she says nonchalantly.

“Have you been?” My tone isn’t judgmental. More curious and…oddly impressed.

“No,” she laughs back, brushing away some hair that falls into her face. “I met Claire, the owner, because she actually gives fifty percent of the proceeds to a Phoenix foster care charity.”

“Really? That’s generous of her,” I praise. Now, her connection to this person makes sense. Why Kim would befriend the equivalent of a madam. Kim’s got a soft spot a mile long in her heart for anyone who cares about kids. But especially those in our broken foster system.

“I know, right? So we got to talking; she mentioned her club, and I mentioned you in all your single glory. A few forms later, and you’re on the guest list.” Easy peasy. The look on her face is so smugly proud I can’t help but laugh.

“Just like that, huh?” I raise a brow at my pushy, meddling sister. “Wait, what forms?”

“I had to fill out an application on your behalf. They do a background check and whatnot. I gave them your picture. The only thing left for you to do yourself is get a health check and fill out your hard and soft limits form,” she says aloud, looking off into the distance like she’s going through a mental checklist.

“A hard and soft limits form? What kind of kinky, fifty shades party is this?” I groan, covering my face with two hands.

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