Page 40 of Savage Lover

“What are you talking about?” I say.

“Yeah,” she sighs. “It was in the change room, taped to the mirror. I bet your mom put it there.”

Now my face is flaming. She’s talking about Exotica. Ali must have worked as a dancer, or a hostess.

“Who’s your mom?” a guy sprawled on a beanbag chair says.

“She’s a whore,” one of the other guys snickers.

“Shut your fucking mouth,” I snap. I try to jump up from the couch, but Levi pulls me back down again.

“Relax,” he says. “Pauly, don’t be a dick. We call them escorts.”

“My mother wasn’t an escort,” I hiss. “She just worked as a dancer.”

“A stripper,” Pauly laughs. “She teach you any moves? There’s a pole upstairs. Why don’t you show us how mommy shakes it?”

“Why don’t I shake your fucking head off your shoulders!” I roar, struggling to get out of the low, sagging couch while weak and enervated from the weed. It’s easy for Levi to yank me back down again.

“Nobody cares what your mom did,” he says. He slings his arm around my shoulders, which I don’t like at all. I can smell his sweat and the heavy reek of weed in his robe. “My parents are a couple of fuckin’ yuppies and that’s just as embarrassing. You can’t be fighting, though. You gotta be a good girl. Do your work. Make some money. Have some fun.”

His fingertips dangle over my right breast. He lets them touch down, with only my t-shirt between us. I force myself not to squirm away.

I see Ali watching us. Not like she’s jealous—more like a kid watching the fish in an aquarium.

“Yeah, whatever,” I mutter. “I need more Ex, then.”

Levi nods to the Samoan. The guy comes back about five minutes later with a paper bag, the top folded over. He hands it to me.

“Where am I supposed to sell this?” I ask Levi.

“Anywhere you want. Parties, raves, campuses . . . sky’s the limit. You’re your own boss. Under me, of course.” He grins.

“Do you make this?” I ask him. “How do I know it’s good? I don’t want any of my friends getting sick.”

Levi’s veneer of friendliness peels back. His bloodshot eyes peer at me from too close, his arm tightening around my shoulder.

“You know it’s good because you trust me,” he hisses.

He’s only in his twenties, but his teeth are as yellow as an old man’s, and his breath is atrocious.

“Right,” I say. “Okay.”

He lets go of me at last. I heave myself up off the couch, clutching the paper bag.

“You can sell ‘em anywhere from fifteen to twenty-five a pop,” Levi says. “You owe me ten each.”

I nod.

“Bring me the money in a week.”

I nod again.

The Samoan leads me back toward the front door, even though it’s only ten feet away.

“See ya,” I say to him.

He gives me a disdainful look, closing the door in my face.

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