Page 15 of Assassin's Obsession

"Why would you?" I ask and grin. "You looking for nomination for the world's best sister award? Trust me, you already got it in the bag."

"You're such a dork." But Cookie's smiling when she turns back to watch the not so age-appropriate movie for an eleven-year-old.

A few minutes later, mom says, "You're home early." There's concern in her tone that she doesn't put into words.

"Nothing bad," I lie. "They just didn't need me tonight."

"But Saturdays are best for tips. Why did they send you home?" Cookie asks, sounding as worried as mom.

Should my eleven year old sister know tips at the strip club are best on Saturday nights? Probably not. But we don't lie to each other in our family and she's too damn smart not to know what I do for a living.

That doesn't mean she should be worrying about my tips. "Don't twist yourself into a pretzel over money, kid. That's my job."

"Actually, it's my job," mom claims.

"It's both our jobs," I soothe her. "I'm a grown woman and taking care of my family is a privilege."

Mom's smile is gentle, the ever-present pain shadowing her eyes. "The foundation is providing a monthly stipend now. Maybe you can take some more Saturdays off."

Mom knows that Saturdays are the nights I do the routine with the least amount of clothes on at the end of it. The tips are worth it, but she'll probably never be comfortable with me being an exotic dancer.

She never criticizes me though. Mom knows I dance at a strip club for a living because it's one of the few legitimate jobs in New York that doesn't require a college degree and pays enough to cover the bills for my little family.

I'm a good dancer, but I don't do it because I love having men's eyes on me and she knows it. I'm good at projecting sex on six-inch stilettos, but that part of me got destroyed in the foster home before I landed with Mom.

Or at least I thought it did.

Before meeting Angelo.

My ovaries dance with more verve than I do when he's around. Not that either me, or my ovaries would know what to do if he returned our interest.

I don't date. My cherry is still sitting on top of my ladybits sundae.

If the guys at Pitiful Princess knew that personal little secret, they'd never leave me alone. I would be the prize they insist on claiming.

"Did you find out if the stipend is temporary or a long term thing?" Waiting for mom to answer, I munch on a handful of popcorn, reveling in the forbidden buttery goodness.

Not that there's any real butter on the kernels popped in a microwave bag, but it's still a treat I shouldn't indulge in.

I got hired for my generous curves and ability to move them, but management has made it clear that if my waistline expands, I'm out.

Fair? No. Life? Yes.

"Petra said that it will last at least a year and is renewable."

"That's great." It's not guaranteed security, but it gives us a year to build up mom's emergency medical fund.

"It's enough to allow you to cut down to two nights a week and start taking more classes at the community college."

I take one a term when we have the funds to cover my tuition, but I'm not planning to take any more for a while. I haven't told mom that, but we need to save money for Cookie's education. Come hell, or high water, my little sister is going to college and living out her dreams.

We need the foundation money to pay bills, so I can save my income to make that possible. Mom knows it, but she wants things to be different.

"I've got tonight off. That's all I need right now," I finally say when her expectant expression doesn't shift.

"Maybe Petra can find me another foundation grant," Mom says, but her eyes don't reflect the hope of her words.

When mom's disability caseworker came to her a few weeks ago and told her that she was the recipient of a grant that covered specialized treatment not covered by our state insurance including visits twice a week from an in home nurse, we celebrated with ice cream.

---