Page 8 of Lovers Fate

The person who came up with the name of this place was clever. Any man who tells his wife or anyone else that he is going to The Church would think nothing of it.

When I reach the red door at the end of the hallway, the smell of cigars filters through my nose.

I knock three times, and the door swings open. A woman with red hair steps back and turns her head. “Hank, she’s here.” Then she swings her gaze back. “Have a seat.” Her gaze drops to my chest. “I think you’ll work out with your complexion.”

“I’ll stand,” I say, keeping my tone controlled. I need a job fast, but from what I’ve seen so far, I think standing would be better in case I need to run out of here.

“Can you dance?” she asks, scrutinizing my clothes.

“Yes,” I say silkily.

If you consider dancing in a ten-by-ten padded room in a mental institution, then the answer is yes. Sure.

I ignore the way she continues to stare at me as if I were a prized pony at an auction. My gaze focuses on the man with a potbelly behind the desk, clad in an ill-fitting designer shirt and black shades. He must be Hank.

“Trix.” He says my name as if he’s testing it on his tongue. “Steven is my man at the door. He says you’re interested in a job.”

“I am,” I reply.

“When can you start?” he asks with interest, but I can feel his heated gaze on my body. I suddenly feel exposed in my ill-fitting shirt and pants.

“When do you need me?” I inquire, attempting not to come across as desperate.

He chuckles, rolls his cigar in with his thumb and forefinger, and taps it in the ashtray before taking a drag, the end glowing bright red. My stomach churns at the sight of his yellow teeth.

“I like her,” he says, glancing in the direction of the woman standing next to me.

She makes her way around the desk underneath the neon lights wearing booty shorts, fishnets, and a short T-shirt with no bra that reads, DADDY LIKES THE SWEET ONES.

“I think she’ll work out,” she replies as if I’m not listening.

Hank gives her an approving smile. “Cherry Bomb will show you around,” he explains. “I pay cash every night you work. It’s an even split. Fifty-fifty. If your earnings are less than five hundred, you will be required to pay a flat rate of three hundred every night you don’t work. If you fuck any of the customers, the house takes half. After all, I’m the one bringing the traffic. No drugs in my club. If the customers bring it, it’s on them. If Cherry Bomb tells me the customers aren’t interested in you, you’re out.”

“Do I have to screw the customers?” I ask. There is no way I’m prostituting myself. If it’s a requirement, I’m fucked.

He leans back and puffs on his cigar. “It’s your pussy; do what you want with it. I don’t care what you stick in it. You do know you’ll have to take off your clothes.” He smiles. “Well, most of them.”

“Fair enough. When can I start?”

He looks at me. I can see my reflection from the black lenses of his sunglasses. Smoke fills the room, scorching the inner lining of my nose as I struggle not to gag.

“You can start tonight,” he says, placing the cigar on the ashtray. “One of the girls ran off with one of the married customers, so we’re short-staffed. She’ll be back soon enough. They always come back. Anyway, business is business, and the show must go on. We’re one of the few strip clubs left in the state. Small towns don’t have strong Wi-Fi or servers that show porn. The men who visit here are either passing through orsimply bored with their wives. Honestly, I can’t say I blame them.”

I want to throw up, but I need to finish this fucking job, or else I’ll end up sleeping on a park bench.

Cherry Bomb steps closer; his hand caresses her ass. “Good girl,” he praises her like he’s petting a cat. “I’m going to give you something extra tonight.” She gives me an unconvincing smile. “So soft,” he continues before turning his gaze toward me. “Go out and look for a girl named Rachel. She should have finished her set and be in the changing room. It’s the first door to the right.” He gently places his hand near Cherry’s crotch.

I whirl around, having seen enough, and quickly leave the room.

SIX

The air isthick with cigarette smoke, sweat, and perfume as I make my way down the dark hallway. When I reach the door to the dressing room to find Rachel, it swings open. The heavy scent of fruity body spray and imitation Chanel No. 5 perfume makes me grimace while two girls standing in the doorway wipe white powder off their noses.

I hate drugs.

Doctors repeatedly asked me questions that I couldn’t provide answers to, causing my fingers to tremble and my drool to fall down my chin from the drugs they had given me. It didn’t bring about any improvement in my mental state. All it did was make me lose control of my body, and I was barely able to stay awake.

“Oh, hi,” say the girl to my right, wearing a rainbow-colored wig. She elbows the girl next to her with black hair and says, “She’s new.”

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