Page 25 of The Venom We Bleed

“Your assistance…” I repeat her with no small amount of suspicion.

Her eyes roll. “Not everyone is out to get you, Jules.” She waves her hand and breezes past me.

I turn to watch her go. “I’m not looking for backup or to make friends,” I remind her. “Despite what you said the first day of school, I think it’s best if I handle shit myself.”

Several steps ahead of me, she pauses and turns back. “Yeah, maybe you can handle yourself in a fight,” she concedes. Roquel touches her bottom lip with a single finger, pushing against the full pink skin as she eyes me. “But you need a job and maybe I can help.”

She can help me get a job?My initial instinct is to turn her down and tell her to back off—distrust is easier to accept than hope. All around us, students pour towards the cafeteria, hunger and chatter heavy in the air. I debate for so long that it isn’t until the hallway is nearly empty that I finally respond. “Fine,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. “You say you can help me get a job? What kind?”

Roquel grins and drops her hand. “No takebacks,” she says with a chuckle before stepping ahead of me, and I’m left with little other recourse but to follow her and hope like fuck this job will be the answer to my problems.

11

JULIET

The public bus system runs from 7 a.m. to 11 p.m., and thankfully, one arrives in front of my apartment building not long after I get home from school on Friday. I manage to get into my apartment, change, and back outside just as the white and blue monstrosity pulls up to the curb.

I hurry on board and swipe my card in front of the bland-faced man sitting in his uniform before taking a seat towards the back. The smell of sweat and weed hit me square in the face and I wrinkle my nose as I pretend like none of this bothers me. As the bus makes its way towards the adjoining town, Tangier, where Roquel’s great aunt owns a club, I can only hope the scents don’t seep into my clothes and linger as I hop off an hour later.

Tangier has an almost urban feel amongst rural small towns. It’s the only town nearby that’s on the same level in terms of size and businesses. I stride down the main strip and take a right at the end, hiking up a hill and past a local cemetery until my surroundings change. I’ve arrived at my destination. I glance up and up some more at the red brick building with blacked-out windows and a sign hanging over the doorway that reads in non-illuminated neon script The Dionysus Lounge.

Nerves wear at the frayed edges of my mind. From the outside, it looks no different from a small town’s version of a strip club. Roquel had assured me it wasn’t. Still, I’m half-tempted to turn around and walk away before I even go inside, sure that I’d called it wrong and Roquel Lee is no different from any of the other bitches at Silverwood that had made it their mission to make my life even more miserable than it already was. It didn’t seem possible for anyone to have this amount of bad luck but … here I am.

My foot taps against the cracked pavement, and with a curse, I catch the door when it opens as a man exits and slip inside past him. Desperation fuels me as I stomp forward, but instead of poles and stages full of naked woman shaking their tits in old fucks’ faces, I’m greeted by a rather impressive interior. In the place of stages, there are large, rounded booths spread throughout the place with women in done-up makeup and rather scanty cocktail dresses—though completely covered—pouring drinks for men in suits as they chat amicably. There’s a sweet smell lingering in the air—something soothing like vanilla or lavender—and the music in the background is low and instrumental. It’s not at all like the strip club I’d expected.

“Hello, how can I help you?” A tall blonde woman in stiletto heels with a thick Russian accent approaches me.

“Uh … yeah, hi, I’m … erm … I’m here for an interview?” The statement I’m meant to make comes out more like a question and I feel my cheeks begin to heat. I smooth down the silk shirt I put on, hoping the ride on the bus didn’t wrinkle it too badly.

I glance over the girl’s attire—a black mini skirt and a twisted top that appears silver from the front but shifts into a multitude of rainbow colors when she turns away.

“Then you’re here for Ms. Ma-Ri,” she says. “Her office is this way. Please watch your step.”

My heart blasts against my chest in rapid succession as I follow behind the much taller woman as she leads me around the side of the room. As she walks, I peek at the men and women on the floor. Most of them are sitting close, and I watch as several of the women casually brush against their partners as they listen to them talk, laughing at intervals and then frowning and nodding in commiseration at others. Are they workers? Or are they just here to drink with their partners? It seems odd that there are so many men in here with so many beautiful women just practically hanging on their every word.

The sight is cut off as I enter a back hallway and am led past a locker room and changing room. There are bathrooms, a door labeled for storage and inventory, and then finally, an office. The tall blonde knocks twice and waits until the sound of a woman’s croaking voice comes from inside.

Instead of opening the door, however, she turns to me and gestures. “Go ahead in,” she says. “Ms. Ma-Ri will see you now.”

As I set my hand on the doorknob, the woman disappears back down the hallway towards the main floor and I let myself into the room. Smoke hovers in the air, so thick that I’m not two feet in before I start coughing.

“You’ll have a hard time adjusting if you can’t handle this, darling,” a small, petite-faced woman says from behind a wide black oak desk. She reclines against a plush red chair with a long stick pinched between two fingers. Is that … a cigarette holder? I didn’t think anyone used those outside of the 1920s. Then again, this woman looks almost old enough to have lived through that time period.

Wrinkles line every open surface of her face, from the corners of her mouth to the edges of her eyes. Age spots are visible both on her hands and neck. Despite that, her makeup isperfectly done around her eyes and her lips are painted a bright red. Her pixie short black and white hair is styled with swooping bangs to one side.

Smoke drifts from the end as she puffs on her cigarette and then blows out a long train into the air. “So, I hear from my niece that you’re looking for a job and you’re over eighteen.”

I take a seat in the only place available—the rickety fold-out chair stationed in front of her desk. Despite the neatness of her office, it’s clear she doesn’t invite guests back here too often. The chair prepared for me looks like it doesn’t belong and the hard metal hurts my ass, but I don’t say anything.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Her almond-shaped eyes narrow on where I sit. “You ain’t lying ‘bout being eighteen, are ya?” she demands.

“I brought my ID with me if you need to see it,” I reply. “But I’m … um, not sure exactly what kind of job you’re looking to fill.” It feels like a weakness to admit, but Roquel had been rather vague about her aunt’s business. She only told me it was a club of sorts, that her aunt is looking for more hosts, and she's willing to pay under the table. Under the table means I wouldn’t have taxes taken out, and I can use all of the extra funds I can get until college comes around.

Ma-Ri sniffs and crosses one leg over the other, making me realize she’s dressed much the same as the other women outside—her black dress is low cut, showing off the little hint of cleavage that she has and it rides up her stocking-covered thighs. I look away and fixate my attention on her face, waiting for an explanation.

A laugh bubbles out of the woman, surprising me. “That girl didn’t tell you anything, did she?” Ma-Ri guesses.

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