Page 19 of Ruthless God

He dips his head as he sits down, pulling his phone out. It secretly pleases me that he's not watching the next performer on stage. Like I'm special or something.

When I get backstage, Jade is the first person to stop me.

“Oh my God! He took you to the champagne room! How was it?”

“It was good,” I say with a smile. “We're going for coffee when I get off.”

Jade grabs on my arm. “Just be careful, girl.”

I know what she means. While I made a comment about my client thinking it was more than just a dance earlier, it's a two-way street. It's just as easy for me to think that the guy is really into me and not just living out some kind of sick fantasy. I'm not saying that everybody that comes in here is bad or has ill intent, but I've definitely seen my share of entitled assholes.

“Want me to text you?”

I smile at Jade. “You know I do.”

Having her text me is a safety measure that she offers to any girl in the club that meets up with a client afterwards. She's usually at the club several hours after it closes. Even if she couldn’t physically help, it’s still someone that knows where I am and can call the cops for me if I sound the alarm. Luckily, I've never had to text her back for help. But it's good to have just in case.

I spend the last hour of my shift helping some of the newer girls with their makeup before they go on stage. Right before it's time to leave, I count the money that I made. On top of the ten thousand I made in the champagne room, I also made two thousand in tips from my dance on the stage. I'm sure most of that money came from Ghosty. And I'm not mad about it. That’s twelve thousand dollars that will help Harvey.

I’m smiling as I change into jean shorts, sandals, and a t-shirt. Taking off the clown make-up is a pain in the ass and leaves my face pink. I redo my ponytail, grab my bag, and then head out to the main floor. The lights are on, which always makes me laugh. It takes away the mystery of the club. All that’s left is trash on the floor and a few stragglers, like Ghosty.

“I figured you’d have taken off the mask by now.”

He answers, “And miss the chance to wear it a bit longer? I think not.”

I say, “I’m parked out back. Do you want to meet at the restaurant down the street?”

He’s silent for a moment. Maybe he’s having second thoughts or getting cold feet. It happens.

“What would you say if I didn’t want to grab coffee?”

“Hey, it’s okay.” I smile. “It was great meeting you, Ghosty.”

I turn to leave when he grabs my wrist, stopping me.

“You misunderstand. I still want to spend time with you tonight, but not at a restaurant.” He pauses. “Do you trust me?”

“I don’t even know you, so, no, not really.”

“I guess that's fair. What if I promise I'm not a serial killer?”

“Isn't that what every serial killer would say?”

“Guess you got me again.” He puts his hands in his pant pockets, cocking his head to the side. “Well, Cecely, guess this is good night, then.”

I don’t know what possesses me to ask, “Where did you want to go? Instead of the restaurant?”

“There’s a park nearby. It’ll be quiet. We can chat.”

“Which one is it?”

“Cedar Ridge Preserve. It’s about twenty minutes from here.”

I know the place he’s talking about. Secluded. Quiet. And this time of year? Absolutely gorgeous.

But that’s exactly what makes me hesitate.

I take a slow, steady inhale, hoping—praying—for my intuition to kick in, to tell me whether this is a terrible idea.

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