Page 9 of Pretty Broken Wings
CHAPTER FIVE
I got fired.
I stand outside the grocery store, staring at the cars that come and go, the rattle of the carts filling the air.
I got fuckingfired.
Do you even know who Mr. Newman is?Mrs. Todd had asked, her face red.Do you have any idea?
Turns out, ‘Mr. Newman’ is a fucking executive with the company. As in, his familystartedthe store.
Fuck my life.Fuck my life.
My anger got me fired. I know I have a problem. I get angry over things that normal people would just let go of. But I can’t let them go. I burn up inside, and I can’t fuckingstop.
I didn’t use to be like this. I was lovable back in the day. Back before…everything.
What the hell am I going to do?
I spin in a circle, running a hand along the top of my head.
I can’t go back. I can’t. My next paycheck isn’t for another week, and rent is due at the end of the week.
At this point, panic is becoming a familiar friend.
So I do the only thing I can do. I start walking home.
It’s weird going home during the early evening. There’s so much traffic out. As I’m moving past the next strip of stores, a car honks. I jerk my head up as tires squeal and two cars narrowly miss crashing into each other.
I glance around. No one seems to have noticed or cared. Then, the glowing sign of the strip club catches my eye. It’s neon pink with a skimpily clad witch on it, and the parking lot is full.
Which means there are customers there.
Paying women money.
I need money.
Before I can think twice, I cross the street. My heart races, and once I get in front of the doors, I stop.
I can do this, right? Waltz in and ask for a job? In my sports bra and grocery store polo?
I’m stuck there, staring at the one-way glass. There are cut-out skeletons placed across it that shiver in the wind.
I can do it. Who needs to twerk anyway? You can dance without twerking. I tried tossing it back once in the bathroomand horrified myself so much that I never tried again. But I can do other things.
“You going in?”
I jump and turn. There’s an older man behind me, rubbing his hands in the cold. He has an expensive coat on and shifts impatiently.
My lip curls. He’s probably been handed everything in his life, yet still can’t wait two seconds to go inside? What’s his rush? He doesn’t worry about bills. He comes here to throw money away while other people starve.
Ah, see? There’s that anger again. It’s threatening to smother me alive.
I shake myself out of it. The man asked me if I was going inside.
“Yep.” I grab the handles and step in.
I think about asking for a job right there, but in a last-minute bout of critical thought, I realize I know nothing and have brought no clothes or shoes. So I pay for my entry with the last of the bills in my wallet in the hopes that I can at least watch a girl dance, memorize it, and then come back more prepared. I might be a little impulsive, but when I set my sights on something, I plan on getting it.
