Page 5 of Driving My Obsession

ChapterThree

Oaklyn

Istruggle at work the next night. As I wrap my hand around the pole climbing from the center of one of the smaller stages, I can’t help but imagine Jake’s skinny dick within my grasp. The hot skin burned my flesh and left a scar on my mind. At least he took me all the way home, though.

When I lower myself to the floor and arch my back, the men around the stage reach out to me, their sweaty hands accosting my chest. Fingers slide over my exposed skin, groping and squeezing things they have no business seeing, let alone touching. As they assault me, I have to smile. If the disgust shows on my face, I’ll never make enough money to buy a car and begin to salvage my life. Thankfully, the dream I once had of dancing and acting in a theater has prepared me for this nightmare, and they aren’t wise to the fake look of seduction on my face.

Without making it obvious, I raise my chest and rise to my feet. Their greedy hands recede like waves of toxic sludge, but no shower can last long enough or burn hot enough to wash away this film of dirt on my skin. It’s inside me now. For feeling up my breasts, some of the men toss a compulsory bill onto the stage. It doesn’t feel good. They might as well scream, “Here’s your money, bitch!”

The song ends, and mumbles of conversation fill the silence before generic club music rushes into the gap. Sweat drips between my breasts as I lean over and pick up the money. The bills stick to my skin as I clutch them to my chest and scurry behind the curtain.

Back at my station, I stack the cash. I drag some of the crumpled rectangles along the edge of the desk to smooth them out, but it’s pointless. They’ve been shoved in someone’s pocket for too long, awaiting their chance to be thrown at my feet.

Speaking of my feet, they need a break. I slide off my heels and rub at my aching ankle. The bane of my existence. The sole reason I will never dance on any stage with clothes on again. I can handle a three-minute song, but anything longer than that and I’d probably fall on my face. Or worse.

I bend over to put on my sneakers, and the tough, tight fabric rubs against my blisters. My second shoe is half on as Jake’s cologne wafts over me and turns my stomach. Before I can straighten my spine, his length presses against my ass and his hands move to my hips. This is the last thing I want at the end of a shift.

“Hey, baby,” he says. He grinds against my panty-clad ass, and I try to step out of his grasp. “Don’t be like that. You want a ride home tonight, don’t you?”

I’m fucking sick of having a ride held over my head like this. Being down on my luck shouldn’t equate to being down on my knees. And that’s what he’ll expect tonight. A hand job was enough to get by last time, but he’ll up the ante.

One of the other girls enters the dressing room and clears her throat. Jake releases me, and I fall forward onto the desk. My cheeks burn red, and I’m sure the other girl thinks I look like a naughty schoolgirl who got caught bending over her teacher’s desk for a good grade. That couldn’t be further from the truth. His unwanted advances make me sick, and I don’t keep quiet about them to get a leg up in this business. I’m not trying to one-up these other women. I’m just trying to survive.

Through my mirror, I glance at the other woman. She’s at her station, busying herself with her outfit for her next dance. I can’t be the only one he sexually harasses. There’s no way.

Without waiting for Jake to solicit me for sex again, I throw on a cami and shorts and top it off with my long black jacket. He realizes he’s not getting anything from me, so he snatches the stack of cash from my hand and strips half my money before walking away. My heart sinks. He didn’t earn that money. His breasts didn’t get fondled. But there’s no arguing with him. Instead, I throw my leftover cash into my pocket and head out the back door.

As I step into the night air, I count the money he’s been nice enough to leave in my possession. An Uber will take an even larger chunk out of my meager earnings, so I trudge toward the bus stop with anger-fueled steps. A chill wind bites at my bare ankles and legs as I get to the bench and check the time on my phone. I missed the last bus of the night by five minutes. Fabulous.

With no other option, I throw my thumb into the air as the rare car drives by. Their headlights glide over my skin, but they keep driving. I’m tired. I’m cold. I’m angry. My rage only grows with each passing vehicle.

How can an entire city of people be so blind to the needs of their neighbors? I’m not some scary man mumbling to himself on a street corner. I’m a woman with aching feet and a sharp pain in my leg. I pose zero risk.

I raise my thumb again as headlights peek around the bend. Instead of speeding by, the Jeep slows and pulls to the side of the road. I’ve accomplished the first task, which is getting someone to stop. Now I just have to hope the driver doesn’t harbor the same expectations as my shitty boss.

If I walk to the driver’s side, I’ll be standing in the middle of the street, so I step up to the passenger-side window. It lowers, but I can’t see the driver’s face in the shadows. “Can I get a ride home?” I ask. I should feel ashamed for begging like this, but when the alternative means fucking Jake inside the building, I feel little more than grateful for the opportunity to beg at all.

“Where about?” the low voice says from the driver’s seat.

“Just outside the city. Off Jones Avenue.”

He flicks on the dome light and dips his head as he moves a duffle bag off the passenger seat. When he sits up and the light lands on his face, I nearly gasp at the sight of him. Scars cross his face and neck, and even more occupy his right arm. My eyes land on a dark patch of blood on his knuckles, and I gulp back my discomfort.

“Sure, get in. But judging by the way you’re looking at me, I’m guessing you won’t.”

I take a step back and pull my coat tighter around me. “I don’t usually get in cars with strangers, especially not when they have—”

“Scars?”

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “You look like you’ve...been in a fight.” I almost said he looks like he’s murdered someone—or a bunch of someone’s—but I caught myself.

The man looks at his hand. “You aren’t wrong. Iwasin a fight, but not the sort of fight you’re thinking of. I do bare-knuckle boxing down at the warehouse off Jensen Avenue. And this is nothing.”

I look back at the club. At the empty bus stop. Getting into this Jeep with this stranger is better than returning to the club and begging Jake for a ride. I can’t afford his fee.

I open the passenger-side door and take a seat in the car. The man eyes me as my jacket spreads a bit in the front, his gaze crawling over my fishnet stockings and the glitter-covered shorts that ride up my thighs. He looks at the club, putting two and two together.

The man throws the Jeep in drive. “You work at the club?” he asks.

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