Page 1 of Downfall

Chapter 1

Abby

Lifeisfinallygoingexactly as planned.

Not exactly how I would have planned it, but as planned.

At twenty-two, graduating college and managing to land a coveted Junior Auditor position at Mitchell and Associates, the top accounting firm in San Diego, should have been part of my plan. Unfortunately, I hated studying finance and accounting. And my new job is boring as hell.

The days in my cubicle are long, even through this first week of training, learning new things and drinking my weight in coffee, have been dull. I miss college; the rush and the stress. One week and I already know that this corporate monotony isn’t going to cut it for long. But what can I do? I’ve committed to this life to appease the one person I can never truly please: my father.

After my first week, I am more than ready to let loose and have an amazing Friday night—at my other job. Luckily for me, my second job is where I thrive. Stripping at the Fox Hole makes me feel alive like nothing else can. On that stage, I am free. And it doesn’t hurt that I make more in one night than I do all week at the accounting firm.

Throwing on a pair of comfy black leggings and an old, cropped Green Day t-shirt, I grab my bag of makeup and lingerie and head out the door, locking up before ambling down the hallway to the elevator. My one-bedroom apartment is nothing special, but it’s right in the heart of Downtown San Diego, so I love it. I can get around without a car, and that makes the expense worth it.

The walk to the club is only three blocks, and the cool evening air makes all the tension from the week melt away. It’s mid-November, and it’s just starting to cool off at night. The cold will feel amazing after my shift, and I hope I won’t regret not bringing a hoodie.

Downtown on Friday evening is busy, women and men dressed up—and down—to go to a nice dinner or clubbing. Working weekend nights all throughout college, I didn’t have many chances to get out and enjoy the San Diego nightlife, but I see my fair share of drunken shenanigans just walking through the crowds and at the club.

I should be happier to have gotten the job at Mitchell and Associates; it will be a great first step toward a lifelong career, since I can’t strip forever. But pursuing my passion for dance was ripped away when my mom passed away my sophomore year of high school.

My dad is everything that Mom wasn’t: controlling, egotistical, and, once he met my stepmother, a neglectful asshole who rarely gave me the time of day. He planned my future in accounting, deciding that I would be able to further his career and wealth if his daughter proved she was worthy of marrying one of his colleagues’ sons or something.

I went to school for accounting to appease him, and it was the only way he would pay for my education, anyway, but I have no intention of being married off. Of course, he doesn’t know about my second job, and I’m pretty sure those prep school assholes wouldn’t be caught dead married to a stripper. Or at least their daddies wouldn’t let them.

I could have paid my own way and majored in dance like I wanted. But that nagging part of my subconscious that still requires his approval never shuts up, so accounting it was. I went to the college he chose for me, got straight A’s, and on graduation day, my dad couldn’t even come watch his daughter receive her diploma because his wife went into labor with their third child, completing their perfect new family.

My mom was the only truly supportive person I had in my life growing up, and she always encouraged me to go after my dreams. Now, without her, I only have support in my best friend, Viv, but her pride in my accomplishments just isn’t quite the same as if my mom were here. Or if my father would even acknowledge the fact that I achieved exactly what he wanted me to.

Passing by an alley two blocks from the club, I see a group of three men in my periphery, pulling me out of my negative thoughts. I eye them warily as they abruptly stop talking. Two of the men turn their glassy-eyed gazes to me, catcalling after me as I continue on, and I can’t help but roll my eyes. Like I haven’t heard it all before—I’m a stripper, for fuck’s sake.

But the third man catches my attention for a moment. Just like every other night for the last few months, his green eyes hold mine for a second too long in the soft glow of the streetlight above us, and my stomach erupts in a chorus of pirouettes. I look away quickly, hurrying down the sidewalk, not wanting to give any of them a reason to follow me.

I feel those jade eyes follow me from the mouth of the alley again. Eyes are always on me, but his gaze is the only one that makes my entire body shudder. My core clenches and my heart rate increases every time I suffer their caress, but I force myself to carry on. Each time I see him, he’s with different people but in that same alley. He’s either a drug dealer or just really likes alleys at night, so either way, probably not someone I want to be involved with. I can appreciate a hardworking person, but I refuse to be involved with someone who does drugs.

By the time I get to the Fox Hole, I have about twenty minutes to get my makeup done and costume on before my first set. Luckily, I’ve been doing this long enough now that I can throw on a cat-eye and fake lashes in no time. Four years of elaborate makeup thrown on in minutes will make you an expert.

I love the Fox Hole. It’s been my weekend home for four years, and some of my best friends work with me. The orange neon lights at the front of the building beckon me with their glow, and I wave to Liam, the bouncer at the front door, before hurrying into the alley to the rusty back door. It creaks loudly as I enter, making my way to the blessedly empty dressing room.

The room is small and needs a facelift, but the girls and I keep it clean. Six mirrors are mounted above a long countertop on two walls, and the third wall boasts the tiniest bathroom in California—make sure to stand on the toilet’s lid when you close the door.

Claiming a mirror for the evening, I set down my tote bag on the counter and get to work on my winged eyeliner, my mind wandering back to that man in the alley. The other two wore nice suits and looked high as hell—their bloodshot, glazed expressions giving them away. But those jade eyes were crystal clear when he locked me in his gaze. Maybe he just sells? If he isn’t using his product, it’s not as much of an issue for me to get involved with him…No, Abby, you can’t be with a drug dealer.

I’ll probably never see him again, anyway, so it shouldn’t matter. Sure, he’s hot, but I don’t dobutterfliesor lingering glances. But a quick fuck…Ugh, stop it.

With my makeup done, I dig through my bag for my new navy lingerie set. It’s gorgeous, the lace cups of the bra top hold my girls up nice and high, and the wired deep-V in the front shows off a lot of cleavage. Since I’ll be wearing the set on the floor and on stage, I have the tiny lace thong on under the matching, full-coverage boyshorts. The dark blue lace is the perfect contrast to my tanned skin, and I twirl in front of the only full-length mirror in the compact dressing room.

As I’m smoothing the boyshorts into place, Laura and Rain stroll into the dressing room on their monstrous platform heels, towering over me.

Laura bends down to slap my ass as she walks by, winking at me through the mirror in front of me. She is working her way through her pre-med program, and I’m pretty sure she makes more than any of us with her long, red hair and legs for days.

“Hey, Abbs! How’s the new job going? You’re not leaving us, are you?” she asks, sticking out her lower lip in a pretty pout.

I laugh. “No, I’m not going anywhere. The job is fine, but it will never compare to dancing, you know? I need this at the end of my week.”

“You’re preaching to the choir, honey. I don’t know what I would do without this. Not just for that high I feel on that stage, but for the money, too,” Rain chimes in. She is a second-grade teacher during the week, and they get paid next to nothing, so she really counts on her weekend tips. And she does pretty damn well, too. Her soft blonde waves and doe-eyes give her the perfect girl-next-door look, and the men eat it up when she’s on stage.

“Are you all fucking back here whining again?” Hazel complains, as she pushes her way past me to check herself out in the mirror I’m using. Giving me a side-eyed glare, she adds, “Your set is in like three minutes. Hurry your ass up.”

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