I slam the door of my ancient Chevy Malibu and pray it doesn’t come right off the hinges. Because that would just be the cherry on today’s shit sundae, wouldn’t it? I’m already late for my lower-than-minimum wage diner job, it’s pissing rain out, and even though I don’t want to admit it, Dad’s cough is really starting to worry me. Let’s just add expensive car repairs to the list, shall we?

Thankfully, though, the door stays put.

The parking lot is more lake than asphalt, and I try my best to dodge the worst of the puddles as I dart towards the restaurant. If I was a little kid, or if I at least had a pair of rain boots on, this might actually be kind of fun. Right now though — right now, it just fucking sucks.

“Dammit!” I shout as my foot hits a surprisingly deep puddle in the parking lot. Water fills my sneaker. My poor white Keds.

I finally make it to the door of the diner and pull it open with a bang.

“It’s pouring out there,” I announce as I try to shake the rain off my jeans. My white t-shirt is clinging to my body in a borderline obscene fashion, and I curse myself for not bringing a back-up. You’d think after five straight days of rain, I would have learned a thing or two, but apparently not.

“You’re late, Red.”

My jaw tightens. I look up to see Heath Connelly standing right in front of me. Heath who recently got promoted to Shift Supervisor and now thinks it’s his God-given right to patronize every woman here. His eyes travel the length of my body, before coming to a stop over my drenched chest.

“I’m sorry, okay?” I say, folding my arms over my chest. I turn and head towards the employee bathroom so I can at least wring out my drenched hair.

But Heath doesn’t seem ready to let it go. He follows me down the hallway. It’s a tight squeeze because the walls are lined with shelves holding bulk boxes of napkins, packets of sugar, and huge bottles of generic ketchup that we have to pour into Heinz bottles.

“This is the third time this week, Red.”

“Don’t call me Red,” I say through gritted teeth. “My name’s Lila.”

I close the bathroom door behind me and then lean against it, breathing deeply. I know Heath has every right to be pissed — I have been late three times this week. If it wasn’t for the fact that he liked staring at my chest so much, he probably would have fired me by now.

I haven’t told anyone here about Dad, and I don’t intend to. But I seriously have to get my shit together — I can’t afford to lose this job.

I cross the room to stand in front of the mirror and stare at my reflection for a second. My long red hair is soaked and starting to frizz, and the mascara I’d put on before I dashed out of the house is now streaking down my cheeks.

Hot.

I exhale dramatically. “You can do this, Lila.” I say to my reflection. I strip off my sodden t-shirt and then grab a brown paper towel from the metal container on the wall. I use the towel to wipe my chest, arms, and neck, and then I reach into my bag and pull out my uniform. It’s a red and white dress, with short sleeves and a shorter skirt, and I feel like a total dope in it, but tonight I’m actually glad to have something dry to change into.

Once I’m changed, I grab some more paper towels, wet them under the sink, and dab at my mascara streaks. Then I pull my long hair back into a high ponytail. I hang my soggy t-shirt over the hook on the back of the door and pray it’ll be dry before my shift is over.

I take one more deep steadying breath before I head back out into the shark tank.

I find Colleen, one of the other waitresses, out at the bar, cracking open a box of baking soda and shoving it into the bar fridge, which always seems to smell strangely of fish.

“Which section is mine?” I ask, as I wrap my apron around my waist.

Colleen turns to face me, blinking a couple of times as if she’s trying to place me. She’s worked here at Earl’s longer than anyone and I think she’s given up on trying to remember the name of every new waitress. I’ve been here six months now, and she still calls me “Kid,” “You,” or “Hey.”

She turns away and punches some numbers into the register beside the bar. Her high blonde pony tail exposes her dark roots.

“Over there,” she waves a thin arm in the direction of the back of the diner.

Fuck. Not the back again. “Any chance I can work the front this time? Or help out here at the counter?” I ask hopefully.

The back of the diner hardly ever gets any customers. It’s dark back there and basically an afterthought. No chance of getting good tips in that section.

“Sorry, kid, I can’t help ya today. The girls who got here on time got the good tables.” She gives me a look over her glasses. “Better luck next time.”

“Got it,” I say under my breath. I grab a notepad from behind the counter and head off to the back.

“What can I get you today?” I say as I approach an elderly couple that’s sitting at one of the tables, barely visible from the front of the restaurant.

“We’ve been waiting here five minutes,” the man says with a glare aimed directly at my soul. His wife looks just as sour.

“I’m so sorry about the wait.” I lick my lips and pray that they’ll just order and not put up too much of a fuss.

“We come here for the fast service, you know.”

Then maybe you should try sitting somewhere that’s actually visible to the servers?

“I’m so sorry,” I say again. I don’t bother making an excuse because he doesn’t look like he’s particularly interested in hearing them.

“I’ll have the bacon and eggs,” he finally says with a grump. “And my wife here will have a cup of coffee and the stack of pancakes.”

I look at her to see if that’s really what she wants — I’ve never understood women who let men order for them — but she just gives me an even more sour look.

Okey dokey. I jot everything down in my trusty little notebook and give the couple a nod.

“Coming right up!” I say cheerfully. I walk away with such a bounce in my step that my damp ponytail swishes against my back.

It’s all a façade, of course. I just want to get paid.

After all, working at Earl’s Dine & Dash is hardly my dream. Unlike most people working here, I have a degree and a dream — to work as a journalist. Unfortunately, job opportunities in that field are getting harder and harder to come by, especially as print and magazines are being replaced by online news sources, most of which don’t pay as much as traditional media.

Maybe if I had more time to job hunt, things might be different — but working at the diner eats up most of my free time. Dad’s medical bills nearly killed us, but drowning in debt seems like a small price to pay for having him still with me. His cancer is in remission now, thank God, even though we’re going to be paying off those bills until we’re both six feet under. He’s still not hearty enough to work so my pay check is all we’re subsiding on right now.

I keep trying to remind myself that I’m only twenty-four — I still have plenty of time to figure this all out. And I have no problem being patient. I just wish I could get some sign — some sign at all that I’m on the right track. That I’m not going to wake up in twenty years and realize I’ve become Colleen, an Earl’s Diner Lifetime Employee.

I go to the cash and put in the order for Mr. And Mrs. Grumpy in the back, then bring the wife her coffee. I do a quick scan of my tables, but no one new has come in since I got there. The girls at the front are bustling, but no one — well, except the McGrumpersons over there — ever wants to sit at the back where it’s dark and you can hear the kitchen staff cursing at each other through the thin walls.

Tomorrow I’ll get here on time — I promise it to myself. I’ll get here on time and tell Heath that I want to work the front, that I can handle it.

Colleen hustles back in with a load of empty plates and I take the top stack from her.

“Sure I can’t help out? My section’s pretty quiet.” Now there’s an understatement.

She blinks at me a couple of times, like she’s already forgotten who I am. Then she dumps the rest of the plates in my arms. “Yeah. You can take these back to the kitchen. Bus boy called in sick again.”

“Sure thing.” I plaster a smile on my face. Bussing tables won’t exactly get me tips, but if it gets me on Colleen’s good side, I’m willing to do it.

When the McGrumpersons’ orders are ready, I take their plates to the back. I notice the wife’s coffee cup is empty, so I head back for the pot before she can even ask. I refill her cup and she manages a grudging thank-you.

I head back to the main part of the restaurant and bus a few more tables for Colleen, then grab a box of napkins from the back and start refilling the dispensers at the bar. From here I can see out the window, and I lose myself in the monotony of stuffing napkin holders while I watch the rain streak down outside.

Earl’s red and blue neon sign lights up the dark parking lot, and with the rain, the effect is strangely beautiful. The colors light up the wet pavement so that it almost sparkles.

I stifle a yawn. The rain is so mesmerizing it’s putting me to sleep.

But just then, a group of guys burst into the restaurant. They’re so loud that every head in the place turns around to face them. They’re probably my age, but they’re exactly the kind of guys I’ve spent my life trying to avoid — douche-y entitled types who drink too much, talk too loud, and think they’re God’s gift to women.

Please don’t sit in my section. Please don’t sit in my section. Please don’t sit in my section.

They scan the room, but all the tables in the front are occupied.

“Plenty of room in the back, boys,” Colleen says as she brushes past them. I groan.

I wait until they’re seated, and then smooth down my skirt, plaster on a smile, and head back there.

“Hey guys, can I start you off with some drinks?”

“Hey, sexy.” A dark-haired guy wearing a Clippers jersey flashes a smile at me. “You’ve got some pretty red hair.”

Oh, great. Here we go.

“Thank you,” I mumble. “Can I get you some drinks?”

“It would look real nice wrapped around my dick.”

The rest of this douchebag’s followers at the table cackle and laugh as they high five each other. The dark-haired guy makes a lewd gesture that I try to ignore.

“How about I just bring you some waters.” I don’t pose it as a question. Instead, I turn on my heel and head back to the bar. I take my time getting those four glasses of water and lining them up on one of our circular trays. I remind myself that drunk guys are often the best tippers though, so I put on another smile and take their waters back to them.

They’ve calmed slightly, and manage to put in their orders without incident. They eye my short dress a little too much for my liking, but if my legs can get me tips, I’ll take it.

The drunk guys eventually finish their meals, sober up, and head out. I go to bus the table, hoping to find a nice tip, but instead find a handful of loose change, barely more than a couple of bucks. I sigh and dump the coins into the pocket of my apron.

After working here six months, I’ve come to the conclusion that tip size is roughly commensurate to dick size — the smaller the tip, the smaller the prick.

I think about all the books I’ve read and movies I’ve seen where a plain diner waitress is swept off her feet by a smoking hot billionaire, and almost snort with laughter. Apparently the writers of those stories have never been to Earl’s. Here we get grumpy old people, drunk college kids, parents with seven kids who proceed to ignore their brood the entire time they’re here, and business men in cheap suits. Not a smoking hot billionaire in sight, sadly.

When midnight finally rolls around, there’s still no sign of my Prince Charming, and I’m ready to hang up my apron and call it a night. I can’t wait to go home and crawl into bed.

Just as I start to head to the back to change, Heath calls out to me.

“Lila, get over here,” he yells, as if I’m a dog.

“What is it?” I drone, exhaustion really settling in now. I rub my aching calf muscles.

“You’ve got one more table to help before you can end your shift.”

“Are you kidding me?” I throw my hands up in exasperation. But I stop when I see who’s at the table.

She’s sitting by herself, reading a book and looking surprisingly elegant and peaceful for someone hanging out in a diner at midnight.

“I know that girl,” I say to Heath, my brow furrowing.

He sighs. “I don’t care. Just go serve her. She’s in your section.”

I grab my apron and throw it back on and then head over to her table.

“Caroline?” I approach with a tentative smile, not sure if she’ll remember me.

It takes her a second, but then I see recognition dawn in her eyes. Caroline and I were in journalism school together a few years ago.

“Oh my goodness! Lila? Lila Emery?”

“Yes, that’s me!” I sing and press a hand to my chest.

“Wow, it’s been a while. How are you?”

“I’m great,” I lie. I mean, great except for the working-at-a-diner thing. And the Dad-with-cancer thing. “How are you?”

“Great! Super busy. So, you work here?” She looks around. There’s no judgement in her voice but I squirm anyway. Caroline, as always, looks chic and sophisticated in a black turtleneck and her signature black-rimmed glasses. I, on the other hand, look like something from a politically incorrect 1960s comic strip in my stupidly short waitressing uniform.

“Yep. Just a temporary thing. You know how it is,” I say. I force myself to breathe out. “Still looking for something more in our field.”

She nods. “It’s tough out there, I hear ya. Do you have time to sit and catch up?”

“Um…” I bite my lip and look back at Heath. He’s parked behind the counter, eating a slice of our famous peach pie. “Yeah, sure. I’m actually at the end of my shift, so I can put your order in and then we can talk.”

She orders a stack of pancakes with a side of bacon and a side of sausage. I almost laugh — Caroline is a beautiful, slim Asian girl, but she eats like a linebacker.

I bring her food over a few minutes later. I’ve already slipped off my apron, and when Caroline gestures at the empty section of the booth across from her, I slide in.

“Bacon?” she asks, pushing the side plate towards me.

I laugh. “No, thanks. After working here six months, I’m so sick of breakfast food, you wouldn’t believe.”

Caroline grins. “I could never get sick of bacon.”

“I thought that too, six months ago.”

We laugh. Caroline drenches her pancakes in syrup and then saws into them.

“So you’ve been here six months,” she says. “Do you like it?”

I wrinkle my nose. “It’s … you know, it’s a job. It’s fine.”

She nods as she chews.

“What about you?” I ask quickly. I hardly want to spend my free time talking about the diner.

“Busy,” she says again. She smiles. “I started freelancing as soon as we graduated, and it’s really taken off. God, I have more assignments than I can handle most of the time.”

I smile. “That’s great.” I’m happy for Caroline — I really am. But I can’t help the little rumble of jealousy that courses through me.

“Have you been doing any freelancing?”

“A few things here and there.” Well, that’s technically true. I wrote some blog posts for a company that manufactures sprinkler systems, just to earn a few extra bucks, but there’s really only so much one can say about sprinkler systems. They whir. They’re wet. The end.

Caroline spears a sausage and chews it thoughtfully. “You know, if you’re looking for work, I might have something.”

My whole body instantly perks up. “Really?”

She nods. “I was supposed to do this assignment but it’s conflicting with something else I’m working on and I think I’m going to have to back out. Normally I hate doing that, but if I could tell them I have a reliable back-up, that would probably make it go down easier.”

My exhaustion and my aching calf muscles and my headache beginnings are all completely forgotten. “Caroline, that would be amazing!”

She grins. “Great. I have to warn you though, it’s a little … out there.”

Out there? What the hell does that mean? Oh well, I don’t care.

I shake my head. “I’ll do anything. Just say the word.”

She nods, popping another bite of pancake into her mouth before chewing slowly. When she finally swallows, she leans in close.

“You have to promise to keep an open mind.”

“The openest.” I cross my hand over my heart. I have to admit, I’m pretty intrigued now.

She grins. “Okay — the story is about a sex club called The Orchid Room. Orchid. Have you heard of it?”

I swallow down the gasp that wants to come out. A sex club?

“No, I haven’t heard of it,” I say slowly. Not that that’s a surprise. I’m not exactly a sex club kind of girl. “Is it here in the city?”

She nods. “Downtown. It’s very exclusive. Exhaustive application process, and the annual membership fee is — well, let’s just say it’s more expensive than our four years of schooling put together.”

“Wow.” I chew my lip. I guess some part of me knew those kinds of places existed, but they’re so far out of my every day world that I’ve never really given it much thought. “So I’ll be interviewing the owner? Someone who works there?”

Caroline looks away for a second. “Remember how I said you’d need to keep an open mind?”

“Yes…” I say slowly.

“So, the thing about this assignment is … it’s undercover.”

Undercover? Holy shit. This is the big leagues. I bite back a wave of excitement until I start to put the pieces together…

Undercover. At a sex club.

“Am I going to have to …”

“You’ll be working there,” Caroline says, sipping her coffee elegantly. “Yes. You shouldn’t have to actually have sex with anyone, not unless you want to.”

A laugh escapes my lips. As if I would want to have sex with someone in a club like that. How would that even work? For a second I allow myself to imagine the idea — a smoldering hot, wealthy man fucking me on a stage in front of a watching audience.

My pussy clenches and I squirm in my seat.

That idea is not supposed to turn me on. What the hell?

Of course, in my fantasy, the guy is hot and rich — in reality, he’s probably old. With a paunch. Balding — or maybe a bad hairpiece. Not so sexy then.

“So what would I do?” I swallow.

Caroline takes another sip of her coffee. “Well, based on the research I’ve done, I’d say it really depends, but most likely you’d get assigned to the general floor. Those are the girls who just help entertain the men between shows. Talking with them, flirting with them, keeping them turned on before the real action starts.”

I breathe out. “That sounds doable.”

“You could end up being a performer, but, as I understand it, the performers are usually girls who actually have some talent. You’re not a dancer, by any chance, are you?”

“No.”

“Well. So then probably not that. Now, the real holy grail is if you could get put in the auction.”

I swallow so hard I nearly choke on my coffee. “The auction?” I manage to squeak.

Caroline grins. “Open mind, remember? The auction is just what it sounds like … they auction women off to the highest bidder.”

Jesus. I’m having some serious culture shock here.

“What do they do with them once they have them?” My voice comes out as a squeak.

Caroline grins again. I almost think she’s enjoying this. “Whatever they want, Lila. That’s kinda the point.”

A rush of goosebumps covers my skin. Whatever they want …

Imagine giving yourself to a man in that way. Imagine letting him do anything to you… I don’t even like when I see men ordering for their wives, but this would be on a much grander … a much darker … scale.

My pussy clenches again. I drum my fingers on the table, wishing I had a glass of ice water.

“The auction is pretty unlikely,” Caroline is saying, when I manage to bring myself back into the here and now. “From what I understand, they don’t usually let new girls in right away. You kind of have to prove your mettle first. But don’t worry, my contacts at Full Boom aren’t expecting you to be in the auction. It’s great if you can, but they just want a look at what really goes on there. So you’d have to write about your experience, talk to the other girls, see what it’s really like.”

She looks pointedly at me, like she’s waiting for me to say something, but I can only stare at her.

“Full Boom?” I finally manage to croak. Holy shit. They’re one of the biggest online news sites out there. Millions of visitors every month — potentially millions of people reading my story.

“Yep,” she grins. “This is the big leagues, Lila. What do you think?”

What do I think? I think I’m about to get seriously in over my head.

“I think it sounds great,” I say, with as natural a smile as I can muster.

“Awesome,” Caroline says, leaning back and clapping her hands together. “I’m so glad. I know you’ll be perfect for this — you’re so gorgeous that they’re going to love you there.”

She reaches into her purse and pulls something out. A business card of some kind. She slides it across the table to me.

It’s black, with just a simple glowing orchid logo on one side. On the other side, in tiny white type, is an address.

“You’ll need to go in for your first meeting with them this week,” Caroline says. “The woman you’ll want to see is Ava Lockwood. Brian — the editor I’m working with at Full Boom — will help put together your application, but you’ll need to submit it yourself. We don’t want any connection between you and the magazine, because otherwise your application will get rejected on the spot.”

I swallow. I look down at the card and wonder why it seems to be moving — until I realize that it’s my own hands that are trembling.

This is really happening. The universe may not have sent me a Prince Charming, but it may have delivered a Fairy Godmother instead.