Chapter Two
“Momma, I'm leaving for work soon,” Sierra hollered from her tiny bathroom. Her strawberry-blonde hair kept trying to slip free of her fingers as she forced it into a stubby ponytail. She'd regretted cutting her hair every day since she'd done it. Shoving a couple clips into her hair, she gave up on fussing with it. “I'll be back before your late show ends, okay?” She went from room to room gathering what she needed. A smear of lipstick here, a lint roll to remove dryer lint there – she was settled into a very familiar pattern.
Walking out to the living room, she hugged her mother tight, kissing her forehead. Her mother settled in against her, smelling like strawberry preserves and soap. Sierra pulled back and looked over her, not quite the woman she was ten years ago. The clock in the hall hit the half hour chime, shoving her back into action.
“Miss Jean next door will check on you around nine. Be nice to her,” she said. Grabbing the sleeve of her jacket, she wiped away the smudge of red lipstick she’d accidentally gotten on her mother’s face.
“She doesn't need to.” Her mother's eyes lit angrily. She was having a clear day. Sometimes, these were worse than those clouded by her dementia. She'd become cruel from the illness, and it hurt Sierra to watch it happen.
“I know, but do me a favor and say hi to her anyway so that she doesn't call me in a scare like last week,” Sierra said gently, almost conspiratorially. “I'll bring home some of that chocolate cake you like,” she added.
“All right,” her mother nodded, settling further down into the plush sofa. She pulled the remote against her stomach and chewed on nothing as she started watching the screen again.
This isn't where Sierra thought she'd be three years away from thirty.
She felt guilty even thinking about complaining, though.
She had to go.
Shoving her purse into the passenger seat, she started her cruddy leased car – and along with it, the struggle she faced every day.
Vehicles have that magic about them.
Every damned time Sierra sat behind the wheel, she considered leaving the small town behind and just running off and finding some huge city to get lost in where she wouldn't have to be her mother's nurse. Where she wouldn't have to work a job where her uniform involved a miniskirt and corset.
The Casino, the only name it'd ever had, was one of the only places people in town could get work.
Her mother had worked there for nearly thirty years before her decline, and Sierra had followed in her footsteps as if the heels were made for her. She hated it. It felt predictable and boring. The work was embarrassing at best, dangerous at worst.
The customers were just barely better than having to watch her mother slip away.
There were three types.
First, the older people – retired and with nothing to do – who would come into the casino during the morning shifts and sit and play the penny and nickel machines for hours and hours. Watching them made it feel like they'd never really retired. As if they had just found a new job where the work was pulling a lever and hoping you got paid instead of paying. Favorites with this crowd were keno and slots.
Second were the drunks. These came in all ages and sizes. The men would try to pinch her ass, call her ‘doll’ (if they were being kind), and worse names the more they drank. She had to be kind and had to keep her temper even. No starting fights with customers or you were out of a job. Losing a job out there was a promise of having to live off dried instant noodles for months until another opportunity came up. She couldn't afford that with her mother's medical bills.
So, she didn't react, but kept a mental list of which men did it so that she could keep herself more guarded around them.
Finally, the last of the three, and possibly the worst, were the people with a true problem. They might present as a drunk, or they may almost seem normal when they walk in, but they were only playing to replace something else. Some would become addicted, spending rent, house payments, or their kid's tuition, in the hopes of filling that gaping hole in their chest. These were heartbreaking to watch, but she wasn't allowed to discourage them.
If they wanted to miss their rent, they were putting in money that would be paying hers.
Those in the last category would come in strong, but by the end would be a depressed mess. One man had lost so bad that he'd driven off a cliff on the way back into town rather than tell his wife he'd spent their retirement savings. His wife didn't even get a life insurance check off him.
“Hey, sugar, can I get another?” an older man asked, leering at her as she walked onto the floor.
Sierra smiled, letting her dimples come out to play. “Sure, an old fashioned?” she guessed from what remained in the glass. For someone who only really liked shots or beer, she was getting incredibly good at telling which drinks were which just by the color.
“That'd be it,” he agreed, turning back to the table ahead of him. The dealer glanced up, and Sierra slipped her a small nod. The more the players had to drink, the easier it was for the dealers to do their job. It wasn’t ethical, maybe not even legal, but it was a game in itself. Either they go broke or you do – eat or be eaten.
The evening was slow, and she found herself paying more attention to some customers than she needed to.
“This is yours,” the man who'd been sipping old fashions said, handing Sierra a twenty-dollar bill after he got paid out almost two hundred.
“That's so kind, thank you so much,” she said, and her voice was genuine. She glanced over to make sure the dealer was tipped too before slipping the bill into her pocket.
“You're my lucky charm. Why don't you come sit with me at the machines?” he asked. His hand wandered to her lower back, slipping over the top of her ass before she stepped away from him.
“Sorry, I have to help in the back,” she apologized, trying to sound sincere even though she wanted to smack his hand when it started back toward her.
“Aw that's a shame,” he said, the alcohol very visibly taking effect on him.
“I'm sure your good luck will keep up,” she encouraged him. “Before you go, though, let me know and I’ll order you a cab,” she added before walking to the back.
She'd been trying to kick the habit. She knew it was bad for her, that it grossed other people out, that it didn’t smell great, but working there was driving her to reach for a cigarette almost once a shift now. Every moment of getting to smoke was delicious to her, from the sound of her fingers against the smooth paper, to the taste of the first inhale. It was bad for her, but she needed it
It wasn’t an exaggeration to say the job was stealing the life from her. She hadn’t looked for any other work since her first year working there. It paid almost double minimum wage, and she couldn’t risk losing that.
Still, this wasn’t the life she wanted.
She was going to get out of West Valley if it killed her.