Chapter One
"How did this happen?" My words came out sounding muffled.
Unavoidable, I suppose, given the combination of my numb fat lip and the bag of frozen peas I had pressed against it.
My roommate leveled a glare at me. "Chelsea, you can't figure out the answer to that question on your own?"
Trina didn't pull any punches. She knew me too damn well for that. Hard not to after living together for two years in an apartment not much bigger than a hamster cage.
I sighed. "I guess I can."
Too many bills and too little money had made getting a job waiting tables at a strip club seem like a good idea at the time.
As it turned out, it was a very bad one. Hindsight’s twenty-twenty and all that.
Apparently, my Jersey attitude didn't mix well with the men who frequented the gentleman's club—and I use that term gentleman very loosely. Believe me.
It's location on M Street in midtown Washington, D.C. meant the Camelot club attracted a lot of diplomats. Rich dickheads who usually proved to be epically crappy tippers.
And what the hell was that about? Fancy jobs, fancy cars, fancy clothes, yet they can't part with a few extra bucks to show their appreciation of a job well done?
It's bad enough I had to wiggle my barely covered ass in front of them as I delivered drinks. The least they could do is throw me a little something extra. How's an out of work actress supposed to pay her student loans serving cheap guys like that?
Anyway, tonight there was one dickhead who thought he could get handsy with the waitresses without any consequences. Only one of the waitresses—me specifically—had other ideas.
Trina shook her head. "You're lucky he didn't press charges."
"I'm lucky? Ha! He's lucky. They should deport his ass." I scowled and pulled the bag away to gingerly touch my swollen lip with the tip of my finger.
Trina cocked one brow high. "You know it doesn't work that way."
"I know." I scowled.
Diplomatic immunity and all that shit protected these guys and meant they could get away with murder—probably literally.
"But he hit me." I pointed to my battered face as the proof of how serious the situation was.
"Weren't you attacking him at the time?" Trina asked.
"Well, yes. But he deserved it. He grabbed my ass."
The he in question was an entitled asshole who also happened to be some sort of foreign ambassador or something. And the grab was more of a grope, with a definite finger to ass-crack invasion. Even the strippers didn't have to put up with that shit.
He deserved the drink I threw in his face and—after he stood and started yelling at me in some language I didn't understand—the knee to the groin I delivered. That was the move that got me backhanded across the mouth.
Of course, management sided with the customer. It's their philosophy. The sleaze bag customer is always right. That policy is even on the website—written in less accurate terms, but there nonetheless.
"Chelsea. It's a strip club. What did you expect?"
"But it's supposed to be the best strip club in D.C.," I reasoned.
Trina widened her eyes and I didn't need her to say what she was thinking. It was still a strip club.
She was my best friend and I didn't need an attitude from her right now. I needed sympathy. I needed commiseration. I needed a damn job.
I was unemployed and soon-to-be penniless, because my checking account had a whole one hundred and twenty dollars in it and that wasn't nearly enough to even start to cover my portion of the bills. I couldn't expect Trina to spot me the money.
Trina had a decent job—but it paid shit. In this town, recent graduates were supposed to be thankful for the opportunity. And Trina was grateful for it. The competition was fierce to get a position on Capitol Hill. And it was an incredible opportunity.
Too bad opportunity didn't pay the rent.
I sighed again, feeling every ounce of the world which had turned against me pressing down on my shoulders.
It wasn't paranoia. The world was against me and my whole generation.
Millennials had this bad rap we didn't earn and don't deserve. I saw the articles all over the web. I knew what people said. We're lazy. We're entitled. We'd rather live with our parents as jobless cell phone addicts than get a job and a place of our own.
It's all a bunch of bull shit.
Here's the truth, and I didn't know all this because I read it online—which I did—but because I was living it.
We're the first generation in modern history to be significantly less financially secure than our parents were at the same age. Student loans have never been higher. Rental costs were sky high and forget about ever saving enough to put down a deposit to actually buy something.
And don't get me started on the insanely competitive job market.
We're far from lazy.
Hell, I work damn hard. At least I did—before tonight when I got fired.
Fired. Ugh. That was a new low in my life.
I was used to not getting every acting job I auditioned for. I was used to not earning enough to pay the rent on the few modeling gigs I could book each month. That's all expected in this business. Par for the course in the career I had chosen.
But to get fired from a crappy waitressing job at a strip club? Seriously? I had a Masters Degree from George Washington University. If I couldn't hold onto a menial job I might as well go home to Mom and Dad's.
Cleaned up, their basement might not make a bad little apartment. Would the old ping pong table be the right height for a dining table I wonder?
I pushed that thought out of my mind as I shoved the bag of baby green peas back against my sore lip and tried to look on the bright side.
My situation wasn't that pitiful. Not yet anyway. Even though it felt like I was currently at a whole new low, I hadn't hit rock bottom. I'd have to fall a bit farther to be willing to live in that suburban subterranean time capsule my parents called a basement.
Feeling my formerly hard peas getting soft, I stood and walked to the freezer. Frozen peas were one thing. But holding a bag of gross squishy defrosted vegetables on my face just felt wrong.
I made the short trek from the kitchen back across the tiny apartment, threw myself into the living room chair and kicked up my feet over the arm.
I had put on my softest leggings and a sweatshirt when I'd gotten home. We didn't have much in the way of comfort food in the apartment, but luckily I'd managed to do laundry last week so at least I had comfort clothes to soothe me.
"So what are you going to do now?" Trina asked, looking concerned.
I didn't blame her. There was cause for concern.
"Find a job," I answered.
Trina pressed her lips together and didn't comment, but she didn't have to. Once again I knew what she was thinking. Finding a job was going to be easier said than done.
I swung my legs back around. My feet hit the worn carpet and I stood.
"And I'm going to open that bottle of wine under the sink." I glanced back at her. "You in?"
She laughed. "Sure."
At this point I figured getting drunk wouldn't help but it sure as hell couldn't hurt. I'd worry about finding a job in the morning.
Things would definitely look brighter tomorrow. They had to.