TARA

I couldn't get to sleep until seven in the morning, and it's past three when I finally get up the next day.

But I have a plan.

I already sent an email to my boss at work, saying I need to take my leave immediately to take care of a family emergency. Then I rummaged through my closet, and dug out my old clothes from high school and college, along with the tight elastic bandage I used to hide my breasts back then. Tears I can't shed are burning my eyes as I wrap it around my chest. I worked so hard these last few years to stop wearing it. Years of therapy is what it took, the three times a week kind, along with a lot of introspection.

I even went on a few dates, but those were all before Samantha disappeared, and never even got to first base. A peck on the cheek was as close to a good night kiss I could allow. The part of me that might long for a man to touch me, make love to me, is broken, destroyed beyond repair, and I'm starting to accept it. Though I still sometimes miss the children I'll never have. My therapist says I'm too young at twenty-four to make that decision, but she's wrong.

The abuse we endured affected Samantha in exactly the opposite way. She'd go with any guy who so much as smiled at her. From doing teachers in high school, to random bikers she met at the side of the road.

The memory of all the fights we had about her promiscuousness burns a hole in my heart each time I think of it. If only I'd done more to help her, set her on the right path, the path of healing and acceptance like the one I've been trying to follow. But she had a name for that path, she called it Tara's New Age Bullshit, so I gave up.

Truth is, I was too busy dealing with my own issues to take care of my little sister. Until it was too late. And that knowledge is so painful I can't even acknowledge it without wanting to curl up in a ball and not move.

The cops think she just took off, and to their credit there's precious little evidence that anything bad happened to her. But she'd never go this long without calling me. We spoke nearly every day, never less than once a week. She'd call me by now if she could. The day she went missing was no different than any other. It couldn't possibly have been the day she decided to leave me forever.

Samantha needs me to find her. And I won't let her down again.

I grab my hair trimmer and walk to the bathroom. All through high school up until sophomore year of college I kept my hair trimmed to no more than an inch in an effort to look ugly.

But my blonde hair falls in messy waves down my back now, and my eyes are burning again as I look at myself in the mirror. Growing my hair out was a true victory, more so than ditching the boob hiding bandage and manly wardrobe. And I won't lose it now. I kept the undercut until about a year ago. Because with that haircut, if I pin my hair up, it's a rare man that would look at me twice.

With a few practiced strokes, I renew the undercut, then dress in a washed-out pair of baggy jeans and an oversized plaid shirt without thinking any more about it.

Two hours later I'm sitting in a rented pickup. The bandage hiding my boobs is so tight I'm having trouble drawing a full breath, but I'll get used to that soon.

There's no way I'll be hired as a stripper dressed the way I am. But I could persist, hang around long enough to ask my questions, find Samantha.

And who knows, maybe I'll just walk into this strip joint and Samantha will already be there. Then I can take her home and tell her how sorry I am for not coming sooner over and over again until I lose my voice.

That thought sustains me during the long ride.

The sun is setting by the time I enter the town of Arbor, population 17,121, and dread starts to settle in my stomach. I've been able to keep the worst of it away during the ride by concentrating on the road, but now I've reached my destination. Samantha would call me if she were safe somewhere. So I doubt I'll just find her that easily.

I get lost twice, almost have to ask for directions before I finally pull up into the parking lot of Crystal's Lounge. Muffled music is coming through the black doors, and the sign over the building is already lit, the letters flashing hot pink and green, the silhouette of the woman laying on her side illuminated a bright yellow.

What am I doing?

But I don't slow my steps as I approach the front door. I can't. Samantha could be in there. She could.

A HELP WANTED sign is hanging in the window. No way they're advertising for strippers in this way. They must have a different position they need to fill.

Finally, a stroke of luck.

Maybe the pieces are finally falling into place as they should. No need to ask for a stripper job, if they have other openings available. Even the wind seems to be pushing me inside now, urging me on.

But I stop dead again just inside the front door, caught in the glare of a rugged, bearded bouncer. He's wearing a biker jacket and is weighing me with cold, light eyes.

"I…I saw the sign outside…the Help Wanted one…" I mumble literally shivering. Up on stage a very skinny girl is twirling around a pole to an audience of three. "I need a job," I conclude more firmly.

He eyes me up and down, and I can practically hear his thoughts as his gaze lingers on my haircut. He doesn't like what he sees, which is exactly what I wanted.

He flicks his finger toward the edge of the bar, where a grey haired woman is bending over a thick notebook, jotting something down. "Talk to her."

My legs are stiff as I make my way to the bar. I have to clear my throat loudly once I reach it to get the woman's attention.

She looks up at me, and I stifle a surprised gasp. She'd be a striking beauty, despite her age, if half her face wasn't covered by jagged scars. One of her eyes is ghostly white, but she's frowning at me with the other one, which is as bright as a clear summer sky.

"Can I help you?"

"I saw the sign outside. That you're looking for help. I need a job," I say in a rush.

It suddenly dawns on me that she might be looking for more bouncers, or maybe some strong guys to carry in the crates of beer and whatever, possibly even a handyman. All the elation I felt reading that sign disappears in a flash of sour disappointment.

"I'm looking for someone to tend bar and help me clean this place," she says sweeping her hand across the vast room. "Think you could handle that?"

I nod fast like I've gone insane. Her face softens as she smiles at me.

"When can you start?" she asks, setting her pen down and closing the notebook.

"Right now?" I didn't mean it as a question, but it came out that way anyway.

She chuckles at that. "And do you have a place to stay nearby? I don't remember seeing you around town."

"I just got here, I'm still looking for a place," I say the first thing that pops into my head.

"What made you choose this town?"

I had a whole story prepared for why I'm here, but I remember none of it right now.

"Got tired of driving," I finally manage with a shrug.

"And you stopped here?" she asks in a mocking tone.

I shrug again. "Seemed as good a place as any."

She looks at me like she thinks I'm full of shit, but then climbs off her stool and stuffs the notebook under her arm.

"Ever work in a bar before?" she asks motioning me to follow her behind the counter.

"I did for awhile," I lie. Samantha worked in a lot of bars, and she told me all about it, down to how to pour the drinks and make some of the cocktails. Samantha always talked a lot, rambled on about anything and everything. My heart cramps up as I realize just how much I miss the sound of her voice.

"It's not a tough crowd here, mostly beer and Jack. Don't stiff anyone and you'll be fine," she says, reaching under the counter and handing me a black apron. "We'll see how you do, and talk in the morning. And there's a room behind the office," she says, pointing to a door at the end of the bar. "You can sleep there if you want. I'll tell everyone to expect it."

"I should just start?" I ask, my voice betraying the panic mounting inside me.

"I'll be back in awhile to check on you," she says and smiles at me. It makes her look ten years younger despite the scars. "But right now, I need to get some dinner and maybe lie down for a bit. I've been on my feet since eight this morning. I'm Crystal, by the way."

I almost blurt out, "I know" as I shake her hand, but stop myself just in time and introduce myself instead.

I suddenly feel bad for lying to her. She seems so open, so motherly, so friendly. She'd understand, maybe even help me find my sister right now, if I told her why I'm really here. But then I notice the jean jacket with cut off sleeves she's wearing, the words "Property of Bear" stitched into the back in black and silver letters. All the horror stories I heard about places like this from the women at the shelter come back in a flash, all jumbled together like a never-ending nightmare inside my mind.

So I just nod, and break eye contact to inspect the bar like I'm getting my bearings though I'm not actually seeing any of it. She's talking to the bouncer when I look up again, pointing at me.

I have no idea what I just agreed to do by taking this job, but my resolve still trumps the fear. If Samantha is here, I will find her. And I will bring her home.