Sarah
“A bar?” I ask, my nose curled at the thought.
As much as I hate it, retail has always been my job of choice. The shifts are generally during reasonable hours, the commute is usually fairly decent, and with my lack of anything but a high school diploma, there’s not a whole lot of other options out there for me.
“Not just any bar,” Ryker claims. “A club bar. One we own and control. One where you can pick and choose your shifts, take days off if Millie’s sick, and where the tips will go a long way to helping you get back on your feet.”
That would solve my whole availability issue I seem to be having, but still, I don’t know that working in a bar, surrounded by a bunch of drunken, grab-happy men is something I want to do. “You said Club Chrome, right?”
Ryker nods. “Look, I know it’s not an ideal job for a mother, but Pimp runs that place like a well-oiled machine. He takes care of his ladies, and the men there won’t let anything happen that you don’t want to happen. The patrons know not to mess around with the Chrome girls, or Pimp’ll have their head on a spike.”
Pursing my lips, I consider the offer. On one hand, Chrome is only open late at night, well after Millie’s asleep. I could get a babysitter, work my shifts, and be home in plenty of time to get a little sleep before she wakes up for the day. On the other hand, I’ve seen the type of outfits those girls wear to earn themselves some extra tips. After having a baby, I don’t know that my body has any business in leather shorts or crop tops.
“Let me think about it,” I concede. “I’ll need to figure out childcare for Millie before I can commit to anything.”
Ryker’s smile is warm. “No problem. After having Maddox, I know exactly what you mean. Charlie and I don’t get to do a lot of the things we used to before he came along. Just don’t take too long, okay? Pimp needs someone now, and he won’t keep the position open forever.”
He holds up the stack of envelopes in his hand and waves them in the air. “As for these, I’ll take them with me. We’ll get you paid up for the month so you don’t have that shit hanging over your head. If you need help again next month, you fuckin’ phone me and we’ll sort it out. Yeah?”
I release my breath on a sigh. “Yes, Ryker, I’ll call. And thank you. I hate taking the charity, but I really do appreciate the help.”
Ryker stands and places a hand on my shoulder. “This ain’t charity, darlin’. It’s family havin’ family’s back.” He walks toward the front door and calls over his shoulder, “Don’t take too long thinkin’ on that job. Think of it this way, you might actually have some fun workin’ there.”
As the door closes behind him, I flop back in my chair. Fucking Bosco. I knew he’d go right to the club with my money troubles, even though I’d asked him not to. If I’m being honest with myself, though, I’m glad he did. Ryker swooping in here like my own personal tattooed fairy godmother took a heavy burden off my shoulders.
Standing from my seat, I head upstairs to get into a more comfortable outfit. Would working at Chrome really be that bad? Ryker’s right about Pimp. Even I know the lengths he’s gone to to protect his girls. I’d need to get a babysitter.
The friends I’d had from high school have all got lives of their own now, so they’re out. They’re off in college and living the life of happy twenty-one-year-old girls. Over the course of my pregnancy, we’d drifted apart; our lives headed in completely different directions. The last time I’d seen any of them was at Mouse’s funeral.
There’s that Sanders girl down the street, though. She’s old enough to babysit and loves Millie. She’s even offered to watch her on several occasions.
As I pull my shirt over my head, I realize that I’ve already made my decision. Why bother killing myself thinking about it when in my mind, I’d already made the choice. Snagging up my phone, I send Ryker a text.
Sarah: I’ll take the job. I can start Friday.
That gives me three days to arrange a sitter for Millie and dig through my pre-pregnancy clothes to find something to wear. The club itself has skimpy shirts with the logo on them, but I’d need my own shorts and skirts.
Ryker’s text is almost immediate. Ryker: Good girl. Pimp will be in touch.
Looking in the mirror, I lift my shirt a little and turn sideways. My body isn’t the same as it was before I had Millie. My boobs are bigger, sure, but they don’t point in the same direction that they used to. I guess that’s a hazard of breastfeeding. My stomach isn’t nearly as flat as it once was, and the stretch marks ride high above my belly button.
Who cares? It’s a job, Sarah. Money. Do it for Millie, if not for yourself.
Dropping my shirt, I step away from the mirror. I’m overthinking this whole thing. This job will make it possible for me to finally function without the worry of going bankrupt hanging over me. What Ryker has offered me, in his fairy godmother in leather type of way, is a way out. A way to prove to myself, and maybe even to Millie, that we can do this on our own.
Bosco
Rachel tears into her burger, barely chewing her mouthful before taking another bite. I silently pick at my club sandwich and fries, and let her enjoy what I’m sure is her first hot meal in a while. When she’s finished, a flush creeps across her freckled cheeks and she keeps her eyes trained on the table in front of her, unable to meet my gaze.
“When was the last time you ate?” I ask her, keeping my voice hushed, not wanting to embarrass her any further.
Her gaze flicks to me and she looks away again, bringing her napkin up to wipe her mouth.
“You can tell me, ya know.” I push my unfinished plate toward her, hoping she’ll take the fries I hadn’t eaten. “I lived on the streets for a long time. I know what it’s like to be hungry.”
This time, when her eyes meet mine, she forces herself to hold them there. “I, uh...I had a sandwich a couple days ago. A man from one of the churches was handing them out.”
I stay quiet, hoping she’ll offer me more without too much digging on my part, but she looks back down at the table, her cheeks still flushed. “I’m gonna have some pie,” I say after the silence has stretched on too long. “You want some pie?”
Her lips turn up into a smile as she lifts her head and nods. I motion for the waitress and place an order for two slices of pie. When the waitress leaves, I turn my focus back to Rachel.
“So, you wanna tell me your story?”
Sliding her gaze to look out the window, she picks at her fingernails, her body still trembling from withdrawal. “I ran away from home a few years ago,” she admits. “Nothing really bad happened to me, but my mother got married to a total asshole, and I just couldn’t take it anymore.”
“Did he hurt you?”
The shake of her head is so small, I would have missed it if I wasn’t focusing all my attention on her. “Not in a physical way, no, but he was mean. He was always looking for reasons to jump down my throat for any little thing, and he was always making nasty comments about the way I looked or how stupid I was. Just dickhead stuff, ya know?”
She’s quiet for a moment, and that’s good because I’m struggling to wrap my head around why a grown man could be so cruel to a young girl that she would rather sleep on the streets than spend another night in his home. “Your mom never did anything about it?”
Rachel snorts and rolls her eyes. “She didn’t give a shit. She once told me that I was overreacting, and that he just wanted was best for me. She told me that when I argued with him, I put strain on their marriage and that I was selfish.”
“That must’ve been awful coming from her.”
She sniffs and sits back in her seat. “I tried to go home once, about a month after I left. They told me I wasn’t welcome in their house, and I haven’t seen them since.”
A flame of anger unfurls in my gut. “They’d rather you sleep on the streets?” Her eyes widen at my gruff tone. Shit, Bos, cool it. You’re scaring her. I just don’t understand how any parent would wish this life on their own child. “So where did you go?” I ask, urging her to tell the rest of her story.
Her shoulders slump forward. “Around. Sometimes I’d stay in shelters, but they were always full, and anytime I did stay there, things were stolen while I was sleeping.” She looks down at the table and fiddles with her napkin. “I met a guy about a month after I’d left home. His name was Marco, and he was the first person I’d met on the streets that was really nice to me. He offered me a place to sleep and fed me. I thought maybe someday, he could even love me.”
The anger I feel burns brighter, and I have to ball my fists up to keep myself in my seat. I know what’s coming. “He, uh...he told me he could help me make a little money. Said he could hook me up with a girl he knew that needed a roommate. He made me feel sexy. He earned my trust. And then he took my virginity.” My eyes fall closed as she speaks, wishing like hell I would have been wrong. She chuckles, the sound void of any humor. “Turns out my taste in men is even worse than my mom’s.
“I started having sex with men for money just two weeks after meeting Marco. The first time, I was really scared, so he gave me a little weed to calm my nerves. It didn’t help, though. I cried the entire time that dirty old man was touching me.” Rachel rubs at her arms, as if she’s washing the memory from her skin.
“Marco was pissed that I’d been crying, and the guy refused to pay full price for such a lousy lay. The next time, he gave me heroin, told me it would mellow me out, make the fear and the pain disappear. And it did.”
“How long were you with him?” I can hardly get the question out around the painful lump in my throat. I knew her story would be rough, but I never imagined just how rough it actually was. I want to find her parents and rip them apart for abandoning her the way they did. Then I want to find Marco and string him up by his balls for taking advantage of a girl so young.
“Almost three years,” she whispers. “He was arrested last week, and it doesn’t look like he’s getting out any time soon.”
At least he’s out of the picture. “So why now?” I ask her. Lots of addicts want to get clean, but few of them want it bad enough to stick to it through the hard times.
This time, when her eyes meet mine, she doesn’t look away. Holding my stare, she sits up straight and places her hands on the table. “I want my life back,” she says. “This isn’t who I want to be, it never was.”
The waitress comes by and places a large piece of pie in front of us. After she walks away, I reach across the table and place my hand over top of Rachel’s. “Then I’m going to do everything in my power to help you get it.”