her words come out staccato for effect.
“Oh. You noticed. Sorry. I promise it won't happen again,” I offer. She sighs and rakes her gaze over me before pushing her glasses an inch up the bridge of her nose.
“Tell me what the trigger is. Maybe we can have you do alternative tasks. Work around it,” she prompts.
“Contact,” I whisper. “I don’t want people touching me. I don’t like contact.” I give up on an exhale. She nods and shifts her wei ght from one foot to the other.
“Magnolia, this is a bar and dance club. Men will leer. They might try and touch you as well. It’s your job to look good. Tips are better when you look good and flirt. Brock is here to make sure no one, and I mean no one, does anything to you that you aren’t comfortable with,” she finishes, crossing her arms over her chest. I remain silent. This was a stupid idea, of course I can’t do this job. “Do you understand?” she clips.
“I think maybe this is a mistake. I’m sorry.” I squeeze my eyes shut and press the heels of my hands to them. The pressure feels good. He always did that. I drop my hands to my sides.
“No, honey, I have a feeling this is exactly what you need. Let’s get back out there and I’ll finish showing you the ropes.”
Chapter 6
"Ladies who play with fire must remember that smoke gets in their eyes."— Mae West
It’s a Thursday night two weeks into my job at the club and my stupid piece of shit land yacht has decided to bail on me on my way home from the club. I’m two miles from the trailer park, sitting in the car that decided to just die on the side of the pitch black road, and cussing like a sailor. I am exhausted from my shift. I don’t sleep enough in general and by the time I get home from my shift and relax it’s almost sunrise anyways. It’s messing with my head and I know I need to find that routine of sorts. Tears threaten to spill down my cheeks but I’m doing everything humanly possible to not let that first tear fall.
I swing the door open, pull the release lever for the hood, climb out of the car flashlight in hand, and stare at the engine. I have no idea what’s wrong with it. I know virtually nothing about cars. I pull the elastic from my hair and let my long black locks tumble freely down my back before I kick the tire. Headlights shine off in the distance and my spirits perk up a bit. A big truck comes into view and my perkiness instantly goes away. That stupid neighbor, Bentley. The truck slows to a stop next to me, and the window scrolls down revealing Bentley’s horribly handsome face. Somehow he manages to irk me and intrigue me simultaneously.
“Hey there!” he booms over the music from the cab. I cross my arms over my chest and straighten my shoulders.
“Hey,” I clip, hoping for indifference.
“Get in. I’ll give you a lift,” he says.
“No thanks.” I scrunch my nose up at him.
“Jesus, it’s not safe out this time of night, just get in, Magnolia,” he grumbles.
“No thanks. I’m a big girl,” I quip.
“What do I have to do to change your mind?” he asks, seeming genuinely concerned. I really am not in the mood for him. I just want to lock up the car and start walking. I’ll deal with the stupid P.O.S. tomorrow. I’m grumpy and tired and generally lacking the ability to be nice.
“Listen up, cowboy, I don't need my mind changed. I’m perfectly fine the way things are and you don't know a damned thing about me so if you don't mind, I really need to get home. Goodbye.” I grab my purse from the car and lock the doors before slamming the hood shut and start walking.
“Princess, get in the truck, I’ll give you a lift,” he calls.
“No!” I shout over my shoulder, and keep walking.
“What’s a man gotta do for a date with you?” he shouts back. Oh my God? Really!
“For starters use proper grammar!” I don't look back as I keep walking, but I swear I hear him busting a gut laughing which irritates me even more as I
“Oh. You noticed. Sorry. I promise it won't happen again,” I offer. She sighs and rakes her gaze over me before pushing her glasses an inch up the bridge of her nose.
“Tell me what the trigger is. Maybe we can have you do alternative tasks. Work around it,” she prompts.
“Contact,” I whisper. “I don’t want people touching me. I don’t like contact.” I give up on an exhale. She nods and shifts her wei ght from one foot to the other.
“Magnolia, this is a bar and dance club. Men will leer. They might try and touch you as well. It’s your job to look good. Tips are better when you look good and flirt. Brock is here to make sure no one, and I mean no one, does anything to you that you aren’t comfortable with,” she finishes, crossing her arms over her chest. I remain silent. This was a stupid idea, of course I can’t do this job. “Do you understand?” she clips.
“I think maybe this is a mistake. I’m sorry.” I squeeze my eyes shut and press the heels of my hands to them. The pressure feels good. He always did that. I drop my hands to my sides.
“No, honey, I have a feeling this is exactly what you need. Let’s get back out there and I’ll finish showing you the ropes.”
Chapter 6
"Ladies who play with fire must remember that smoke gets in their eyes."— Mae West
It’s a Thursday night two weeks into my job at the club and my stupid piece of shit land yacht has decided to bail on me on my way home from the club. I’m two miles from the trailer park, sitting in the car that decided to just die on the side of the pitch black road, and cussing like a sailor. I am exhausted from my shift. I don’t sleep enough in general and by the time I get home from my shift and relax it’s almost sunrise anyways. It’s messing with my head and I know I need to find that routine of sorts. Tears threaten to spill down my cheeks but I’m doing everything humanly possible to not let that first tear fall.
I swing the door open, pull the release lever for the hood, climb out of the car flashlight in hand, and stare at the engine. I have no idea what’s wrong with it. I know virtually nothing about cars. I pull the elastic from my hair and let my long black locks tumble freely down my back before I kick the tire. Headlights shine off in the distance and my spirits perk up a bit. A big truck comes into view and my perkiness instantly goes away. That stupid neighbor, Bentley. The truck slows to a stop next to me, and the window scrolls down revealing Bentley’s horribly handsome face. Somehow he manages to irk me and intrigue me simultaneously.
“Hey there!” he booms over the music from the cab. I cross my arms over my chest and straighten my shoulders.
“Hey,” I clip, hoping for indifference.
“Get in. I’ll give you a lift,” he says.
“No thanks.” I scrunch my nose up at him.
“Jesus, it’s not safe out this time of night, just get in, Magnolia,” he grumbles.
“No thanks. I’m a big girl,” I quip.
“What do I have to do to change your mind?” he asks, seeming genuinely concerned. I really am not in the mood for him. I just want to lock up the car and start walking. I’ll deal with the stupid P.O.S. tomorrow. I’m grumpy and tired and generally lacking the ability to be nice.
“Listen up, cowboy, I don't need my mind changed. I’m perfectly fine the way things are and you don't know a damned thing about me so if you don't mind, I really need to get home. Goodbye.” I grab my purse from the car and lock the doors before slamming the hood shut and start walking.
“Princess, get in the truck, I’ll give you a lift,” he calls.
“No!” I shout over my shoulder, and keep walking.
“What’s a man gotta do for a date with you?” he shouts back. Oh my God? Really!
“For starters use proper grammar!” I don't look back as I keep walking, but I swear I hear him busting a gut laughing which irritates me even more as I
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