Read Online What He Shields (What He Wants Book Seventeen) by Hannah Ford - Free Book Online Page A

hips, my ass.
    I hesitated, not sure I should go into Loose
Cannons after all.
    It didn’t look like a strip club.
    But that was probably how they lured you
in.   They made it look like any
other bar or restaurant, innocent and unassuming, so that when you walked in,
you wouldn’t feel like you were doing anything wrong.
    I swallowed hard and looked down at the paper
in my hand, the one I’d printed out that morning.   I was clutching it so hard it was
wrinkled around the edges, and I smoothed it out against my thigh.   My palms were sweaty, and I wiped them
off on the denim skirt I was wearing.
    “DANCERS WANTED,” the ad said.   “EARN UP TO 1,000 DOLLARS A NIGHT,
GUARANTEED.   NO EXPERIENCE
NECESSARY.   APPLY IN PERSON, LOOSE
CANNONS, 1800 NORTH MAIN STREET.”
    There were no hours given, which I’d thought
was strange.   What was I supposed to
do?   Just show up whenever?   I’d called the club that morning to ask,
and the girl who’d answered the phone hadn’t been all that friendly.   She instructed me to come down whenever
I wanted and then she’d hung up on me.
    I could have – probably should have -- taken it as a sign not to
pursue this crazy idea any further.   But I was desperate.   And
desperation could make a person do crazy things.
    I took a deep breath and caught sight of my
reflection in the mirrored front door.   It was bizarre, the way the front door was a mirror -- it was almost
like they wanted you to have to look at yourself, to confront exactly what it
was you were about to do.
    Are you
sure you want to do this?   a voice in my
whispered.   Do you know what they might make you do in there?   Take off your clothes.   For strange men.   You’ve never even kissed a boy, how are
you going to do that?
    I adjusted the denim skirt I was wearing.   It was fringed on the bottom and hit
just above the knee.   It wasn’t
exactly sexy – you could find the same exact skirt in every Old Navy or
Gap in the world, and it was completely appropriate for everyday wear.
    But it was the only thing I had that showed a
little skin. It was one of the only things I had, period.   After aging out
of foster care and then being kicked out of my group home last week (which,
trust me, I wasn’t sad to leave), all my possessions fit into one garbage bag.
    The sheer white top I was wearing was a
button-up, and I wore a black push-up bra under it, so that the outline of the
bra was visible under the shirt. Was that sexy?   I wasn’t really sure.   But I figured anything that allowed your
underwear to show was a step in the right direction.
    I flipped my head over and shook out my long
blonde hair.   It was the one thing I
wasn’t self-conscious about.   Everything else – my body, my smile, my skin – I could find
flaws with.   But I liked my
hair.   As I flipped back over, my
eyes locked on my reflection again.
    What the
hell are you doing, Olivia?  
    I pushed my hair off my face and took a deep
breath.  
    Just relax, I told myself.   You’re twenty years old, stop acting
like a baby.   This is just a way to
make a little money.   A temporary way.  
    But I could hear the voice of Karl, my foster
father, whispering in my head.   This is where white trash girls like you end
up.
    I squared my shoulders, and as I did, the
sleeve of my shirt slid up and I caught sight of the scars on my wrist.   Twisted and red,
tangled with a fresh red cut from last night.   Last night, when I was missing Declan so
bad I couldn’t take it anymore.   I’d
ended up in the bathroom of the shelter, quietly unwrapping one of the
disposable razors they gave you as part of the welcome kit.
    I quickly pulled my sleeve down.   I needed to hide the scars.   At least for now– I knew I
couldn’t hide them forever.   I
couldn’t hide anything forever if I was going to be naked.
    Anxiety welled up in my chest and the urge to
cut, to take the edge off, welled up with it.   My feet took a step away from