But then I didn't know what he thought. He wasn't even there when I said goodbye to Wylie earlier.
"Why?" I asked, hoping "fire" was just a bad choice of words for letting me go because we had lost funding. I could find new funding, I'd done it plenty of times in the five years I'd been an employee at Harbor House.
Lifting his gaze to meet mine, he spit out an answer.
"We can't have whores at Harbor House."
All the blood left my face. I felt it go with a whoosh that was followed by a sudden dizziness and a gray fog creeping in at the corner of my eyes. My torso started to rock—just a little back and forth, like I was trying to nod but knew what he had just said was wrong.
"Why?" I asked again, even though he had already answered that question. I couldn't get the rest of the words out.
Why did Director Coombs think I was a whore?
He pulled his cell phone from his inside jacket pocket, placed it face down on the desk and tapped lightly at the case.
"Do I really need to show you the video I have of you topless and grinding against a pole...of the men tempting you toward them with dollar bills?"
I shook my head. I didn't think working at Tuttle's made me a whore. Yeah, technically I was selling my body, even if I never let them touch me and kept the routine as athletic and elegant as possible. But the men never touched me, not even to tip me.
"I'm not a whore."
My whisper didn't convince him. Didn't convince me now that the accusation was hanging in the air.
"You're also running around fucking Mr. Wylie," Coombs added. "Which makes you a fraternizing whore."
I forced my head up, met his gaze. We had been working together for about eight months. I didn't understand where the venom was coming from. Disappointment, yes. I'd broken the fraternization rules I helped write—but there was no prohibition on outside work that was legal. And dancing at Tuttle's was legal. There was also no disclosure requirement.
And I had been very discreet about the dancing.
"How did you find out?"
He lifted a brow, nostrils flaring. "You're not being clear, but it doesn't matter. Mr. Wylie bragged about how he was fucking a topless dancer and that dancer was you."
If Coombs' first volley had been a sledgehammer to the gut, this one was a shotgun to the face. I shook my head, disbelieving. I had spent enough time in Wylie's house, paging, with his permission, through his mother's scrapbooks, to know he had so much to brag about, but he was the humblest man I had ever met.
Still men acted differently around other men than they did around women. Maybe Wylie was that kind of guy—but to brag to my boss?
I stood up. If I was fired, I needed to grab my things and leave. And then I needed to get in contact with Thomas.
Coombs reached the door before I did.
"I said 'may' have to fire you, Rhea."
I froze, ready to forgive the director's earlier venom if it meant I could stay on at the shelter. After all, the man had to have been shocked and disappointed, and he had to be worried about what would happen if the donor churches found out. I'd be spitting mad, too, if I weren't the transgressor.
His foot slid to block the door and then he grabbed my wrist, pulling on it until I turned numbly toward him.
"You have to quit immediately—both of them. That bar and that man."
My head jerked up. Coombs' face had turned a mottled red. Sweat dotted his forehead and upper lip.
"I will inform them," he continued, his voice climbing higher. "You will have no further contact with them—ever."
It hit me then. Coombs wanted to fuck me and he was boiling mad that someone else was doing just that, and over how strangers paid to watch me dance and ogle my tits when he wouldn't dare show his face at a strip club.
I wondered if I'd been blind to his lust for a long time, or it was something triggered by the revelation of my topless dancing and the video he had somehow found even though filming in the club was prohibited.
Yeah—how the fuck was there video floating around?
I tried to free my wrist. He roughly grabbed the other one, my binder and notepad falling to the floor. His grip on both wrists tightened.
"Agree right now or you'll never work for Harbor House or any place like it. You can be redeemed Rhea, but you have to be strong enough to not look back, not at Tuttle's and not at that bastard Wylie."
He stepped closer, his body pushing against mine.
I felt it, that thing he'd been hiding in his baggy dress pants, felt it pushing feebly at the curve of my stomach.
"You're not to leave the shelter, at least not for the first few months," he ordered.
The man was fucking insane!
I started to contort within his tight grip, my mouth twisting with indecision over whether things had gone so far that I needed to scream for help—or find a good shot at his balls and take it.
A knock on the door saved me from making either decision.
Eric's voice filtered through a second later.
"Hey, Mr. Coombs, we need the key for the potting shed."
Coombs sagged away from me. After a few slow blinks and several seconds of silence, he coughed and motioned me out of the way. He twisted the handle, pulled the door open, tried to keep it from opening any further than a crack but his motions were awkward and Eric slipped in, followed by Rachelle.
Seeing me, Eric grinned and joked. "I hope the two of you were leaving room for Jesus."
Rachelle elbowed Eric, her voice low as she corrected him. "Rhea doesn't like Mr. Coombs like that."
The two teens walked over to the key cabinet, both of them missing the hard stare Coombs gave the girl. He looked away, turned toward his desk and dismissed all of us with a chop of his hand.
"I've got work to do, give the key to Mae when you're done. We'll talk later, Miss Butler."
I scooped up my binder and notepad then followed the two teens. When we were out of earshot of the office, I hooked Rachelle's arm.
"Can you help me with something first?"
"Sure," she smiled. "I didn't really want to go with Eric anyway."
"Liar," he whispered, his dark eyes twinkling with the knowledge that over the last few months, starting with that rock hunting trip, Rachelle had slowly become his shadow, even if she would be the last to admit it.
"It won't take long," I promised. "She'll still have time to teach you a thing or two about...uh...gardening."
Hoping they were at least using condoms for whatever planting they were doing, I led Rachelle back to my room and handed her a large duffle bag as I started writing my resignation on the notepad.
"All the clothes in the drawer, please.
"Wait, you're leaving? Like for good?"
Tears sprang to the girl's eyes as I nodded.
"Did Mr. Coombs do something to you?"
I hesitated to answer, but Rachelle was smart and sharp eyed.
"I think he was about to try—but I have to go regardless. I broke a few rules."
"You would have laid his ass out," she sniffed, filling the bag.
"Hell, yes, I would have," I agreed, the exaggerated tone eliciting a weak laugh from her.
Finished writing out my resignation, I copied it word for word on a second piece of paper and signed and dated both of them. I folded the sheets, writing the Director's name on one and Mae's on the other.
Handing that letter to Mae was going to hurt like hell, so would walking out the door for the last time, but the hardest part was standing right in front of me, pretending to examine her nails while she fought back tears.
I pulled a twenty from my wallet and handed it to her. "This is for minutes on your cell phone. For calling me if anything seems weird around here. It's not for your nails or makeup."
She clicked two perfectly manicured tips together. "They were just done."
"I'm serious. Don't talk about this. What you said back in the office, about me not being interested in him that way—you pissed hi
m off. I want you to keep a low profile and your ear to the ground."
Her hands found her hips, the twenty fisted inside one of them. "Fuck him! If he—"
"Honey, you're not 18 yet." I had to talk her down, make her see reason before I could leave. "The city ignores the fact that there are fifty teenage runaways illegally homed at Harbor House—until there's trouble."
Her gaze flicked away in one of those "I'm hurt and I don't care what your excuse is" looks.
"Chelle, if you get kicked out and come to me, children's services will be right behind you." I coaxed. "That's the best case scenario because whatever he says against you, the authorities will believe him, for a while at least."
"Can Mr. Wylie help?" she asked, her arms coming up to hug her shoulders.
"I'll see."
I wanted to believe Coombs was lying, that Thomas hadn't recklessly bragged to him and ratted me out about Tuttle's. But, even as good as things had been the last few weeks, I could half believe he might have said something about Tuttle's as a way of forcing me to quit. Not because of who he was, but because too many people I once loved had betrayed me.
Wrapping my arms around her, I gave a tight squeeze. "Just promise me, you'll put that money on your phone for calling me if you need help—and you'll keep quiet unless you think he's going to hurt you or someone else."
"I promise," she replied, fresh tears wetting her cheeks.
She thought I was leaving her for good. I just needed to get through the weekend. I wouldn't leave the kids behind, not after all the crazy I had seen leaking out of the director.
Rachelle shook the duffle in my direction. "Is this all you're taking?"
I nodded. The duffle and my backpack. I never kept more than I could carry on my own.
Deep down, I had never stopped being homeless. I kept my wardrobe simple and cheap so I could replace it easily and I no longer formed attachments to objects because objects were heavy and they would have poked at me if I needed to use the duffle as a pillow.
Walking back to my dresser, I unlocked the top right drawer, the only thing in my room the kids were barred from. I pulled out a small lockbox and stuffed it into my smaller bag then dropped the drawer key on the dresser.
Picking up a blue egg shaped from sodalite, I placed it in Rachelle's hand, wrapping her fingers around it. We shared the same favorite color and she had always been drawn to the egg when she visited my room.
"I'll tell Mae I gave this to you and that the rest should go in the re-sale shop."
She tightened her hold on the egg, her gaze on her hand and refusing to lift. "Thank you."
"Do you already have money on your phone?" I asked. If she didn't, I wanted to make sure she left and bought more minutes before I turned in my resignation.
She nodded.
"Okay, then go find Eric and try to pretend everything is okay because it will be. I just need a little time, honey."
Her lips rolled together, but she nodded again.
Just a little time...
Walking the two copies of my resignation to the office, I tried not to think how many times she had heard those words and they turned out to be a lie.
16
Rhea
Getting a room for the night at a rundown hotel a few blocks away from Tuttle's, I dropped off my bag and went to the club an hour before my first set.
I knew the second I saw Paulie, my day was about to get worse. Pretending not to notice my arrival, he ducked into his office and shut his door. Seven fucking years I had worked there, starting just a few months after I was old enough, and he was going to play me like that?
Without knocking, I entered his office and closed the door. He had his elbows propped on his desk, his hands clasped together almost as if he were in prayer and his mouth resting against them. When he talked, his intertwined fingers muffled and twisted the sound.
"You've made a lot of great tips over the years, Gaia. Especially these last few months."
"Yeah." My hand went self-consciously to my backpack. I had the small, but heavy, lockbox in it, almost four thousand in tips that I'd earned since the beginning of the week. I had half a paycheck coming to me from Harbor House, if Coombs didn't find a way to withhold it from me. Another seven hundred in the bank account was all I had to my name.
If the tips had been mine to keep, things wouldn't have seemed quite so dire. But in all the years I'd been working at the shelter and Tuttle's, I'd never dipped into my tips.
"I started you in this business, didn't I?"
He knew he had, so I let him keep on talking.
"And I'll gladly give you as many recommendations as you need to get in at another club, I'll even call around for you."
Another club would make me do lap dances and sell drinks, which included a lot of touching that made it every bit as unpleasant as a lap dance.
"What are you saying, Paulie?"
"Look, someone with dirt on me says I gotta fire you. You don't work here no more, Gaia."
I could see he was all twisted in knots, but it didn't make me feel better. I felt almost as bad as I did with Coombs calling me a whore and putting his clammy hands on me.
Someone had told Coombs about my job at Tuttle's, and someone had told Paulie to fire me. That couldn't be a coincidence. Had I made an enemy at the club?
"Who, Paulie?"
He wouldn't answer, just shook his head. He wouldn't even give me that much when I tried an elimination game and asked him if it was someone outside the club.
"Can I just sit here a few minutes?"
"Sure, kid," he answered, meeting my gaze for the first time since I entered his office. "But I gotta stay in here with you."
I closed my eyes and tried to fit all the pieces together. Coombs had directly stated Wylie told him. And no one at the bar knew about Wylie. But Wylie couldn't know anything truly bad about Paulie unless he'd done some digging.
Certainly someone who was prior Special Forces knew how to dig up dirt and, if he didn't, he had enough connections to get it done. I shook my head, all the puzzle pieces flying in every direction because I didn't want to believe what they showed me.
It was either an absolute coincidence or Wylie was the only one with a connection to both locations. Had everything been an act with him?
I stood and another memory from my distasteful conversation with Coombs bubbled up.
"Someone took a video of me, Paulie...here at the club."
He shook his head, the motion violent. "I don't know nothing about that."
With a nod at the door, he let me know I had used up the last of my goodwill. I shouldered my backpack, brushed at my cheeks and headed for the club's front entrance for the first time in seven years.
I passed Tina, a smug smile on her face and a murmur on her lips that barely registered.
"Don't let the door hit your fat ass on the way out."
Yeah, bitch, kick a girl while she's down. That's just your style.
Acting like I hadn't heard her, I stepped out into daylight, my head hurting almost as badly as my heart.
It was time to face the accused and find out if he'd done it—and why.
17
Rhea
I could have called Wylie but I didn't. I couldn't ask him over the phone if he had systematically set about ruining my life. I still didn't believe he had, but I also knew that I had taken such a big step with him—such a huge risk—that I was probably willing to believe almost anything to keep from finding out that I had made an error in judgment.
So I got on a bus and then another and then, because the buses didn't run that late in his area, I walked a mile and a half to his house. I knocked on the door, shy and unassuming at first and then a little more boldly.
And then I held my breath waiting for him to answer.
I really, really needed to see a friendly face, to see a smile and caring gaze, to get that first dose of reassurance that he had nothing to do with any of the bad things that had happened today. That h
e had not let me give him that last little squeeze before I left with this plan running through his head.
Or maybe it was that last squeeze that did it, maybe I had offered too little too late and this was my punishment.
I knocked again—practically pounded—and waited.
Please, please, please let it be regular old Wylie, happy to see me, ready to help me solve this mess.
The door opened. There was no smile and his gaze was guarded. My immediate response was a hiccup and then another, like someone was trying to steal my soul through my lungs. I wanted to burst into tears seeing his expression, but I kept it contained except for those two hip hip releases of air.
"I called you," he said, voice crinkling like the skin around his eyes. "Several times."
"The kids were blowing up my phone," I answered, standing at the threshold because he hadn't yet invited me in. "Their texts were coming in ten at a time and calls were crossing over. I'm sorry. If I had seen it, I would have answered."
"So it's true?"
"I don't know what's true," I answered, uncertain we were talking about the same thing. If what I had heard was true, I should be the one with the crinkly eyes and terse voice.
My knees started to give. I'd walked a mile and a half, stood long spells of time to catch the first bus and then the transfer bus. I'd stood on the second bus because there were no empty seats and, more than anything, I'd had my legs kicked out from under me twice on the same day.
"I guess I shouldn't have come here."
I turned to leave. Wylie caught the strap of my backpack, peeled it off my shoulder and tossed it onto the side table in the entry room.
"Come inside."
He was deadly composed. I had never seen him like this. So beaten down by the behavior of people I thought I knew, I was afraid of the man in front of me for the first time.
I turned to face him, but didn't go inside.
"Can I have my bag back?"
"No. Come inside. That's not a request."
I could see the bag on the table, see the outward dent in the fabric from where the lockbox pushed against it. I had my wallet in my back pocket, but there was four thousand dollars in that lockbox and I was finally faced with the need to break my rule about not touching my tips.
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