by Geri Glenn
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.”
Sarah
Club Chrome Nightclub hasn’t changed much since the first time I came in here with Mouse three years ago. The club itself is run by Pimp, a member of the Kings of Korruption. From what Mouse had told me, the MC owns it, but Pimp is the brains behind the entire operation. He hires his men like a government recruit for the army, and the women that work there are protected as if they’re royalty.
The club itself is a lot like any other nightclub—flashing strobe lights, mixed with a liberal amount of black lighting sets the stage. The music is fast and up-tempo, and there never seems to be a slow night.
As I walk through the front door, a giant man in a Club Chrome T-shirt glares down at me. “ID,” he says.
I reach into my purse and fish out the card. “I’m here to see Pimp. Tonight’s my first night.”
He takes my driver’s license and examines it. Pushing a button on his headset, he tells someone on the other end that I’m there. After a moment, he nods. “Go right to the back and up the stairs. Someone will meet you there.”
Clearly dismissed, I step deeper into the club and look around as my eyes adjust to the lighting. Scantily clad women gyrate to the beat as men stand around in groups, laughing and talking, drinks clutched in their hands. I can do this, I remind myself.
With my head held high, I weave my way through the crowd toward the winding staircase at the back of the club. Another large man in a Club Chrome tee stands at the bottom. “Sarah Lopez?” he asks as I stop in front of him.
He steps aside as I nod, his gaze already back to watching the crowd behind me. The vibration of the steel staircase hums against my hand as I slide it up the railing with each step. Butterflies do summersaults in my belly as I climb higher. I can’t quite put my finger on what’s making me so nervous. Is it the thought of working in a nightclub, away from my baby girl, and surrounded by people out having a good time in a way I just can’t anymore? Or maybe it’s the idea of speaking with Pimp, a man I’ve only seen from a distance, and even then, he’d seemed intimidating. There was also the fact that working in this club made me dependent on the Kings of Korruption, which is something I’d vowed I’d never do.
At the top of the stairs, a third bouncer knocks twice on a large chrome door, and then pushes it open for me to enter. This one returns my weak smile with a bright one of his own as I pass.
As the door closes behind me, I look around the large room. One wall, made entirely of tinted windows, looks out over the club below. Every piece of furniture is either made of black leather or chrome. It’s surprisingly stylish compared to the décor of the MC’s clubhouse.
Pimp stands from behind his large, glass-topped desk. “Sarah, pleasure to meet you.” He stretches his hand across the desktop and waits while I approach to accept his offered greeting. “Please, have a seat.”
He waits until I’m seated, surprising me with the gentlemanly gesture. “I’ve heard so much about you,” he says. “And your man, Mouse, was a good man. It was a devastating blow to lose him.” Even now, years later, anyone bringing up Mouse causes the wound of his loss to rip open all over again, even just a little. “So Ryker tells me you’re in need of employment,” he continues.
Swallowing past the lump in my throat, I breathe deeply to bury the ache in my heart. “Yes,” I finally manage to say. “But I need to be sure you can work around my schedule. I have a young daughter that I’m raising on my own, and she’s my number one priority.”
Pimp smiles, his eyes crinkling a little at the corners. “Lucky little girl.” I stay frozen in place, my
eyes locked on his while he considers what I’ve said. In my experience, that little speech is the quickest way to lose a job opportunity. “I don’t see any problem with that. How about we start with 3 nights a week, ten until three in the morning. I’ll start you off at fourteen dollars an hour, and of course, you’ll make tips.”
Fourteen dollars an hour is more than I’m making at the shoe store. Hell, it’s more than I’ve made at any job. Throw tips on top of that and I’ll be out of the woods in no time. Not to mention, how cool he is about my schedule. “Deal.”
Pimp knocks his knuckles down on the desk and nods. “It’s settled then. Head on out and ask Eric, the guy on the other side of the door, to find Miranda. She’ll get you started.”
Nodding, I gather up my purse and my jacket and stand. I’m halfway to the door when I turn around and say, “Thank you. I really appreciate this.”
“Family takes care of family,” he says. There’s that word again. Family. My stomach sours at the thought of the Kings being any kind of family to me or Millie, but I hide it as I nod and leave the room.
Once outside, the bouncer, whose name is apparently Eric, grins back at me. “Well?”
His enthusiasm catches me off guard. “Well, what?”
With a lopsided smirk, he shakes his head. “The job. Did you get the job?” He has to yell to be heard above the thumping of the music.
“I guess,” is the only answer I can come up with. “You’re supposed to take me to a Miranda?”
His grin widens. “Hell, yeah. Follow me, gorgeous.”
Bosco
After our conversation in the restaurant, Rachel is noticeably more at ease, even if she still doesn’t completely trust me. The girl has been through hell and back, and I can see how badly she wants to change. I’m not sure what’s made me take it upon myself to help her do that, though. Maybe a part of me sees myself in her. The total lack of support and the gaping wound that’s never had a chance to heal.
Or maybe it’s Spencer. If Spencer were alive, he’d have done anything he could to rescue this girl from the streets and from herself. He’d have stopped at nothing until he was sure she was safe.
Regardless of the reason, I now find myself in a bit of a situation. I have a junkie going through withdrawals and not a damn place to take her. I live in a single room I rent from an elderly woman. I’m rarely there, so it works out for both of us. Yet there’s no way I can bring Rachel there, especially as she completes her break from the heroin her body now needs to function. It would traumatize poor Mrs. Munns.
I can’t take her to the clubhouse; I’ve never told the MC about my addiction. As a prospect, I’d been afraid that they’d decide I was unsuitable to wear a patch, always watching me to make sure I didn’t allow my addiction to have control over my life. Once I got my patch, it had been too long. There was no way to bring it up now, and if I’m being honest, it’s nice not to have the stigma of a junkie hanging over my head.
It’s after midnight by the time I settle on a motel on the outskirts of the city, not too far from the clubhouse. Rachel can’t get into too much trouble way out here, and she’ll be close enough for me to keep an eye on or get to if she needs me. As we pull into the parking lot, I feel Rachel’s body go stiff behind me.
Swinging off the bike, I wait as she takes off her helmet. “I’m gonna go get you a room. This is the only place I can think of to take you for now, until we can come up with a better plan.” Rachel’s narrowed eyes watch me, but she doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t have to. Her suspicion is clear.
Shaking my head, I walk inside the office and secure a room for three nights. That gives us time to figure out how this is going to play out for her. As the clerk taps away at his computer, I watch Rachel through the window, half expecting her to make a run for it. She doesn’t. She stands beside my motorcycle, her helmet in her hands, her eyes taking in everything around her, on alert for any threat.
Once I’m all checked in, two key cards in my hand, I head outside. “214,” I tell her, waving the cards in the air.
Without a word, she follows me down the row of rooms, accessible only from the outside, and then up the stairs. I locate room 214 and unlock the door. Flicking on the lights, I head inside and give the room a once-over. The décor is straight out of the seventies, complete with orange shag carpet and brown and green on the comforter, but it’s clean and better than any place she’s slept in a very long time.
Rachel stands by the door, her body locked solid as her eyes track every step I take. For the first time, I realize she’s got nothing with her. No backpack or duffel, not even a jacket. “Where are your things?”
She blinks and looks down, her hands stuffed in the pockets of her sagging jeans. “I don’t have any things.”
The ache in my throat nearly chokes me. Even though Rachel had told me her story, I know that I don’t have the first clue of everything she’s been through. I drop a key card onto the dresser and take a step toward her. As I move, her head snaps up and she shrinks back, pressing herself against the wall.
Raising a hand, I stop in my tracks. “You’re safe here, Rachel. I may not know exactly what you’ve been through, but I know what it’s like to be alone and scared. Nobody can get through that shit alone. I know I couldn’t.” Memories of the helplessness I felt when I’d been trying to turn my life around swirl through my mind. “I don’t have all of the answers, believe me. What I do have, though, is compassion. You have nothing to fear from me, okay?”
Her eyes finally lift to meet mine, tears brimming the edges, threatening to fall at any second. “Why are you helping me?”
I give her a half-hearted shrug. “’Cause I can. ’Cause my brother would’ve wanted me to. ’Cause I wish someone would’ve helped me when I was in your shoes.”
Her gaze holds mine, even as a tear slips down her cheek.
“Why don’t you grab a shower,” I suggest. “Stores aren’t open right now, but I know a place where I can at least grab you something to wear until we can go shopping. Sound good?”
Her response is a nod of her head. It’s so slight, I almost miss it, but even that little bit of trust she’s giving me is enough to cause a wave of warmth to pass through my chest. As happy as it makes me, I can tell she’s holding back the emotions, desperate not to let me see her cry.
Heading for the door, I pause beside her. I don’t attempt to touch her, but I do bend my knees, lowering myself until her eyes are level with mine. “Be right back.”
She nods, a small smile forming on her face, despite the pain I know is tearing her apart. She needs time to grieve the life she’s had, to make room for the new life I’m determined to help her find. Walking out the door, I pray that she uses her time to do that instead of running scared before I get back.
Sarah
There’s a reason I’ve never waitressed before—I’m clumsy as hell.
As I wobble around on my high-heeled boots, a tray balanced on my hand, I weave my way through the crowd of swaying bodies, desperately praying I don’t drop these drinks on any innocent bystanders. I’ve been on shift for less than an hour, and already I’ve spilled five drinks, slipped in a puddle of God knows what, and had three phone numbers slipped into my hand alongside a tip.
It’s only my second night on the job, and this time I’ve been left on my own. Last night, I’d spent the entire shift shadowing Miranda as she flirted her way through the crowd, effortlessly filling orders, and even breaking up a fight before it started. This time, Miranda’s covering one section of the room while I cover another. Sucks to be the people stuck on my side.
When I make it to the waiting table full of guys, I call out the names of each drink as I place them down. One of them stares up at me, his lips turned up in a handsome grin as he hands me a twenty-dollar bill. “Keep the change, gorgeous, and keep ’em comin’.”
My cheeks flush at the offhanded compliment, my ears growing impossibly hot. “Will do,” I say, gifting him with my first
real smile of the night.
I know it’s silly to be flattered by some guy ordering drinks in a bar, but I haven’t been outright complimented like that in a very long time. Not since Mouse. As far as he’d been concerned, I was the most beautiful woman in the world, and that’s how he made me feel every single day.
I continue through the room, taking drink orders as people stop me. It’s not until I’m almost to the bar, about to place my orders, when I find myself yanked backwards. The empty glasses I’d collected on my tray topple over, several of them smashing to the ground. When my rear end lands on an unfamiliar lap, I yelp.
Turning my head, I come face-to-face with a man I’ve never seen before. His eyes are glazed over as he gives me a drunken grin, his tongue coming out to lick his lips. “Well, hello little senorita.” His arms clamp around my middle, pressing me into him and making it hard to breathe. “I’ve always had a thing for the Latino ladies. What time do ya get off work, sweetheart?”
This time, the flush on my cheeks isn’t from being flattered. This time, it comes from pure terror. “Let me go!” I holler, pressing against him with my forearms, desperate for him to release me.
“Awe, babe, you don’t have to be like that. I just—”
Before my brain can fully catch up with the rest of me, I’m standing on my own two feet, the tray still balanced on my hand despite my wobbly knees. Eric is in front of me, his body bent forward as he goes face-to-face with the grabby man in the chair.
The music drowns out what they’re saying to one another, but Mr. Grabby’s hands come up, surrendering. He offers me a shamed look, but Eric’s already up and whisking me away toward his place at the bottom of the stairs.
His face, which is usually so friendly, is twisted in anger as he places a gentle hand on my shoulder. “Are you okay?” My body trembles as I nod, my gaze sliding back to the man in the chair. “I’m so fucking sorry, Sarah. I was dealing with another group of assholes or I would’ve been there sooner.”